The Storm Around “Randi” and Reclamation’s Limits

Over the past couple of weeks, the internet has been taken by storm when mental health content creator, Divija Bhasin, reclaimed the slur “Randi.” There has been a lot of discourse around the historical oppression and casteist violence that the term carries, and the issues of erasure and epistemic silencing if claimed by an upper-caste cis-woman. I completely agree with the anti-caste and intersectional feminist scholars who call out the issues in reclamation. However, through this essay, I encourage the reader to take a step back and understand the psyche of the oppressor, the purpose of hate, and the apparatus through which slurs are weaponised in digital discourse. I argue that transformative justice includes not only taking actions to ensure slurs aren’t employed or weaponised to silence women online, but also addressing the dehumanisation that lies at the core of slur production.

The Purpose of Slurs: Perpetuating Hate and Silence

Let’s take a moment to understand the purpose of using a slur. It is essential to perpetuate hate and silence non-conforming ideas, voices, and identities on the internet. In the case of queer, feminist, and anti-caste content creators, haters often use the slurs “chakka,” “randi,” or “chamar.” If we delve into history, the actual communities represented by these slurs have suffered years of systemic violence, oppression, social ostracisation, and discrimination.

Dehumanisation: The Oppressor’s Core Logic

One of the key logics justifying their oppression as a society is “dehumanisation.” Fanon describes dehumanisation as an important weapon and tool that legitimises the violence perpetuated by the oppressor. By stripping marginalised communities of their “humanity,” based on morality and ethics constructed through conformity to societal norms, the oppressor justifies the violence. The subjugation is not just material, economic, societal, or political; it happens on a fundamental psychological level. For centuries, oppressors have defended their horrific actions by making themselves believe that their actions protect the “morality,” “honour,” and “ethics” of society, almost as if they are invisible guardians.

Slurs in Instagram Comments: Brahminical Heteropatriarchy at Play

In the Instagram comments section, a similar psycho-social apparatus of oppression is at play. When an anti-caste, queer, or feminist scholar posts content that challenges the patriarchal, heteronormative, and casteist foundations of our society, it creates discomfort. Brahminical heteropatriarchy doesn’t operate only on a societal level but manifests in everyday lived realities. For those at the margins or critical thinkers, it becomes more evident; for the rest, it remains hidden in privilege.

By questioning these everyday practices that lie within larger oppressive structures, critical content creators pose a threat to the established society. Consequently, anonymous social media haters position themselves as keepers of the social order. The preservation of social order requires silencing radical and non-conforming ideologies, and the weapon employed is language.

Language as a Tool of Hierarchy

Butler posits that language is not neutral but politically and socially coded — a tool used to maintain social hierarchy. It is an important apparatus in establishing those who deserve protection while denying humanity to others. By deploying language that has been used for centuries to dehumanise and marginalise lower-caste, sex workers, queer, and trans identities, it is once again inflicted on content creators to strip them of their rights, voices, and humanity.

Oppression is cyclical and reinforces each other; the constant dehumanisation of marginal identities is inflicted onto privileged upper-caste and relatively privileged queers to silence them. Most content creators in the “proudrandi” movement have called out “randi” as the weapon, but I assert that randi is not the weapon — rather, it is language combined with the psychology of dehumanisation. Dehumanisation is the first step to violence; it begins with stripping agency and humanity, making creators more precarious and vulnerable to psychological violence. Magnified oppression then manifests in corporeal and material acts.

The Path Forward: Humanisation Over Reclamation

The answer, therefore, doesn’t lie in reclamation (unless by the communities at the receiving end of dehumanisation using particular slurs) but in taking away the power of slurs — the power to dehumanise. This is not to erase centuries of oppression, but a call to recognise, acknowledge, and stand in solidarity against it. It is to reassert that no one is free until all of us are free, arguing for a feminism that is intersectional yet deeply embedded in a rights-based framework. Until each of us is awarded back dignity, rights, and agency to exist, we could continue to be oppressed.

In the process of “humanisation,” we need to engage in constructing a revised understanding of humanity that transcends existing binaries and hegemonies. Further, it requires building new relationships — relationships built on mutual respect, love, dignity, and reciprocity.

Digital Solidarity: Co-Production as Resistance

How does one conceptualise this in the digital space? Digital spaces have made it much easier to connect and establish intimacy online. Through instantaneous communication, democratisation of content creation, and greater access to audiences, it has led to spatial compression where building solidarity networks is simpler.

