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New Delhi, India — Authorities dispatched workers early to New Delhi on the morning of July 26 to paint over the graffitied walls near the Jantar Mantar observatory.

A day earlier, protests over an exam leak scandal, led by the Cockroach Janta Party (CJP), had led to the ousting of India’s Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan.

The entry curve of the protest strip read: “#2026 Gen-Z REVOLUTION!!!”

A man in his early twenties climbed a tree carrying a powerful loudspeaker and blasted a song. “Azadi, give me freedom! Azadi, give me freedom! Azadi, give me freedom!” The crowd followed the words, with their hands raised in the air.

Azadi, translated as “freedom” in English, a popular hip-hop song from the Bollywood film Gully Boy, became the anthem of the student protests in one of the biggest challenges to Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s Hindu nationalist government in years.

Fast-paced video footage of police personnel beating students at New Delhi’s Parliament Street gave a new lease of life to the nearly decade-old track.

It was not just in Delhi – the chants reverberated in other cities such as Jaipur, Lucknow and Mumbai.

Just a decade ago, Azadi was among the most radioactive words — and criminalised protest slogans — in Delhi, for which student leaders were jailed for treason.

After thousands of protesters returned home following the minister’s resignation last month, the lights at Jantar Mantar had gone out. But rows of bright-yellow metal police barricades still lined the street. Many of them were painted over by protesters. One of them read, in red: “Umar, Sharjeel, Gulfisha were here before you”.

The journey of the Azadi chant — from Pakistan’s feminist movement, the Kashmiri resistance, to the mainstream in India — charts the evolution of both a political slogan and student politics and activism in India under Modi’s rule over the last decade.

‘Criminalising university spaces’

December 9, 2016, was supposed to be a casual evening at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), one of India’s premier public universities that for decades has also been a cauldron of political activism.

A group of students coming together to meet was just another banal event. This meeting was to discuss capital punishment in India, looking at the case of a Kashmiri, hanged for an armed attack on India’s parliament in 2001.

At least, that’s how Banojyotsna Lahiri, a close friend of Umar Khalid and one of the organisers of the event, who spoke to Al Jazeera, remembered that winter evening.

Indian TV media channels, seen as friendly to Modi’s government, made the event a national political flashpoint, repeatedly airing footage of students chanting Azadi slogans, led by then JNU student union president Kanhaiya Kumar.

Pro-Modi media labelled the students as “sympathisers of terrorists” and some channels even aired doctored clips about the event.

Students like Khalid and JNU became household names as the controversy “blew out of proportion,” Lahiri said.

“Intense media trial picked up. It was a targeted campaign: propagating that antinational students lived off taxpayers’ money,” Lahiri recalled. Within days, sedition charges and arrests followed, with Khalid and others released on bail a few weeks later.

The JNU has been a traditional bastion of left-liberal politics, which also puts it in the crosshairs with the country’s Hindu majoritarian right, especially under Modi. But it was not the only university with popular anti-establishment politics at the time.

After a Dalit student, Rohith Vemula, died by suicide in Hyderabad, in southern India, alleging caste discrimination, the Central University there erupted in protests, followed by a government crackdown.

These events in early 2016 kicked off a government campaign that gradually eroded space for dissent and expression in India’s public universities. Students said this has worsened over the years.

Right-wing goons attacked student leaders. Khalid was shot at in New Delhi. Universities blocked permissions to hold discussions, film screenings or protests.

“It requires a lot of courage to be a student activist or leader in India, after coming from small towns,” Apoorvanand, a professor of Hindi at Delhi University, said.

“It is the first time in independent India where the government has undertaken a coordinated, well-thought-out attack on student activism.”

Lahiri said that the media campaign led to serious repercussions for those involved in the protests.

“The tag of antinational was accepted in wider Indian imagination, outside universities and these students [like Khalid] could never shed it,” Lahiri said.

In 2019, protests erupted against proposed amendments to India’s citizenship laws, which were seen as discriminatory against Muslims and rendering them second-class citizens.

Several Muslim student leaders in Delhi shot to national prominence for their fiery speeches and organising protests against the proposed Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA).

The government appeared to step back from a nationwide screening of who qualifies as an Indian citizen amid the protests.

Another crackdown followed, jailing dozens of prominent student activists and burying their cases under piles of charges, including terrorism.

After the citizenship protests in 2019, which ran into 2020, students say the spaces in universities for protest shrank even further.

Police presence and inquiries were beefed up; students allege that several politically biased appointments to university administrations were made, and funding for research and institutions was slashed.

