P John J KennedyJanuary 3, 2026 05:26 PM IST First published on: Jan 3, 2026 at 05:24 PM ISTIt was a small piece of paper, handwritten, modest in length, almost fragile in its appearance. And yet, the note New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani wrote to Umar Khalid, an undertrial prisoner in India since 2020, carried a weight far heavier than its few lines. “Dear Umar,” it began, gently, without slogans or declarations. “I think of your words on bitterness often, and the importance of not letting it consume one’s self.” It ended simply: “We are all thinking of you.”It was not a political document, but for me, it was definitely a poignant human gesture.AdvertisementAlso Read | The case of Umar Khalid and others is a textbook example of what justice is notIn a world saturated with press statements and tweets, handwritten letters feel almost anachronistic. But they carry the unmistakable imprint of a person who sat down, pen in hand, and thought of another human being. That is what makes this note remarkable. Not because of who wrote it, not even because of who received it, but because of what it represents: Moral presence in a time of isolation.Umar Khalid has spent more than five years in prison under the stringent provisions of the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act, awaiting trial in connection with the 2020 Delhi riots. During a brief interim bail in December, granted for his sister’s wedding, he did not speak publicly; he stayed at home, bound by conditions before returning to jail. His partner, Banojyotsna Lahiri, later shared the image of Mamdani’s note on social media on the day Mamdani was sworn in as mayor, quietly reminding the world that while political calendars move forward, human lives often remain suspended.What does such a letter do for someone in prison? Well, it does not open cell doors or speed up trials. It will certainly not replace legal remedies or judicial outcomes. But it does something no court order can: It affirms dignity.AdvertisementHistory is replete with such moments. Nelson Mandela, during his 27 years in prison, received letters from across the world from ordinary citizens, writers, activists, and world leaders. He later wrote that these letters were not mere words; they were proof that the world had not forgotten him. Jawaharlal Nehru, imprisoned during the freedom struggle, wrote letters to his daughter, Indira, from jail, which were later compiled as “Letters from a Father to His Daughter.” Those letters, too, were acts of moral resistance, affirming the life of the mind and the heart even as the body remained confined. A letter becomes a bridge across bars. It says: You still exist to others. You are not reduced to a file number or an accusation.most readWhat makes Mamdani’s note particularly poignant, therefore, is its message and tone. There is no promise, no grand assurance. Instead, it recalls Khalid’s own words about not letting bitterness consume the self. This is not advice from above; it is recognition from beside. It acknowledges inner struggle without presuming to solve it. In doing so, it restores a sense of equality between the free and the confined, which is rare and precious. Because moral support matters most when it comes from unexpected places, and even more when it comes from those in positions of authority. Of course, leaders are often advised to remain neutral, to avoid “controversial” associations. However, history remembers those who chose empathy over convenience. When a leader acknowledges the humanity of someone during their suffering, it sends a quiet yet powerful message: Power need not be indifferent to suffering. This is not about guilt or belief. It is about recognising that long incarceration is not merely a legal issue but a deeply human one. When time drags, and hope must be practised, being remembered beyond family can steady the mind and sustain resolve.Such gestures matter, especially now, because they affirm a profound truth: Compassion is not weakness, solidarity does not demand agreement, and dignity cannot depend on verdicts. At a time when disagreement so easily slips into dehumanisation, a handwritten note has become a quiet resistance to cruelty. Surely, Mamdani’s letter will not alter laws or hasten courts, but it may help one person endure with a little more strength, and remind us that even when we cannot free someone, we can still refuse to forget them.Sometimes, that refusal is everything.The writer is former professor and dean, Christ University, Bengaluru