Today, May Day 2026, as India's 25 crore workers echo their 22 April Bharat Bandh against the diluted Labour Codes, we reclaim the Chicago Martyrs — eight great heroes whose 1886 stand for an eight-hour working day reshaped the world. Framed after Haymarket's chaos, they faced a kangaroo court, yet their sacrifice birthed global labour rights.

Fedayi ka khoon hai surkh ruh ka sailaab,
Zameen-e-mehnat par ugti hai inqilab ki kahaar
(The martyr's blood is the crimson flood of a spirited soul,
On labour's soil sprouts the crop of revolution)

Let us honour each by name, their lives a defiant hymn against exploitation.

August Spies (31), German immigrant and furniture craftsman, wielded words like weapons as Arbeiter-Zeitung editor. A mesmerising orator, he rallied Chicago's German workers, exposing factory barons' greed. At trial, he exposed bias; from the gallows on 11 November 1887, he proclaimed: "The time will come when our silence will be more powerful than the voices you are throttling today!" His pamphlets fuelled the 1 May strike by 300,000.

Albert Parsons (39), Texan printer and The Alarm editor, evolved from Confederate soldier to interracial unionist. Founder of Chicago's Noble Order of the Knights of Labor, he bridged Black and White workers, defying Jim Crow. Kissing his children goodbye, he sang 'Sweet Bye and Bye' to the scaffold, his eloquence immortalised in trial speeches that shamed the judge.

Adolph Fischer (30), German printer at Arbeiter-Zeitung, embodied revolutionary zeal. Father to a young daughter, he typeset manifestos demanding dignity. "I die a proud communist," he declared, unbowed as the noose tightened — his last words galvanising anarchists worldwide.

Phansi ke farmaan par shaheedon ke geet sada,
Mehnatkashon ki awaaz ban gayi hai sada
(On the gallows' decree, martyrs' songs echo eternal,
Becoming the forever voice of toilers)

George Engel (50), Jewish toy seller from Germany, overcame deafness to join the fight. Never at Haymarket, he was convicted on rumour. His simple life — peddling playthings — belied a fierce intellect; from jail, he wrote of "the social revolution", his hanging a stark injustice.

Louis Lingg (22), Swiss carpenter and unmatched dynamite artisan, supplied the movement's muscle. Anarchist firebrand, he scorned the verdict, biting a blasting cap in his cell days before execution — his mangled face a final rebuke, as witnesses like Captain Schaack later confirmed.

The survivors endured Cook County Jail's hell: Michael Schwab (35), Austrian bookbinder and Arbeiter-Zeitung associate editor, penned defiant essays till his 1901 pardon. Samuel Fielden (39), English teamster and Methodist preacher turned radical, hauled goods by day, spoke fire by night — freed in 1893. Oscar Neebe (41), yeast merchant and union organiser, dodged the rope through savvy lawyering, paroled amid uproar.

Hanged amid 10,000 mourners, four martyrs sparked riots from London to Paris. The 1889 Second International declared May Day their tribute; US eight-hour laws followed in 1916, ILO standards in 1919.

India inherited their fire: the 1926 Trade Unions Act legalised strikes, mirroring Haymarket's call amid mill drudgery. Factories Act, 1948, enshrined eight hours. Now, 2026's IFTU-led bandh — paralysing rails and ports — rails against the 2020 Codes' gig-era betrayals, Swiggy drivers toiling endlessly like 1880s Chicagoans.

From Haymarket's National Historic Landmark rises their truth: power bows to united sacrifice. In Srinagar's workshops or Mumbai's mills, their voices urge: seize this May Day to forge equity anew.

Chicago ke shaheedon ka silsila na rukega,
May Day ki loh par likha inka naam sada rahega
(The Chicago martyrs' chain will never halt,
On May Day's stone, their name endures eternal)

Hasnain Naqvi is a former member of the history faculty at St Xavier’s College, Mumbai. More of his writing here

When Donald Trump amplifies a remark describing countries like India as “hellholes,” it is not merely a lapse in language—it is a calculated insertion into a long-standing political grammar that thrives on provocation, prejudice, and spectacle.

The controversy this week did not emerge from an offhand comment but from Trump’s decision to share, on his platform Truth Social, a transcript rooted in anti-immigrant rhetoric tied to debates over birthright citizenship in the United States.

