These were our people. How did they turn against us in an instant?
In the shadow of a pandemic, Madurai became a mirror for something older and more persistent than any virus — the ease with which fear can be redirected toward a familiar target. Muslims who had marched alongside their neighbors against the Citizenship Amendment Act found themselves, months later, cast as the disease itself. The story of Mustafa, who took his own life after repeated forced testing and communal humiliation, and of volunteers stripped of their relief credentials, reveals how crisis does not create prejudice so much as it licenses what was already waiting.
- A community that had stood in solidarity during the CAA protests was, within months, being blamed for a pandemic — neighbors crossing streets, shopkeepers refusing service, crowds gathering to jeer at the sight of a hijab.
- Mustafa, a 35-year-old man who tested negative for COVID-19 twice, was loaded onto trucks by his own neighbors, filmed, and publicly shamed until the weight of it became unbearable — he was found dead on train tracks near Kapalur.
- Muslim relief volunteers enrolled through official government channels had their ID cards confiscated after social media posts accused them of spreading the virus through aid work.
- The District Collectorate's relief network was anchored by Seva Bharati, an RSS-linked organization, raising pointed questions about whether institutional resources were being steered along religious lines during an election season.
- Activist RTI Hakkim, still without his volunteer card six months later, warned that if civic action itself becomes coded by religion, the constitutional foundation of India is no longer merely strained — it is openly questioned.
In the early months of the pandemic, something shifted in Madurai. Neighbors who had stood with Muslims during the anti-CAA protests months earlier suddenly crossed the street to avoid them. The virus had become a weapon — not against disease, but against a community.
Siddique Fatima walked twenty kilometers toward the Kanavai Dargah during lockdown, stopped at checkpoints, eventually sharing an auto with a seventy-year-old Hindu woman who recoiled at her hijab and muttered that women like her were the cause of the disease. At the dargah, a crowd of women — people Fatima had fed during the yearly festival — blocked her way. She sat outside, prayed in silence, and left. For months afterward, people would flee at the sight of her in public.
Her husband Jaffer captured the disorientation of it plainly: these were the same people who had filled the anti-CAA stages. How had they turned so completely, so fast?
The consequences were fatal for at least one family. Mustafa, thirty-five, had returned from Kerala just before lockdown and was resting at home with mild fatigue when his neighbors in Mulai Nagar began accusing him of carrying the virus. They called police, loaded him onto an open truck, filmed it, and spread the footage online. He tested negative at the hospital. When he returned home, they demanded he leave. He and his seventy-year-old mother, Mydeen Beevi, relocated — but neighbors who had seen the video forced him onto a garbage truck for yet another test. The doctors confirmed what they already knew. He walked home in the heat. The next day, he was found dead on the train tracks at Kapalur. Mydeen Beevi has since petitioned officials with no result.
The discrimination reached into relief work itself. Activist RTI Hakkim enrolled two hundred Muslim volunteers through the District Collectorate, only to have his ID card confiscated after social media posts accused Muslims of spreading the virus through aid. When a reporter raised the matter with Deputy Collector Ranganathan, he called it a miscommunication — and used Hakkim's confiscated card as a visual example of what volunteer IDs looked like. Six months later, Hakkim still had not received it back.
The Collectorate's primary relief partner was Seva Bharati, an organization linked to the RSS — a selection made months before state assembly elections as the BJP sought to expand its foothold in Tamil Nadu. The pattern was legible: in crisis, institutional resources flowed toward Hindu nationalist networks while Muslim volunteers faced removal.
Hakkim's final question reached beyond the immediate injustice. If the credibility of civic action — exposing corruption, volunteering in emergencies — is filtered through religious identity, he asked, what remains of India's constitutional promise? The pandemic had not created the fracture. It had simply made it impossible to look away.
In the early months of the pandemic, something shifted in Madurai. Neighbors who had stood shoulder to shoulder with Muslims during the anti-CAA protests months earlier suddenly crossed the street to avoid them. Shopkeepers refused service. Crowds gathered to jeer. The virus itself became a weapon—not against disease, but against an entire community.
Siddique Fatima remembers the moment she decided she could no longer bear the suffocation of lockdown in Nelpettai, a Muslim neighborhood where police presence had become suffocating. A month into the shutdown, she walked twenty kilometers toward the Kanavai Dargah, a shrine where she had served food and helped maintain the grounds for years. At multiple checkpoints, police stopped her. She kept walking. By Konchadai, exhausted and in tears, an auto driver picked her up. As they drove through an eerily empty Madurai, a seventy-year-old Hindu woman climbed in. The moment she saw Fatima's hijab, she recoiled. "It is because of this mami that they are stopping us," she muttered repeatedly, using a slur for Muslim women in religious dress. When they reached Melakkal, near the dargah, a crowd of about fifteen women blocked the auto. Fatima recognized many of them—people she had fed during the yearly festival. "Why are you coming here? Don't you know that it is you mamis who are the cause of this disease?" they screamed. The auto driver, himself Hindu, pleaded with them to let her pray. They refused. Fatima sat by the dargah anyway, said her prayers in silence, and left. In the months that followed, people would run from the sight of her whenever she left Nelpettai—at the hospital, at shops, anywhere in public.