Six years on, student leaders like Khalid, who was rearrested, and Sharjeel Imam continue to be imprisoned without trial.

The journey of ‘Azadi’

After the controversy in 2016, the visuals of JNU reverberating with Azadi slogans inspired a music producer, Dub Sharma, to layer electronic beats over the crowd chants, which flows as the central melody.

Those slogans called for freedom from caste-based hierarchy, capitalism, hunger, and to break free from the influence of the right-wing Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), the ideological fountainhead of Modi’s Bharatiya Janata Party.

Three years later, the track was tapped by director Zoya Akhtar for her 2019 Bollywood flick, Gully Boy, inspired partly by the poverty of rappers in Mumbai’s slums. Sharma recreated the song for the movie — and recruited popular Mumbai artist Divine to rap to it.

But the revised version of the song only retained “freedom from hunger” from the crowd’s original chants, omitting other calls for social justice. The film’s team faced criticism for hollowing out the original track but they defended it, arguing that the track was altered to suit the film’s own arc.

Seven years ago, in the recreated version, Divine rapped about income inequality, politicians’ privileged children and called on people to take over a corrupt system — all of which have become the central theme of Gen Z protests across the world.

Under Modi, India has continued to slide in multiple democratic indices. This year, Sharma’s rehashed score became the anthem of the students’ resistance, calling for wider educational reforms.

The earliest modern political life of the Azadi chant can be traced to Pakistan’s feminist resistance to General Zia-ul-Haq’s military dictatorship in the 1980s. The late Indian feminist activist Kamla Bhasin recalled being inspired by the chant’s fluidity and adopting it to the Indian subcontext, making the calls suitable to specific protests.

Kashmiri resistance to Indian occupation adopted the slogan in the late 1980s as well. The left liberal movement in New Delhi caught up, too. But their calls to freedom were specific to their unique contexts.

A year before Bhasin passed away in 2021, she referred to the Azadi chants in an interview as “a living, breathing slogan”.

“This slogan grows every day, it evolves every day. Its meaning is not set in stone.”

Beginners’ guide to protesting in Delhi

A month after India’s chief justice controversially equated India’s unemployed youth with cockroaches and parasites, the insult caught the national imagination last June.

A Boston University graduate, Abhijeet Dipke, casually wondered: “What if all cockroaches come together?” in a post on X. He then started a social media campaign, under the self-named Cockroach Janta Party, and went viral on the internet. It gained more than 22 million followers on Instagram, more than double Modi’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), which has been in power since 2014.

Dipke returned to India, pledging to launch an agitation, channelling support in calling for education reforms starting with the resignation of the former education minister, after a series of examination scandals that affected millions of Indian students.

On June 6, he landed in New Delhi and came straight to the Jantar Mantar protest site, where he stood with Neha Bora, the national president of All India Students Association (AISA), the student wing of the Communist Party of India (Marxist-Leninist).

Bora, a slight 29-year-old, had been with AISA for eight years, since her college days in Delhi’s JNU.

“[The Cockroach movement] did not have any idea about what might happen, or what to expect here,” she told Al Jazeera, sitting cross-legged in a loose T-shirt. “They didn’t know what to do. They were excited but also scared.”

Bora said student unions, like hers, “helped the protest stand” and take shape.

After the protest occupied the Jantar Mantar strip, defying frequent police orders to vacate, Bora’s AISA, alongside the Student Federation of India (SFI), another prominent left-wing student organisation, organised a protest camp. Six students joined educator-turned-activist Sonam Wangchuk, 59, on a hunger strike.

For a month, student volunteers from these organisations took shifts at the protest site, making sure it was occupied at all times. They gave the protest slogans, placards, and a voice that helped bring it international prominence.

“Sit-in means a lot of repetition for those people who you’re appealing to join,” Bora said, describing challenges. “As a student organisation, we knew the science behind keeping protest alive: bring in different sections of society to support the movement, like lawyers, professors and farmers.”

The Jantar Mantar protest was particularly remarkable in ways that experienced protest organisers — whose politics for years has been criminalised or sidelined — quietly equipped a younger generation to organise what, from the outside, appeared to be a leaderless movement, political analysts say.

With this came the same playbook from opponents to delegitimise the students, said Bora. For weeks, they fought back against “baseless conspiracies and allegations of being antinationals or foreign-funded”. At one point, Education Minister Pradhan called the protesters the “B-team of terrorists”.

However, this time, criminalising the young protesters did not work, and the demonstration continued to grow in popularity. Rather, the movement, campaigning on education issues, gave the student organisation a shot at gaining a foothold in national politics, said Apoorvanand.