The phrasing—linking India and China to a caricature of global dysfunction—was not incidental. It was embedded in a broader narrative that casts immigrants as exploiters of American law and opportunity. What followed was predictable: outrage from civil rights groups, condemnation from sections of the Democratic Party, and unease among diaspora communities who number in the millions and form a vital bridge between the two democracies.

Yet, what is striking is not the provocation itself—Trump’s political career has often relied on rhetorical excess—but the unevenness of the response it elicited across political geographies. India’s official reaction, though present, remained restrained, describing the comments as “uninformed” and “in poor taste.” But beyond this formal diplomatic phrasing lies a deeper disquiet: a conspicuous absence of political urgency.

In moments like these, silence is rarely neutral. It is a political choice.

The government led by Narendra Modi has, in the past, demonstrated remarkable alacrity in responding to perceived slights—especially when they originate from adversarial quarters. But when the source is a figure who has, at various points, been politically convenient or ideologically aligned, the tone shifts. The response becomes measured, calibrated, almost reluctant.

This selective assertiveness reveals a contradiction at the heart of contemporary Indian diplomacy: a desire to project muscular nationalism domestically while maintaining transactional pragmatism internationally. The result is a curious dissonance—where rhetorical sovereignty at home coexists with strategic reticence abroad.

It is also a missed opportunity.

India today is not merely a nation-state; it is a civilisational entity with global influence, economic heft, and a diaspora that shapes politics far beyond its borders. To allow such a description—“hellhole”—to pass with only procedural objection risks normalising a language that diminishes not just the state, but its people.

“Kabhi India Aa Ke Dekho”: Iran’s Cultural Counterpoint

If India’s response appeared muted, the riposte from Iran was anything but.

In a move that blended diplomacy with digital theatre, Iran’s consulate in Mumbai released a short video celebrating Maharashtra’s cultural and natural richness—its festivals, landscapes, and urban vitality. Accompanying it was a pointed message directed at Trump: “Kabhi India aa ke dekho, phir bolna” (Come to India, then speak).

The phrasing was colloquial, even playful, but its implications were profound. It reframed the discourse from insult to invitation, from derision to demonstration. In suggesting a “cultural detox” to counter Trump’s “random bakwaas,” Iran deployed satire as a diplomatic tool, exposing the absurdity of the original remark.

This was not merely a defence of India; it was an assertion of a shared civilisational ethos. Iranian officials went further, describing India and China as “cradles of civilisation,” thereby situating the debate within a historical continuum that predates modern political rhetoric.

There is an irony here that cannot be ignored. At a time when India itself appeared cautious in its articulation, it was a foreign mission—operating from within Mumbai—that offered the most culturally resonant defence of the country’s dignity.

The Politics of Language and the Burden of Response

Language in politics is never incidental. Words like “hellhole” are not descriptive; they are performative. They construct hierarchies, legitimise exclusion, and shape public perception.

Trump’s remark must be understood within this broader ecosystem of discourse—one that reduces complex societies into simplistic tropes for political gain. But equally important is how such language is contested.

The reactions this week present a study in contrasts:

• In the United States, sections of the political class and civil society pushed back, framing the remark as xenophobic and harmful.

• In Iran, the response was sharp, creative, and culturally grounded.

• In India, the official response remained diplomatically correct but politically subdued.

This divergence raises uncomfortable questions. What does it mean for a nation to defend its image? Is a formal protest sufficient in an age where narratives are shaped as much by social media as by statecraft? And can silence—or restraint—be mistaken for acquiescence?

Beyond Outrage: Reclaiming the Narrative

The deeper issue is not Trump’s remark; it is the ecosystem that allows such remarks to gain traction. In an interconnected world, reputations are not only defended through diplomatic channels but also through cultural assertion, intellectual engagement, and public discourse.

Iran’s intervention, however unexpected, demonstrates the power of narrative reclamation. By showcasing India’s lived reality—its plurality, its vibrancy—it challenged the reductive framing of the original comment.

India, with its vast cultural capital and democratic legacy, possesses far greater resources to do the same. The question is whether it chooses to deploy them.

The Cost of Quiet

Silence, in diplomacy, is often strategic. But it can also be read as hesitation, or worse, indifference.

When a global leader amplifies a term as loaded as “hellhole,” the response it demands is not merely procedural—it is moral, cultural, and political. It requires a defence not just of territory, but of identity.