The psychological weight of this sudden reversal was immense. "Right before COVID-19, massive protests were organised against the Citizenship Amendment Act," Jaffer, Siddique Fatima's husband, reflected. "More non-Muslims were present on the stage than Muslims every day. Which is why what happened with us because of COVID-19 came as a shock. These were our people. What happened to them? How did they turn against us in an instant?" The question hung unanswered.
The consequences were devastating. Mustafa, a thirty-five-year-old who had returned from Kerala just before lockdown, became a focal point for his neighborhood's fear and anger. He stayed indoors while recovering from fatigue and a mild fever. His neighbors in Mulai Nagar, a Thevar stronghold where walls bore symbols of caste pride, began hurling aggressive accusations that he carried the virus. They called the police. When an ambulance didn't arrive, neighbors loaded him into an open truck and filmed the scene, which spread across social media. At the general hospital, he tested negative. When he returned home, the neighbors demanded he leave anyway. Mustafa and his seventy-year-old mother, Mydeen Beevi, moved back to their original home in Thek Vasal, hoping the harassment would end. It didn't. Neighbors who had seen the video forced him onto a garbage truck for another test. The doctors confirmed again: he had tested negative already. There was no medical reason for another examination. Mydeen Beevi and Mustafa walked home in the heat with no transportation available. The next day, Mustafa said he was going for a walk. He was found dead on the train tracks at Kapalur. He had taken his own life. Mydeen Beevi has since petitioned police and administration officials with no result.
The discrimination extended into the machinery of relief itself. RTI Hakkim, an activist known for exposing government corruption through Right to Information requests, enrolled himself and two hundred others as COVID-19 relief volunteers through the District Collectorate. Within days, Facebook posts began circulating that Muslims were spreading coronavirus through relief work. Police summoned Hakkim and confiscated his volunteer ID card. When a reporter asked Deputy Collector Ranganathan about the removal of Muslim volunteers' cards, he dismissed it as miscommunication and explained the simple process for obtaining one—then handed over Hakkim's card as an example of what they looked like. Six months later, Hakkim still had not received his card back, though he continued volunteering through other channels.
The Collectorate's relief distribution, Ranganathan explained, relied on a list of partner organizations. The organization at the top was Seva Bharati, linked to the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh. The selection came months before state assembly elections, as the BJP sought to expand its presence in Tamil Nadu. The pattern was clear: in a moment of crisis, institutional resources flowed toward organizations aligned with Hindu nationalist ideology, while Muslim volunteers faced barriers.
By year's end, Hakkim posed a question that cut to something deeper than the immediate crisis. "What if in future, when I expose an official who is corrupt, people turn around to me and say that I exposed a Hindu official's corruption because I am Muslim?" he asked. "If such things are decided on the basis of religion, it questions the very basis of India's constitutional structure, doesn't it? This government is a communal government." The pandemic had exposed not just a virus, but a fracture in the social fabric—one that official channels seemed willing to widen rather than heal.
Notable Quotes
Right before COVID-19, massive protests were organised against the Citizenship Amendment Act. More non-Muslims were present on the stage than Muslims every day. Which is why what happened with us because of COVID-19 came as a shock.— Jaffer, Siddique Fatima's husband
If such things are decided on the basis of religion, it questions the very basis of India's constitutional structure. This government is a communal government.— RTI Hakkim, COVID-19 relief volunteer
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did the stigma attach itself so quickly to Muslims specifically? The virus doesn't discriminate.
No, it doesn't. But fear does. And fear finds a target. In Madurai, there were already currents running beneath the surface—the CAA protests had mobilized people, but they'd also sharpened communal lines. When the pandemic hit, those lines became walls.
Siddique Fatima's story is haunting—being rejected by people she'd fed. How does that kind of betrayal change a person?
It doesn't just change them. It teaches them something about the fragility of coexistence. She had believed in the bonds she'd built through service. The pandemic revealed those bonds were conditional—they held only when there was no fear.
Mustafa's death feels like it could have been prevented. Who bears responsibility?
That's the question his mother has been asking. The neighbors who harassed him. The police who took his word for nothing. The media that amplified the narrative that Muslims were vectors. The administration that did nothing. The answer is: all of them, and none of them individually. That's what makes it a systemic failure.
Hakkim's point about future corruption cases is subtle. What's he really saying?
He's saying that once you've weaponized identity, you can't un-weaponize it. If officials can dismiss Muslim volunteers as security risks, then later, when a Muslim activist exposes a Hindu official's corruption, people will assume it's motivated by religion, not evidence. The pandemic didn't create communalism—it just showed how easily institutions can deploy it.
Why did the Collectorate favor the RSS-linked organization?
Because in a crisis, power consolidates around existing power. The RSS has infrastructure, networks, visibility. A Muslim volunteer has a card that can be taken away. The state chose the path of least resistance—which happened to align with a particular political project.
Is there any moment in this story where things could have gone differently?
Yes. Every moment. If the police had protected Mustafa instead of enabling his neighbors. If the Collectorate had stood by its Muslim volunteers. If the media had reported facts instead of fear. If neighbors had remembered who Fatima was before they remembered what they were afraid of. But those moments passed.