Rediscovering ‘Azadi’

This summer, the grammar of Indian politics appeared to flip in the Gen Z protest wave. A stroll through the protest strip, reverberating with Azadi chants, raised a question: what had changed in New Delhi since 2016?

Before peeling back the layers, Lahiri, Khalid’s friend, insists that one needs to settle on a baseline: “The earlier citizenship protests were for Muslims, led by Muslims. Their names were Muslims, therefore [they were] easier to criminalise.” Several political analysts agree.

By contrast, none of the most prominent names in this year’s student protests was Muslim — though the organisers repeatedly called out the “hate and divisive politics” of the ruling government, which has been criticised for alleged targeted attacks on minorities.

Mohammad Junaid, a volunteer at the site, became the most visible Muslim face at the Jantar Mantar strip. Even before everyone had returned home after the protest ended, Junaid and his family members were picked up and harassed by police, he said.

At one point, the Cockroach leaders asked the protesters to refrain from chanting “negative” Azadi slogans. That made no difference among the crowd, though.

N Sai Balaji, a student activist who served as AISA’s national president from 2019 to 2023, said there is a clear difference between the student leaders’ pre and post-citizenship protests, where they have moved on from being objects of representation to owning the narrative.

“It’s just not the same kind. They are tech-savvy 1786809159, know how to integrate their message, and they know the language of the internet so well because they grew up there,” he told Al Jazeera. He compared this with his own generation growing up watching TV.

“That is why the traditional media was useless for them. Rather, they became the media themselves,” Balaji said. “They owned their story. Something we could not do.”

Balaji stressed that social media influencers and alternative media spaces reported the protest and became the main medium of amplification. Many began boycotting traditional media outlets seen as friendly to the government. “And no one was calling them antinationals in this new space,” he said.

Instead, for instance, when videos of Bora on hunger strike were watched by millions, Balaji said, it made people question the status quo. “India’s aspirational class, who felt betrayed by the government’s broken promises, found hope in people who were sitting selflessly,” Balaji stressed.

“That’s where the whole propaganda vanishes. Suddenly, the so-called antinationals become humans too,” he added.

Lahiri said the current generation of student leaders broke through traditional moulds of activism. “With their language, imagery, and Instagram reels, people outside universities are now able to connect more,” she said.

And with spaces inside universities criminalised, the students’ politics are yet again spilling out onto the streets, added Lahiri. She went a step further to note that unlike her own generation, the new student protesters are “trying to do politics under even harsher circumstances”.

Call it shallow, Lahiri argued, breaking into a laugh, but just saying, “Fu** Modi,” is more of a slap in the face, instead of our sentiments coated in academic language.

Out of the flood of online memes and posters, one stayed with Lahiri. It read: “Umar Khalid walked, so Gen Z could run.” She is not sure if Khalid would agree with this, but she does.

For Bora’s part, she told Al Jazeera, the 2019 citizenship movement led by Muslims “inspired a revolution inside” her, which keeps her going even today.

Painting her predecessors as antinationals and traitors of India, Bora said, the Modi government criminalised the mere expression of the word Azadi by “creating so much noise around it.”

However, “when students faced police brutality — when the wounds of those batons were fresh on their bodies — one understands that the Azadi slogan is the most radical assertion of fundamental rights in India”, Bora said.

Lauren Bennett, the British singer who told millennials to “put yo’ hands up” in LMFAO’s megahit “Party Rock Anthem,” and a member of pop group G.R.L., has died. She was 37.

G.R.L. members Emmalyn Estrada, Natasha Slayton and Paula van Oppen announced Bennett’s death on Monday via social media.

“It is with great sadness that we share the passing of our beloved Lauren,” G.R.L.’s statement read.

“Our hearts are broken, and we cannot begin to express how much she meant to us. We will forever cherish the love, laughter, and countless memories she gave us. Her beautiful spirit touched so many lives, and she will be deeply missed and forever loved. Rest peacefully, sweet Lauren. You will always be in our hearts.”

Bennett’s cause of death has not been revealed.

The British singer first splashed onto the music scene when she appeared on the U.K. “X Factor” in 2006. She was eliminated before the live show round of the series, but the following year she was recruited to join Paradiso Girls, a group launched by Pussycat Dolls founder Robin Antin. In 2009, they dropped “Patron Tequila,” featuring Lil Jon and Eve. The group disbanded in 2010 and their debut album was never released.

