The Panchkula tragedy is a grim, heartbreaking warning. We are failing our children on two devastating fronts: we are failing to protect the innocent from harm, and we are failing to prevent our young from becoming the perpetrators of that harm
As a mother, my heart broke into several tiny pieces when I saw the horrific news coming out of Panchkula. I keep replaying that video in my head to truly grasp what it means and what it reflects of us as a society. When you start to send your toddler to school, you hope and also believe, with every fibre of your being, that they’ll be safe in the school, as it is a home away from home.
A few years ago, in Badlapur, Maharashtra, we saw how two minor four-year-old girls were assaulted by a contractual school sweeper, which led to massive protests. We were outraged, and after the news cycle led to the man’s arrest, we moved on. But there is never any moving on for the families whose children were assaulted. Also, there are no lessons that seem to be learnt despite the anger and the outrage. The country continues to believe it won’t happen to any of us until it happens again. This time, in Panchkula, Haryana, and in this case, not a sexual assault but a violent attack, and that too by an accused who is merely an eight-year-old child.
The details captured on CCTV look like a psychological horror film, with a violent act being carried out like that of a person possessed. The eight-year-old boy lured a six-year-old, specially-abled kindergarten girl away from the crowd, led her to an empty, deserted first-floor classroom, and unleashed a feral, unimaginable wave of violence, even long after her frail body had gone limp.
Today, that innocent little girl is fighting for her life with severe facial fractures, while the boy is undergoing psychological evaluations. The school administration faces criminal charges for negligence.
As I read the details, I am left staring at a terrifying, unavoidable question that we must all face: how does an eight-year-old child develop such a monstrous capacity for violence? What are we doing to our children?
When I look at the systemic failures that allowed this to happen, the anger is overwhelming. On that fateful day, the teachers were pulled away for government administrative duties-I won’t be surprised if it involved election duty, such as SIR or electoral roll corrections. This constant pull of sarkari teachers to carry out administrative duties has repeatedly been a source of concern. The principal had left the premises early. The CCTV cameras installed to guarantee safety were broadcasting to an empty administrative office. Security cameras are nothing more than useless wall ornaments if there are no human eyes behind the glass. So, nobody was watching, and there was no one to save her. A vulnerable, specially-abled child was left completely unprotected in a place that promised to shield her. What is worse is that when the father tried to find his daughter, nobody had a clue about her whereabouts except the same eight-year-old boy-it was he who led the father to the class where he had brutally and violently attacked the girl.
First, it is obvious that children do not inherently know how to bludgeon a classmate with a brick. They are only mirroring the world we build around them. In our fast-paced, digitally saturated lives, we have handed our children smartphones as digital babysitters. We look away while they consume hyper-violent video games, simulated cruelty, and adult content on streaming platforms where brutality is casual and death is just a restart button.
Second, we must also look inside our own homes. A child’s sudden, explosive rage is rarely an isolated incident; it is almost always an echo of their environment. When a child witnesses domestic abuse, emotional neglect, or experiences harsh physical punishments, their capacity for empathy is systematically eroded. They learn that power, anger, and force are the only true currencies of control.
Third, combined with our deep societal denial of child psychology, where early red flags like explosive outbursts or cruelty to animals are brushed off as “just a phase”, we create a ticking time bomb inside our classrooms.
If we want to ensure our schools do not turn into arenas of terror, we need a radical, uncompromising shift in how we protect and raise the next generation.
We must establish institutional accountability and make it legally binding. If a school cannot guarantee adult supervision in every hallway and classroom during school hours, it should not be allowed to operate. These government duties assigned in addition to teachers’ roles should never strip a school of its primary caretakers.
It is high time that we brought mental health out of the shadows and into the core curriculum. Every school, public or private, needs permanent, qualified child counsellors who can intervene long before behavioural issues turn into tragedies.
Last, as parents, we must reclaim our roles as emotional anchors. We have to enforce strict digital gatekeeping and replace screens with open, empathetic dialogue. We must teach our children how to process frustration without resorting to fists.
The Panchkula tragedy is a grim, heartbreaking warning. We are failing our children on two devastating fronts: we are failing to protect the innocent from harm, and we are failing to prevent our young from becoming the perpetrators of that harm. Our classrooms must be restored as the sanctuaries of learning they were always meant to be. We owe that much to the little girl fighting for her life in Panchkula, and to every child we wave goodbye to each morning.
It is high time that we brought mental health out of the shadows and into the core curriculum. Every school, public or private, needs permanent, qualified child counsellors who can intervene long before behavioural issues turn into tragedies
The writer is a former Member of Parliament (Rajya Sabha) and currently heads Women Led Futures at ORF; Views presented are personal.