A breakdown of Miranda rights and global equivalents, and why protections during arrest are foundational, through the lens of Metamorphosis.
Anshul Kumar
Anshul is a student at the International College of Auckland in New Zealand.
The concept of the right to remain silent, though often reduced to a procedural formality in crime dramas and courtroom clichés, reveals something far more complex about the relationship between the individual and the justice system. Much like Gregor Samsa’s slow realization that he has become something other than human, individuals stripped of this right become alienated from the very legal institutions meant to protect them. The Miranda warning, commonly associated with American legal culture, serves not merely as a script but as a vital reminder that protection begins not at conviction, but at the moment one is vulnerable.
It was in Miranda v. Arizona (1966) that this right took center stage. Ernesto Miranda, interrogated without counsel, unknowingly confessed. At first glance, his case seems routine—another criminal held accountable. But within its folds lies a deeper question: should a person be required to speak when silence might save them? When examined closely, Miranda’s case exposes the potential for state overreach, where silence becomes not protection but presumed guilt. The rights that emerged from this ruling are not simply legal artefacts; they reflect the deep existential question of how much autonomy the individual retains when placed before the authority of the law.
The Miranda warning, in its full form, includes the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney, and the warning that anything said may be used in court. But what this warning truly gestures towards is the notion that words—our primary method of expressing identity and intent—can be weaponized against us. In this sense, Miranda rights function as a safeguard against self-alienation. Without the right to remain silent, the individual becomes complicit in their own undoing, speaking not to be understood, but to be interpreted, judged, and perhaps misrepresented. Speech becomes surveillance.
This isn’t unique to the United States. Variants of Miranda rights exist across the globe, though their strength and scope vary. In the United Kingdom, the cautionary statement includes the line that silence can be held against you. In Germany, suspects must be informed of their right not to incriminate themselves. In India, Article 20(3) of the Constitution protects against self-incrimination, although the practice remains murky. Each of these articulations reveals something different about the legal philosophy of the country in question, but the underlying anxiety is the same: can an individual’s voice truly remain their own when faced with the machine of justice?
What becomes clear is that these rights are often contingent not on the law itself, but on who is given access to them. Like Marx’s proletariat, dispossessed from the product of their labour, individuals unaware of their legal protections become alienated from the very system designed to defend them. Rights that are not known are not rights at all; they are illusions. And it is this illusion, the belief that fairness is inherent in the process, that systems depend on to maintain their power.
At the core of this right is a paradox. One is told they have the right to remain silent, but in practice, remaining silent often makes one appear guilty. The accused is trapped within a cycle where every action, or lack thereof, becomes suspect. This is not unlike the capitalist worker who must continuously produce to prove their worth, yet who remains estranged from the value of what they produce. Similarly, a suspect must continuously assert their innocence, yet any attempt to defend themselves may be distorted into a sign of guilt. The silence, then, becomes not empowerment, but a calculated risk.
When I first learned about these legal protections, I didn’t appreciate their philosophical depth. They seemed like lines one had to say—mechanical, mandatory. But now I see them as evidence of a broader societal struggle: the tension between authority and autonomy. The Miranda warning, and its global cousins, are moments in which society concedes that power must be checked. That without reminders, power tends to forget its own limits.
And yet, even these rights, etched into constitutions and case law, are fragile. They rely on the accused understanding them, on officers respecting them, on systems not rushing to assume guilt. In nations where legal aid is underfunded or rights are explained too quickly to be comprehended, the warning becomes a ritual devoid of meaning. One cannot invoke a right that they do not know exists. Just as Gregor Samsa awoke to find himself transformed and unrecognizable, so too does the accused risk being transformed, from person to suspect, if the process fails to preserve their humanity.
In this way, the right to remain silent is not only about silence. It is about self. It is about refusing to be reduced to a statement, a transcript, or a confession. It is about resisting the machinery of interpretation that often strips individuals of context, of voice, and ultimately, of agency.
If there is any takeaway, it is this: the right to remain silent is not merely procedural. It is personal. It is philosophical. It is political. It is, in many ways, the last defense an individual has before becoming alienated not only from society, but from themselves. Without it, the justice system ceases to be a tool of fairness and becomes instead a mirror of inequality—reflecting back to us who is protected, and who is not.
In a world increasingly defined by surveillance, instant judgment, and institutional power, the right to remain silent matters more than ever—not just in courtrooms, but in the broader fight to preserve the dignity and autonomy of every human voice.
“To remain silent is not to confess. It is to remember that the law must listen before it speaks.”
IY-LAW 
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