In 2011, Bennett joined forces with electronic dance duo LMFAO on “Party Rock Anthem.” The track spent six weeks topping Billboard’s Hot 100 chart and became wildly popular globally. Billboard ranked the megahit second on their official “Top Hot 100 Songs of the Decade” list for the 2010s, behind Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars’ “Uptown Funk.”

In 2012, she and Antin teamed up again, forming pop group G.R.L. (Girls Rock Life) with founding members including Bennett, Estrada, Slayton, van Oppen and Simone Battle. The group debuted on the “Smurfs 2” soundtrack with “Vacation” in July 2013 and, in early 2014, they were featured on Pitbull’s “Wild Wild Love.” In the summer of 2014, they dropped “Ugly Heart,” the lead single of their self-titled EP, but in September, founding member Battle died by suicide. G.R.L. split up the following year. By 2016, the group reformed as a trio with Bennett, Slayton and new member Jazzy Mejia.

Bennett welcomed her daughter, Harlow, with partner and “Footloose” star Kenny Wormald in 2019. Wormald often shared photos of Bennett on his Instagram with loving captions.

Longtime friend and music producer Josh Stevens, who co-wrote and engineered LMFAO’s sophomore album “Sorry for Party Rocking,” posted a tribute to Bennett on Monday, writing, “My friend [Lauren Bennett] we will deeply miss you. I was lucky enough to witness you change the world! We traveled the globe party rocking from night clubs to stadiums, a wild and crazy time. A true legend!

“Later on in life our children had the same birthday, I remember us texting each other while you were in labor and my wife was in labor on the same day, same time, both in the hospital. We were laughing and it somewhat seemed calming to know to each was going thru this at the same time.

“We will very much miss you.”

SINGER Lauren Bennett, who featured on the global smash hit Party Rock Anthem, has died aged 37.

The beloved Brit, formerly a member of American girl group G.R.L, was remembered as a “beautiful spirit” who “touched so many lives” by her old bandmates.

In a joint statement, they wrote: “It is with great sadness that we share the passing of our beloved Lauren.

“Our hearts are broken, and we cannot begin to express how much she meant to us.

“We will forever cherish the love, laughter, and countless memories she gave us.

“Her beautiful spirit touched so many lives, and she will be deeply missed and forever loved.”

“Rest peacefully, sweet Lauren. You will always be in our hearts. Your GRLS, Em, Tash, and P.”

Lauren shot to stardom as a member of The Paradiso Girls in 2007.

The group, a European spin-off of the Pussycat Dolls, disbanded in 2010 after their singles flopped in the charts.

But Lauren would go on to force a successful solo career, featuring on a remix of will.i.am’s I Got It from My Mama and later collaborating with CeeLo Green on Love Gun.

The highlight of her career came in 2011, when she featured on LMFAO’s worldwide No1 hit Party Rock Anthem, cementing herself as the next up-and-coming star.

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I rose from my living room couch before Mexico’s World Cup match against Czechia when the Telemundo announcer stated it was time for the Mexican national anthem.

The public address system at Azteca Stadium in Mexico City played a short string intro. My back straightened. I pressed my right hand against my chest horizontally in the traditional gesture that accompanies the tune. And then I recited the opening lyrics to a song I’ve heard all my life but that I only began committing to memory this month:

Mexicanos al grito de guerra/El acero aprestad y bridón/Y retiemble en sus centros la tierra/Al sonoro rugir del cañon

Those florid 19th century words — “Mexicans, at the cry of war/Ready the steel and the bridle/and may the Earth tremble to its core/at the cannon’s resounding roar” — make “The Star-Spangled Banner” seem as anti-war as “Give Peace a Chance.” My kumbaya heart nevertheless jumped as the anthem continued.

Goosebumps blossomed on my skin as Mexico’s head coach Javier Aguirre, he of a stern face and gray haircut worthy of a drill sergeant, beamed while singing. My eyes watered as the camera panned over his arm-in-arm players as they shouted the line, “Think, o beloved homeland! That heaven/gave you a soldier in each son.”

Millions of Mexican Americans like myself have stumbled through the himno nacional during this World Cup, whereas in previous years, we might have just hummed some bars or stayed silent. It’s a boisterous way to connect with one half of our hyphenated lives and get in the right mindset to root for El Tri, but otherwise something we don’t really have to know all the way through given we’re in the U.S.

Yet seeing stadiums and bars packed with Latinos wearing the jerseys of their ancestral homes and warbling their national anthems during this World Cup has been a jolt of inspiration I wasn’t expecting. Those few minutes before each match have become a reminder of what we’re up against at this moment in the Western Hemisphere, as President Trump thirsts to smash Latin America into submission while persecuting too many of us stateside.

