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Mian Abdool Qayoom is the 76-year-old President of the Jammu and Kashmir High Court Bar Association. Since August 5 – the day the constitutional status of Jammu and Kashmir was altered – Qayoom has been undergoing “preventive” detention, under the Jammu and Kashmir Public Safety Act, which authorises detention for upto two years without trial. The ostensible basis of the detention has been that he would “motivate people to agitate against abrogation of Article 370.” Despite ill health (diabetes and a single kidney), Qayoom’s detention was extended last week. And on Friday, the Jammu & Kashmir High Court dismissed a legal challenge to his detention.

Among other things, in its judgment, the High Court took the view that the “subjective satisfaction of the detaining authority to detain a person or not is not open to objective assessment by a court. A court is not a proper forum to scrutinize the merits of administrative decision to detain a person.” This, of course, essentially gives absolute impunity to the State on the issue of detention: if “subjective satisfaction” is the standard, and the Court is not the “proper forum” to challenge detention, then – effectively – the right to personal liberty exists at the absolute discretion and mercy of the government. That, needless to say, makes the right meaningless.

Now what does one say about this? One could say that this line of “reasoning” parrots the executive supremacy logic that was at the basis of the ADM Jabalpur Case – a case that was allegedly buried “ten fathoms deep with no chance of resurrection” by the Supreme Court in 2017, except that ten fathoms is evidently not deep enough for a judiciary that wants to prove itself more loyal than the King (in fact, the High Court judgment quotes a number of cases – both before and after ADM Jabalpur – that foreshadowed and echoed its most notorious lines, including that of preventive detention being a “jurisdiction of suspicion”). After all, when the memo on overruling ADM Jabalpur hasn’t even reached some of the judges of the Supreme Court, how could it be expected to reach the still locked-down Kashmir, where it is anyway too cold for people to exercise their Article 19(1)(d) rights (according to a former Chief Justice of India)? One could say that far from being buried ten fathoms deep, or any fathoms deep, it has by now become abundantly clear that ADM Jabalpur is the dominant logic that that governs judicial action in India today, and that the High Court was at least refreshingly honest in giving that to us straight.

One could say all that, but there probably comes a point at which repetition grows tedious, and is necessary only in order to complete the record, rather than present any new or interesting insight about the workings of the judiciary today. But thankfully, the High Court has also given us something more to think about: it quoted the Greek “thinker” Sophocles, noting that “laws can never be enforced unless fear supports them.”

No quote exists, of course, without context. And a closer look at the context of the Sophocles’ quote that the High Court chose is perhaps more revealing than the actual order. A preliminary point, of course, is that the society that gave us the Melian Dialogue might not be the most reliable contemporary guide to ideas of law, justice, and morality; indeed, one would hope that the concept of law would have progressed somewhat in the 2500 years since the time of the classical Greeks.

More than that, however, is the specific background of the quote. These words – that the High Court paraphrases – are found in Sophocles’ play, Ajax. And Sophocles puts them into the mouth of Menelaus – the (semi-mythical) Greek king other contemporary playwrights denounced for his arrogance and cruelty, and who initiated a destructive and pointless ten-year war because his wife left him for another man. Not, perhaps, the model statesman whom you want expounding on the idea of law. And if the High Court had paid attention to Menelaus’ speech where the quoted words occur, a few lines above it would have found the following words: “‘tis a sign of wickedness, when a subject/ deigns not to obey those placed in power above him.” This is unsurprising: equating law with fear is the hallmark of societies where power flows from hierarchy and is kept by force.

Notably, in both cases, Menelaus s referring to the conduct of (the now dead) Ajax, and is refusing permission for burying his body. Ajax, in turn, had killed himself after going on a killing spree, triggered by his rage at being adjudged only the second-best Greek warrior when it came to massacring soldiers during the just-concluded Trojan War. After a lengthy dispute between Menelaus and another character, Teucer, the body of Ajax is indeed buried.

The literary, dramatic, and artistic merits of Ajax notwithstanding, here – in essence – is what the play is about: it is the aftermath of a destructive and unjustifiable war of aggression, where a soldier from the army of conquest massacres innocent civilians because he feels that he has not been credited enough for his role in the war, then kills himself, leading to higher officials having an argument – not about the massacre – but about whether his body should be given a burial (finally, it is). The higher official is angry – not because innocent civilians have been killed – but because his “subject” has disobeyed someone “placed in power above him.” But is finally persuaded to overlook the indiscretion, and impunity survives untouched. And it is within this context, this society, and this cast of characters, that we find the words the J&K High Court thought fit to apply to preventive detention in a 21st century constitutional democracy: “laws can never be enforced unless fear supports them.”

Perhaps the High Court did, after all, intend to make exactly this point: that we do live in the world of Ajax and Menelaus, and the world of the Melian Dialogue. Perhaps, then, we should applaud – once again – the refreshing honesty, topped off with a dash of literary flourish.

Or, perhaps the High Court would have been better served by remembering that the Greek army camps outside ruined Troy were not the best models for a constitutional democracy, and looked elsewhere in Sophocles’ ouvre; perhaps the legendary play Antigone, where a guard told another King:

“‘Tis sad, truly, that he who judges should misjudge.”

Mian Abdul Qayoom, meanwhile, remains in jail without trial.