Sense of betrayal

There is a feeling among a large number ot people that reflects a deep sense of disappointment and disillusionment with the state of India’s democratic and social fabric, particularly in relation to the ideals enshrined in its Constitution. When you examine the concerns systematically, looking at the roles of political parties, state institutions, civil society, and social structures, as well as their impact on minorities and India’s global standing you will find that the feeling is strongly rooted in reality and lived experiences.

Lets take a look at the issue. While doing so, lets also keep in mind the comprexity of  the issue. 

India’s Constitution, adopted in 1950, is a great document that promises justice, liberty, equality, and fraternity for all citizens, regardless of caste, creed, religion, or gender. It emphasizes secularism, social justice, and the protection of minority rights. However , the reality on the ground shows that these ideals have been undermined by various actors and institutions. 

Lets start with political parties as they are central to India’s democracy. It is obvious that most of them have prioritised power, vote-bank politics, and divisive rhetoric over constitutional values. In recent years, political discourse in India has been criticized for fostering religious and caste-based polarization. Some parties have been accused of promoting majoritarian agendas, sidelining minority communities, particularly Muslims, Christians, and Dalits. For example, incidents of communal violence, such as the 2020 Delhi riots, and anti-Muslim policies like the Citizenship (Amendment) Act, 2019 (CAA), brutal repression of democratic protests against CAA-NRC (National Register of Citizens) combine, indefinite incarceration of protesters along with increasing incidence of hate crimes like beef lynching, dehumanising and humiliating hate speech and vilification campaign against Muslims have fueled perceptions of increasing Islamophobia and discrimination against Muslims. Political parties across the spectrum have faced allegations of corruption, cronyism, and compromising democratic principles for electoral gains. The weakening of opposition voices, through defections or institutional pressure, has raised concerns about democratic backsliding. Despite economic growth, India remains deeply unequal, with persistent poverty to the extent of living on the verge of starvation, inter-generational malnutrition and lack of access to health care, unemployment, and caste-based discrimination. Political parties have always been seen failing to deliver on promises of inclusive development, leaving marginalized groups behind. 

However, it’s worth noting that India’s democracy remains vibrant in some respects, with regular elections and democratic protests against state excesses as well as its inactions. The resilience of democratic participation suggests that not all hope is lost, though significant challenges remain.

Now lets take a look at the state and its institutions: judiciary, police, bureaucracy, and election machiner. These institutions are meant to uphold constitutional values. Yet, there are concerns about their impartiality and effectiveness. The judiciary has historically been a bulwark of constitutional values, but recent years have seen criticisms of delayed justice, perceived alignment with the executive in some cases, and a backlog of cases affecting marginalized groups. For instance, the handling of cases related to communal violence or dissent has sparked debates about judicial neutrality. Reports of custodial violence, extrajudicial killings, and bias against minorities and lower castes have tarnished the police’s reputation. Human rights organizations have documented cases of targeted harassment of minority communities, activists, and journalists. Institutions like the Election Commission, Reserve Bank of India, and media regulatory bodies have faced accusations of being influenced by the ruling government, undermining their independence. The use of laws like the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act, 1967 (UAPA) against dissenters has raised alarms about shrinking democratic space. 

On the positive side, institutions like the Supreme Court have occasionally delivered progressive judgments, such as decriminalizing homosexuality (2018) or affirming privacy rights (2017). These examples show that institutional failures are not universal, and reform is possible.

Now turning to civil society, i.e., NGOs, activists, and citizen movements, it can be seen that it plays a crucial role in holding power accountable. However, it has faced challenges. Activists, journalists, and academics critical of the government have faced harassment, arrests, or funding restrictions. The Foreign Contribution Regulation Act, 2010 (FCRA) has been used to limit NGOs’ operations, particularly those working on minority rights, human rights or environmental issues. Civil society is diverse but often divided along ideological, regional, or caste lines, limiting its ability to present a united front against systemic issues. Despite these challenges, civil society has achieved successes, such as mobilizing against gender-based violence (e.g., Nirbhaya protests) or farmers protests against now repealed farm laws or advocating for tribal rights. Movements like these demonstrate that civil society remains a force for change.