Solidarity is key to countering dehumanisation, as it breaks through ostracisation and marginalisation of identities. Digital solidarity is not about reclaiming what is not ours, but sharing digital spaces, audiences, and networks to eliminate hierarchies. It means responsibly and ethically co-producing content between relatively privileged upper-caste and marginalised lower-caste creators, cis-hets and queers, Dalit queers and upper-caste queers, modern “upper-caste” trans folks and marginalised hijra communities.

By co-producing content — not assuming another’s communities, voices, and spaces, but sharing digital space and building an online representation of solidarity networks — we, as intersectional feminists, have the power to critique every hegemonic binary deployed against us. By standing together, creating together (albeit digitally), we counter the isolation and ostracisation at the core of dehumanisation, oppression, and violence.

A Model in Action: Aman Pandey and Krey Kannojia

Aman Pandey and Krey Kannojia exemplify this in a small way. Instead of assuming the space entirely themselves, Aman — an upper-caste male — co-creates with lower-caste queer creator Krey Kannojia to speak against the dangers of reclamation. In a 60-second Instagram reel, Aman apologises for calling out Divija (given his positionality as a cis-man), calls out other men engaging in slur-shaming and hate politics online, then passes the mic to Krey.

Krey speaks about the oppressive history of caste violence tied to “randi” and the systemic epistemic erasure of Dalit voices in savarna (upper-caste) feminism. From an ethical perspective, it illustrates a digital politics of creation that affirms rather than erases, reaffirming that standing in solidarity means acknowledging differences. On a deeper level, it demonstrates the restoration of human connection, dignity, and respect — building communities beyond stratified divisions, challenging and resisting them. It creates opportunities for collective healing and a movement where responsibility for change is shared by those in privileged positions.

Long before I encountered affect theory¹, I understood that distrust was contagious. In India, the public discourse on politics is steeped in cynicism; politicians often self-serving, promises are performative, and governance rarely centred welfare. That collective apathy, that absence of hope, shaped my early relationship with politics. Before I even arrived at the newspaper article, I already felt distrust, disappointment and hopelessness.

But Zohran Mamdani has changed that.

Even though he is contesting for New York, a city far from where I live(New Delhi), his campaign has offered a radical re-imagination of what politics could be. Muñoz articulates “ concrete utopia as the realm of educated hope”², Mamdani embodies that. His existence, irrespective of political outcomes, allows us to imagine, to be hopeful of a politics that is radically different from what I experienced growing up.

Mamdani’s politics question and rejects the mainstream norms and structures. In a landscape dominated by white, wealthy, older men who speak in carefully curated statements and serve billionaire’s interests, he offers disruption. He’s in his thirties, grounded in empathy, acknowledging and appreciating diversity (God, he quotes Toni Morrison³), talking about rent control, and proposing practical economic plans to make New York affordable. And then there’s the part that feels both ordinary and extraordinary: while so many mainstream politicians face allegations of sexual violence and misconduct, Zohran shares tender pictures from his wedding on social media. His presence: intellectual, authentic, and rooted in love, challenges what powerful politicians have looked like for far too long.

You might ask why this matters to me, a young queer Indian woman half a world away who has only once visited New York in her whole life. The answer lies in how deeply the United States shapes the global ideological climate. In an age marked by anti-gender movements, backlash against radical thinkers, defunding of development initiatives, and the steady rise of right-wing nationalism, Mamdani’s campaign is not just a political movement; it’s a symbolic rupture.

What Mamdani has sparked is not merely hope for New York but a sense of global solidarity. His comment sections are filled with people from across the world saying things like: “That’s my mayor, I’m from California.” “That’s my mayor, I’m from India.” “That’s my mayor, I’m from London.” These declarations reveal a shared community of empathetic, frustrated, yet hopeful citizens yearning for politics that feels human again- a community that I have longed for and finally belong to.

If affect theory taught me that fear is contagious and binding, Mamdani taught me that hope can be too.

Perhaps that’s what my father meant, all those years ago. Maybe looking after the country, or even the world, begins with finding those tiny beacons of hope. It means choosing to hold on even in times of distress, and fighting for a vision rooted in love and solidarity.

References

[1] Emotions are pre-conscious, visceral, and embodied experiences that flow between people and objects, interlaced with social and political power structures — Ahmed, S. (2004). Affective economies. Social Text, 22(2), 117–139.

[2] Muñoz, J. E. (2009). Cruising utopia: The then and there of queer futurity. New York University Press

[3] Mamdani, Z. (2025, October 27). Conversation with @aymanm on @msnbc yesterday [Instagram reel]. Instagram. https://www.instagram.com/reels/DQRk0CGDup1/

©️ Srishti Pal, 2025. All rights reserved.
This piece lives in the spirit of shared critical discourse — where ideas travel, evolve, and return, as long as their roots are named. If you wish to reference or draw from this work, please do so with care and citation