In downtown Santa Ana earlier this week, Alicia Rojas quietly recited Colombia’s national anthem word for word before a game against the Democratic Republic of the Congo, even though she was just one of a handful of Colombian fans at Chapter One: The Modern Bistro.

“It reconnects me to my roots, my family and the memories of home,” said Rojas, who was born in Bogotá and moved to the U.S. at age 12. The artist has helped to organize against federal immigration raids in Orange County and volunteers for local political races. “Those few minutes remind me that beyond our differences, we share a history, a culture and a love for the land that made us who we are.”

Latinos are a famously divided bunch, to the point that we don’t even like a catch-all label for “us.” A 2024 Pew Research Center survey found that 52% of Latinos prefer to refer to themselves by their family’s country of origin, while only 30% identify as Hispanic or Latino and just 17% use plain ol’ American.

One thing that can unite us all — and all lovers of liberty, for that matter — is those Latin American national anthems. Many were written in the aftermath of wars for independence. Most are bright, rousing listens, even if you don’t understand Spanish, because their chords reflect the Romantic classical music popular at the time of their composition in the 19th century. All call for their countrymen to fight against tyranny.

Fans cheer after Lionel Messi scores a goal against Algeria during a World Cup watch party at Mercado Buenos Aires on Tuesday, June 16 in Van Nuys.

(Ronaldo Bolaños/Los Angeles Times)

Cue up this soundtrack for your summer:

Paraguay’s national anthem starts by stating that the people of the Americas were “oppressed for three centuries” until they rebelled. Ecuador’s recalls how its founding fathers “cried out a holy voice to the heavens/that noble voice of a unbreakable pledge/to defeat that [Spanish] monster of blood.” Colombia’s similarly doesn’t shy away from how violent its fight for independence was, but takes solace that “in furrows of pain/good now germinates.”

On and on, these songs stir the soul. Argentina: “Hear the sound of broken chains/See noble equality enthroned.” Uruguay: “Tyrants: Tremble!/We shall cry out ‘Liberty’ in battle!” — a boast backed by flutes and violins that make it sound like a Rossini overture. I especially like how Panama’s national anthem concludes by urging “shovel and pick/to work without delay” — a reminder that the job of creating a better society is never done.

Conservatives have, unsurprisingly, long railed at the very idea of singing the national anthems of other countries on American soil. But that just reinforces Samuel Johnson’s adage that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.

There’s nothing wrong with taking inspiration from the clarion calls of other countries. “O Canada” is as soaring as “God Save the King,” while revolutionaries across the world have chanted “La Marseillaise” for centuries. And yes: I sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” with all my heart as well — and I definitely know the words to it.

But the message of the U.S. national anthem isn’t enough for Latinos right now. Hailing survival against an invading force is important, but it’s a mindset too many of us have resigned ourselves to under Trump.

The theme of Latin America’s national anthems is the demand that we stand against despotism and push for a better world through sacrifice and valor. They should be a wake-up call, especially for Latinos, to lead the electoral charge against Trump this November. We helped put him in the Oval Office in 2024, and we have the power to take Congress away from his GOP vassals.

Alas, all those paeans to freedom have played out better in song than in real life. Latin America is swinging rightward again, electing presidents who promise to channel the strongmen of yore and rule the region through might, not right.

On the same night that Rojas was cheering on Colombia, she was bemoaning that her homeland had elected Abelardo de la Espriella, a millionaire criminal defense lawyer and political novice who earned Trump’s endorsement for his “tremendous accomplishments in life” — which include claiming that female voters would pick him because of the supposed size of his genitals.

We must channel the hopes and dreams of Simón Bolívar, Emiliano, Zapata, José Martí and other heroes of the Americas who fought for freedom for their countrymen, sought to cast off the long reach of colonialism and imperialism and urged pan-American alliances over forever wars.

Nothing like the World Cup’s unofficial pre-game soundtrack to reinforce this eternal, universal message.

Mexico dominated Czechia 3-0 and finished first in its group. When El Tri plays again on Tuesday in the first round of the knockout stage, I will stand at a packed Chapter One with other fans and so many more across the U.S. and sing again Mexico’s national anthem.

I will hope to have it all memorized by then instead of reading off my smartphone — the thing is hard! The Spanish is archaic, the intonations are complicated, and the words tumble over themselves like a hard charge toward the goal posts.

But I will do it — a little victory in the long battle for freedom that never ends.