Fourth, Social institutions like family, community, and cultural norms. These are also important as they shape India’s social fabric but often perpetuate inequalities. Caste-based discrimination and communal tensions continue to undermine fraternity. Lynchings over cow vigilantism, honor killings, and caste atrocities highlight the failure to eradicate regressive practices. Despite legal reforms, gender-based violence and discrimination persist, with no progress in empowering women and gender minorities. Social institutions have been slow to embrace progressive values, partly due to uneven access to education and entrenched hierarchies. However, younger generations and urban movements are challenging these norms, offering hope for change. Movements like these demonstrate that civil society remains a force for change.

The feeling that minorities have been betrayed is rooted in specific grievances. Muslims, who constitute about 14% of India’s population, have faced rising Islamophobia, including hate speech, discriminatory laws, and economic exclusion. Christians and Sikhs have also reported targeted attacks in some regions. The CAA and National Register of Citizens (NRC) debates amplified fears of disenfranchisement among Muslims. Dalits and Adivasis continue to face systemic discrimination, with limited access to education, jobs, and justice. Atrocities against these groups often go unpunished, reinforcing a sense of abandonment. Linguistic diversity is a strength, but tensions over language policies (e.g., Hindi imposition) have alienated some communities. Yet, India’s diversity also fosters resilience. Minority communities have organized protests, such as the anti-CAA and anti-waqf amendment demonstrations, and continue to assert their rights through democratic means. This activism suggests that the constitutional framework still provides avenues for redress.

The perception that India has betrayed the world at large stems from its democratic reputation and global responsibilities. International indices, like the Freedom House Democracy Index, have downgraded India’s status (e.g., from “free” to “partly free” in 2021) due to concerns over press freedom, minority rights, and judicial independence. This has damaged India’s image as the “world’s largest democracy.” Reports by Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch have highlighted issues like internet shutdowns, arbitrary detentions, and violence against minorities, drawing global scrutiny. As a country trying to draw global attention, India is expected to uphold democratic values and human rights. Failures in this regard risk alienating allies and weakening its soft power. However, efforts to project a positive image, such as through cultural diplomacy or climate commitments, indicate that India has not entirely lost its global standing.

While the concerns highlighted above are grounded in real challenges, there are reasons to believe that India has not reached a “point of no return” and that the feeling of betrayal, while understandable, is not the full picture. India’s elections remain largely free and fair, with high voter turnout. The 2024 general elections saw robust participation, and opposition parties have shown they can challenge the ruling coalition in some states. The judiciary, despite pressures, continues to deliver landmark judgments. Institutions like the National Human Rights Commission, though imperfect, provide mechanisms for accountability. Young Indians, particularly in urban areas, are increasingly vocal about issues like climate change, gender equality, and minority rights. Social media platforms amplify these voices, creating pressure for change. 

To address the sense of betrayal and restore faith in constitutional ideals, several steps could be taken. Reforming the judiciary, police, and electoral bodies to ensure independence and accountability is critical. Transparency in governance can rebuild trust. Policies that prioritize minority welfare, reduce inequality, and address caste and gender discrimination are essential. Affirmative action and education reforms can help. Political parties and civil society must foster dialogue to bridge communal and ideological divides. Media can play a role in countering hate speech and misinformation. Supporting young activists and local organizations can drive long-term change, as seen in successful movements like the farmers’ protests (2020-21).

The feeling that India has failed to uphold its constitutional commitments is not entirely false, as it reflects genuine challenges: political polarization, institutional erosion, minority marginalization, and social inequalities. These issues have strained India’s democratic fabric and global reputation. However, the situation is not irreparable. India’s resilient democracy, active civil society, and pockets of institutional integrity offer hope for renewal. By addressing systemic issues and recommitting to constitutional values, India can move away from the “point of no return” and restore faith among its citizens and the world.