In this episode, the most compelling rebuttal did not come from the state that was targeted, but from an unlikely interlocutor that chose wit over withdrawal.

“Kabhi India aa ke dekho,” the message said.

It was more than a retort. It was a reminder—that nations are not defined by the language used against them, but by the confidence with which they respond.

~Hasnain Naqvi is a former member of the history faculty at St. Xavier’s College, Mumbai

The recent directive by the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE)—making third language (R3) compulsory from Class VI—will reshape classrooms across India from the 2026-27 academic session.

The directive explicitly states that at least two of the three languages studied must be “native to India” as defined in the Eighth Schedule of the Constitution. In English-medium schools, where English has long been the medium of instruction, this effectively means English counts as the lone foreign language slot. Hindi typically fills the second (Indian) slot. The third must therefore be another Indian language—Sanskrit, Punjabi, Tamil, Bengali, Marathi or any of the 22 scheduled languages—leaving no room for French, German, Spanish or any other foreign language in the core curriculum.

The policy draws from the National Education Policy 2020 and the National Curriculum Framework for School Education 2023, both of which emphasise multilingualism, cultural understanding and national integration. However, its rollout has raised concerns over timing, preparedness and flexibility.

Under the R1-R2-R3 framework, students must study three languages through Class 10, with R3 introduced in Class 6. A CBSE circular dated 9 April 2026, directed schools to notify their chosen R3 languages within seven days, update records and begin instructions immediately using “locally available books/materials,” with official textbooks expected later.

For many schools, the transition has been abrupt. “There was no planning window,” said a principal of a Delhi-based CBSE school. “We were asked to finalise languages, inform parents and start teaching within days.”

Administrators across major cities report that foreign language offerings are being discontinued or pushed into optional formats. “French will no longer be offered as a language option in Class VI,” read a notice sent to parents by one private school.

Teachers trained in European languages say they face an uncertain future. “This policy leaves us with no clarity,” said a Spanish teacher at a Delhi school. “Within two to three years, most of us may lose our core roles unless we retrain.”

Some schools have indicated that foreign-language teachers could be retained temporarily if they upskill for other subjects. But for many, that offers limited reassurance. “We’ve spent years specialising in one field,” another teacher said. “Switching tracks isn’t easy.”

Resource gaps are another concern. With textbooks for several R3 languages yet to be released, schools are relying on improvised materials. “We are using worksheets, online videos and whatever we can find,” said a Mumbai school coordinator. “It’s far from ideal.”

In regions where the selected language is not widely spoken, finding qualified teachers is proving difficult. “If we choose a language like Tamil or Punjabi in a non-native region, where do we find trained staff?” a Pune-based principal asked. “The shortage is real.”

Critics also argue that the policy risks increasing the academic burden on students. While multilingualism can enhance cognitive skills, they say rigid enforcement may lead to superficial learning. “Children are already under pressure,” said a parent in Delhi. “Adding another compulsory language without choice may not help them learn better.”

Concerns have also been raised about reduced exposure to foreign languages at a formative age. “Languages like French and German open doors globally,” said an education consultant. “Removing them from the mainstream curriculum could limit opportunities in higher education and international careers.”

Supporters of the policy, however, maintain that it strengthens Indian languages and cultural awareness. They argue that greater familiarity with regional languages can foster national integration in a linguistically diverse country.

Even so, some educators believe a more flexible approach is needed. “Multilingualism should be about choice, not compulsion,” said a senior school administrator. “Students should have the option to combine Indian and foreign languages based on their interests and future goals.”

Others have called for a phased rollout with adequate preparation. “Teacher training, textbooks and infrastructure should come first,” an academic expert noted. “Policy implementation cannot run ahead of capacity.”

By closing the door to foreign languages just when cognitive receptivity to new tongues peaks, the policy narrows horizons rather than widening them. French, German and Spanish have long opened doors to European higher education, diplomacy, international business, tourism and the booming language-tech sector. In an economy that prides itself on global outsourcing and start-up ambition, reducing exposure to these languages is self-defeating.

As schools adjust to the new framework, the debate highlights a broader challenge: balancing cultural priorities with global competitiveness. For now, institutions are scrambling to comply, teachers are weighing their options and students may soon find their language choices significantly narrowed.

—Hasnain Naqvi, former history faculty member at St. Xavier’s College, Mumbai