The Quiet Violence of Censorship
“You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.”
-Ray Bradbury
Censorship has long been a tool for controlling narratives, silencing dissent, and shaping public perception. A silent war not waged with weapons but with burning pages, banned books and severed tongues. A quiet rewriting of memory, and the stripping away of voices deemed inconvenient.
Whether through book burnings, suppression of indigenous knowledge, or the persecution of scientific thought, history has shown us that restricting access to information serves those in power. But censorship isn’t just a relic of the past—it just takes new forms in the modern age.
While we no longer burn books in public squares, we still see their removal from schools, libraries, and public discourse under the guise of “protection” or “political correctness”. Threats against artists, bans on films, labeling books as “anti-national”, “immoral”, or “inappropriate.” We don’t need to burn a book for it to disappear—it simply needs to be disapproved by those in power.
The suppression of information is not just confined to history books and scientific research; it extends to literature as well. Not only is it global but also regional. In India, it is not a foreign phenomenon. Manuscripts written in native scripts were destroyed during colonial rule. Dalit writers, tribal historians, and feminist poets were systematically pushed to the margins. Even today, books that challenge prevailing narratives or expose uncomfortable truths continue to be banned and censored, often under the guise of “protecting society”. Books like The Diary of Anne Frank, 1984, and Fahrenheit 451, which ironically speaks of censorship, have been banned for being deemed “too dark” or “too political”.
And still, we are asked: Why does this matter?
Because erasing history is erasing identity. When a story is silenced so is someone’s truth. When The Diary of Anne Frank was banned for being “too depressing,” or 1984 for being “too political,” we don’t just lose access to a book—we lose ideas. Books like The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy or Lajja by Taslima Nasreen were met with bans and outrage because they dared to tell uncomfortable truths. Madhorubagan by Perumal Murugan was so fiercely attacked that the author declared, “The writer is dead.” Censorship doesn’t just stifle speech—it crushes the spirit. When books are erased so is our ability to think critically—to question, to shape our ideas and ourselves, and learn from the past.
Fiction often carries deep truths. Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey aren’t just myths; they were shaped by real-life events and continue to influence culture and beliefs, much like the Ramayana and Mahabharata. Novels like The Handmaid’s Tale, The Hunger Games, Shatter Me and The Maze Runner may feel dystopian, but they reflect real-world issues- censorship, oppression, resistance, and challenging unfair authority.
The Poppy War gives you a view of history or war, and the horrors of it in the East. To Kill a Mockingbird tells you of racial injustice and morality. They all contain warnings. These are not merely stories—they are resistance written in metaphor. They whisper of power, injustice, survival, and choice.
Some advocate restricting books with graphic content from young readers, that they must be protected from harsh realities. Others argue that shielding them from difficult topics hinders critical thinking. To an extent, this is true— Heavier themes are best understood as our thoughts and perspectives mature with age.
There’s little point in reading something when you’re too young an age just for the sake of it, if you do not understand it, or the emotional depth or context of the book. A sense of fulfillment in understanding the hidden meanings, the emotions, and the severity of such books. This deeper understanding of literature is what makes books so powerful—and why they have always been at the center of political and ideological struggles.
But shielding young people entirely does more harm than good. Literature, when introduced thoughtfully, can become a catalyst for empathy, resilience, and critical thinking. It prepares us for the world, not just protects us from it. Whether fiction or nonfiction, every book carries the weight of its time, reflecting the ideas, conflicts, and aspirations of the society that produced it.
What we choose to censor reflects what we fear. And fear is often rooted in the desire to control. When we silence women’s voices, we fear their independence. When we erase racial narratives, we fear difference. When we exclude caste-based or minority perspectives, we fear confrontation with the truth of inequality. But a society that cannot face its reflection cannot grow.
Books have always been political. They reflect the thoughts, ideologies, and events of the time they were written—even fiction. They hold up mirrors to society, amplifying both its beauty and its rot. Every page is a form of protest or preservation. And every reader becomes a co-conspirator—choosing either silence or curiosity. Every side of the story is important.
Literature analyses and critiques the social norms and politics, both past and present, allowing us to shape our opinions and beliefs. As we read, we hear the unheard voices; of those oppressed and those who had a chance to shout. To discern right from wrong. And as we write, we tell the stories—of those who cannot speak up for themselves, who strive to make a change and amplify their voices.
India is a land of stories. From the oral poetry of Kabir to the bold prose of Ismat Chughtai, our literary history is filled with voices that challenge orthodoxy. The Bhakti movement used poetry to critique caste and religious control. Progressive writers risked imprisonment to write about class struggle. Literature is not separate from our freedom—it has always helped shape it.
So what does censorship have to do with you?
Everything.
Because the moment we stop questioning, we stop reading. If we stop reading, we stop learning. We begin to forget.
Art has flowed in our veins for centuries. It has stained our walls and decorated our homes, songs, and ceremonies in every way, shape, and form. Everything we know—our history, our culture, our perspectives, even science—comes from a place of wonder, from the stories we tell and stories we read.
Humans are still young, young compared to our planet, and even younger compared to the universe. We cannot glimpse the future, so we move forward by looking at the past. History and literature are just as important as any other. It’s our way of leaving a mark on the world.
Libraries are sanctuaries, places which are meant to be protected, where the past, present, and future exist together. A library is a protest in itself: a place where all ideas sit side by side, equal in access if not in ideology. To remove even one book from its shelf is to declare that some thoughts do not deserve space.
In the end, stories are more than entertainment. They are warnings, comforts, legacies, and truths. If we let them disappear, so do we.
Because we are what we read. We are the questions we ask, the stories we inherit, and the silences we choose to break.
We are creatures of wonder and curiosity. And books just feed that wonder—they are reflections of our fears, dreams, and truths. In every page, we find not just a story, but ourselves.
-S.R