The Wqaf Amendment: A Secular State's Selective Interference

 On April 5, 2025, the Waqf (Amendment) Act, 2025 received Presidential assent and became binding law. What was introduced as a set of administrative reforms has, in reality, made sweeping changes to the legal framework governing waqf properties—assets that have, for centuries, formed the backbone of religious, charitable, and welfare activities in India’s Muslim community. These properties, once dedicated as waqf, are intended to remain forever devoted to the service of the public through mosques, schools, graveyards, hospitals, orphanages, and other such institutions. The waqf system is rooted in a deep religious tradition that treats such property not as personal or transferable wealth, but as a perpetual endowment—a trust in the service of God and society. By enacting this amendment, the state has imposed new controls and conditions on the management of these properties, and in doing so, it has stirred serious constitutional and ethical concerns that go to the very heart of India’s secular and democratic fabric.

One of the most significant and contentious aspects of this new law is its requirement that non-Muslim members be included in the governing bodies responsible for waqf administration. Until now, both the Central Waqf Council and the various State Waqf Boards have been comprised solely of Muslims, based on the reasonable and well-understood logic that a religious endowment grounded in Islamic jurisprudence should be managed by those who understand and adhere to that faith. Waqf is not a neutral asset; its creation, governance, and purpose are tied directly to religious doctrine. By mandating the inclusion of individuals from outside the Muslim faith into the core decision-making process, the law interferes with the internal affairs of a religious community in a way that is unprecedented, discriminatory, and constitutionally unsound.

This move strikes directly at the heart of Article 26 of the Constitution of India, which guarantees to every religious denomination the right to manage its own affairs in matters of religion. This right is not conditional on state approval; it is an autonomous space protected from majoritarian control. The state, in its role as a secular entity, has no business deciding how a religious body should govern itself, unless there is clear evidence of harm or illegality. In this case, the inclusion of non-Muslims is not based on any identified abuse or failure of the waqf system, but on a vague desire to “reform” or “standardize” it—standards that are not being imposed on other religious communities. Hindu temples are not required to appoint non-Hindus to their trust boards. Christian churches and Sikh gurdwaras are not compelled to allow outsiders into their governing bodies. Only the Muslim community is being asked to alter its religious institutions in a way that directly contradicts its religious principles and institutional independence. This selective interference makes a mockery of the secular ideal.

The principle of secularism, which is a part of the basic structure of the Indian Constitution, requires that the state maintain an equal distance from all religions. Secularism does not mean that the state should suppress religion—it means the state must avoid interfering in religious matters and must treat all faiths with the same degree of respect and restraint. The Waqf (Amendment) Act violates this principle by singling out one religious community and placing its institutions under conditions that others are not subject to. Far from being a neutral act of reform, the law appears to be based on an assumption that Muslim religious institutions require special oversight or control, while others are allowed to function autonomously. This is not secular governance—it is a form of state favoritism and distrust that targets one community under the guise of administrative reform.

The inequality is further compounded when we consider Article 14, which promises all persons equality before the law and equal protection of the laws. Any law that treats one group differently from others must be based on an intelligible classification and must have a rational connection to a legitimate objective. Here, the law applies intrusive controls only to Muslim endowments, without any demonstrated reason why waqf institutions uniquely require such measures. If transparency, accountability, or efficiency are the goals, then all religious and charitable trusts—regardless of religion—should be subject to the same standards. By applying special burdens only on waqf institutions, the law creates a classification that is both arbitrary and unconstitutional. This kind of discrimination violates the very spirit of equal treatment that the Constitution guarantees and erodes public faith in the neutrality of the legal system.

Equally troubling is the Act’s transfer of adjudicatory power from Waqf Tribunals to ordinary government officers in determining whether a property is waqf or not. Previously, such matters were heard by specialized tribunals that, although imperfect, at least functioned as quasi-judicial bodies with some familiarity with Islamic law and waqf practice. The new law hands this power over to revenue officials, such as district magistrates or collectors—executive agents of the state who lack judicial independence and religious expertise. This move not only politicizes the process but also weakens due process protections. Under Article 21, no person shall be deprived of life or personal liberty except according to a procedure established by law. And over decades of jurisprudence, the Supreme Court has clarified that this procedure must be just, fair, and reasonable—not arbitrary, opaque, or biased.

Giving government officers the final say in disputes over religious property strips away this fairness. Such decisions are likely to be influenced by political pressure, land-use priorities, or personal prejudice. In a country where land is scarce and waqf properties are often located in prime areas, this opens the door to massive misuse. Communities could lose control over mosques, schools, or graveyards not because of any legal fault, but because a bureaucrat deemed the land to be non-waqf. The loss here is not only of real estate, but of identity, heritage, and sacred space. Due process is reduced to a formality, and fundamental rights are rendered meaningless in practice.

Another devastating consequence of the new law is its removal of waqf property’s exemption from the Limitation Act, 1963, thereby allowing adverse possession to extinguish waqf claims. Under the previous regime, waqf land could not be lost merely because someone had occupied it for twelve years without contest. The reason was clear: waqf property is held in trust not for the trustee, but for the public—specifically for religious or charitable use. It is not like private property that a person can forget to protect. The very purpose of waqf is continuity and perpetuity. By making it subject to adverse possession, the new law effectively allows waqf land to be stolen through encroachment, and then legalized through bureaucratic inaction. In many cases, waqf boards lack the resources to track or litigate every piece of land. Under this regime, they will now also lose land they cannot immediately recover, even if it was wrongfully taken. This violates not only religious trust but also the constitutional right to property under Article 300A, which protects individuals and communities from being deprived of their property without legal authority. The irony is that the very law intended to regulate waqf may now become the means by which waqf property is legally lost forever.

In addition to all of this, the law demands that waqf properties must have formal documentation—a registered waqfnama—to be recognized. While this might seem like a logical administrative requirement, in practice, it means that a vast number of older waqf properties will be excluded from the official record simply because they were established in an era when documentation was rare. Many waqf lands are known by local custom, oral tradition, and continued community use. To now require them to produce written deeds is to apply modern bureaucratic standards to historical realities, with disastrous consequences. This not only undermines the protection of genuine waqf assets but also punishes communities for their historical poverty or illiteracy.

Altogether, the Waqf (Amendment) Act, 2025 is not a minor regulatory adjustment—it is a profound disruption of constitutional norms, legal protections, and secular principles. It treats Muslim institutions differently from others, burdens them with special restrictions, exposes them to state interference, and deprives them of rights that other communities take for granted. It violates Article 14’s promise of equality, Article 21’s guarantee of fair process, Article 26’s assurance of religious autonomy, and Article 300A’s protection of property. It also departs from the spirit of secularism by casting the state not as a neutral guardian, but as an active participant in the internal affairs of one particular faith.

The dangers of this law are not hypothetical. They will be felt in everyday ways—when a mosque is lost to encroachment, when a waqf school is shut due to lack of recognition, when a community can no longer bury its dead in ancestral graveyards, or when an honest mutawalli (trustee) is replaced by a politically connected appointee. The consequences will be deeply human, and often irreversible.

If India is to remain true to its founding ideals—of pluralism, equality, justice, and secular governance—then laws like the Waqf (Amendment) Act must be reconsidered and challenged. The rights of religious communities cannot be made subject to the convenience of the state. They cannot be taken away quietly, under the pretext of reform. Constitutional rights are not privileges—they are guarantees. And they must be defended, especially when it is unpopular, inconvenient, or politically costly to do so. The Constitution does not allow for second-class rights, and it does not recognize second-class citizens. That must include the Muslim community, and it must include the institutions it holds sacred.All reactions: