Federalism does not mean moral distance. When chief ministers cross constitutional red lines, silence from the Centre is not neutrality; it is interpretation
India has seen angry politics before. It has lived through phases of sharp polarisation, cynical dog whistles, and moments when electoral arithmetic overwhelmed constitutional restraint.
What feels unsettling today is not merely the recurrence of communal rhetoric, but the confidence with which it is now defended as a governing philosophy.
There is no longer any pretence of embarrassment, no attempt at correction. The language of division is worn openly, almost proudly, as political realism.
Troubling shift
Recent remarks by Assam Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma, directed at Bengali‑origin Muslims derisively labelled “Miya Muslims”, must be seen in this light. They are not isolated provocations or slips of the tongue. They reflect a larger political posture in which discomfort, exclusion, and pressure upon a particular community are spoken of as legitimate tools of governance, even as instruments of long‑term survival.
When challenged, these remarks have not been withdrawn. Instead, they have been justified as necessary to protect Assamese identity for decades to come.
Also read: Did Assam CM cross Constitutional limits by openly targeting ‘Miya Muslims’ amid SR?
That justification marks a troubling shift. It moves India away from episodic excess into something far more corrosive: the normalisation of communal hostility as statecraft. Once such hostility is articulated from the highest constitutional office in a state, it ceases to be mere speech. It becomes a signal—heard by officials, absorbed by institutions, and interpreted on the street as permission.
Unlawful hate speech
It is therefore unsurprising that former civil servant Harsh Mander has sought legal recourse, arguing that such remarks cross from politics into unlawful hate speech.
The question raised is not ideological; it is constitutional. Indian law, reinforced repeatedly by the Supreme Court, prohibits speech that promotes enmity, humiliation, or discrimination against a community. More significantly, the Court has made it clear that when such speech emanates from those in power, the responsibility of the state is greater, not lesser.
When a chief minister declares polarisation “essential” for survival, he is effectively conceding that peaceful coexistence is no longer the objective of governance.
Silence or inaction by law‑enforcement in such cases is not neutrality; it is abdication. But legality is only one layer of the problem. The deeper issue is what such politics does to a society over time.
Assam is not an abstract idea. It is a state with genuine historical anxieties about migration, land, language, and identity – anxieties shaped by colonial policies, post‑Partition dislocations, and decades of demographic change. These concerns are not imaginary and they deserve honest policy responses: transparent land regulation, humane migration management, lawful citizenship procedures, and economic inclusion.
Dangerous message
What they do not deserve is conversion into a permanent communal emergency.
When a chief minister declares polarisation “essential” for survival, he is effectively conceding that peaceful coexistence is no longer the objective of governance. That is a serious confession. It tells citizens that fraternity is expendable, that harmony is unrealistic, and that the Constitution is negotiable. It also sends a quieter but more dangerous message to the administrative machinery: neutrality is optional when power speaks in sectarian tones.
Also read: Assam voter roll revision triggers panic among Muslims; freedom fighters' kin not spared
The short‑term political gain from such rhetoric is evident. Polarisation simplifies politics. It consolidates a loyal constituency bound not by performance but by fear. It keeps the electorate permanently mobilised and conveniently diverts attention from unemployment, failing schools, strained health systems, and the slow erosion of state capacity. In the immediate electoral cycle, it often works.
The long‑term costs, however, are far heavier.
Erosion of trust
First, it corrodes everyday trust. Assam’s economy, like most of India’s, rests on fragile interdependence between communities, professions, and regions. Markets, farms, transport networks, and urban services do not operate on religious identity.
When one community is persistently portrayed as suspect or unwanted, cooperation withers. Investment hesitates. Governance becomes brittle, transactional, and anxious.
When political rhetoric repeatedly signals that one community is uniquely illegitimate, even lawful actions acquire the appearance of prejudice
Second, it communalises administration. In Assam, exercises such as eviction drives, citizenship verification, and voter‑list revisions are already deeply sensitive. When political rhetoric repeatedly signals that one community is uniquely illegitimate, even lawful actions acquire the appearance of prejudice. The state may insist on legality, but legitimacy quietly drains away.
Third, it hollows out Assamese identity itself. An identity sustained primarily through exclusion eventually consumes itself. Cultures endure through confidence, creativity, and shared civic pride, not by permanently identifying an internal adversary. When identity becomes defensive, it narrows. It stops inviting loyalty and begins demanding submission.
Deep consequences
Beyond Assam lies a larger national consequence. India cannot be held together by majoritarian assertion alone. It survives on constitutional trust—the belief that the state belongs equally to all citizens, regardless of number or faith. When that belief weakens in one state, minorities everywhere listen.
When powerful leaders appear immune to constitutional discipline, the idea of equal citizenship erodes across the republic. This inevitably raises an uncomfortable question: how long can such politics continue without provoking reaction?
When one community is persistently portrayed as suspect or unwanted, cooperation withers. Investment hesitates. Governance becomes brittle, transactional, and anxious.
The honest answer is that reactions need not be dramatic to be damaging. Indian Muslims, like most citizens, seek ordinary lives – education for their children, dignified work, and safety in public space. But sustained public humiliation produces quieter consequences: withdrawal from civic engagement, loss of faith in institutions, and deepening alienation. Over time, it also creates fertile ground for voices that argue that patience and reform are futile in a hostile republic.
Internal reform of Muslims
This is where the tragedy sharpens. Muslim intellectuals and community leaders are repeatedly urged—often rightly—to pursue internal reform: modern education, women’s empowerment, professional participation, and better political articulation. Yet communal politics makes reform far harder. Under siege, communities do not introspect easily.
Reformers are accused of surrendering dignity. Energy that should be invested in building schools, skills, and civic alliances is instead consumed by constant firefighting—responding to slurs, arrests, evictions, and suspicion.
Also read: Assam CM defends notices to Bengali-speaking Muslims, says it's a 'pressure tactic'
No community reforms itself under sustained degradation. Reform requires security—moral and physical. A constitutional environment is not a concession to minorities; it is the precondition for social progress. If the state genuinely wishes minorities to reform, it must first stop publicly humiliating them.
The greater loss
This places a clear responsibility on the Government of India. Federalism does not mean moral distance. When chief ministers cross constitutional red lines, silence from the Centre is not neutrality; it is interpretation. At the very least, the Union government must insist on an impartial enforcement of the hate‑speech law, reaffirm that holders of constitutional office are bound by constitutional language, and ensure that sensitive administrative processes remain visibly neutral.
A nation survives on constitutional trust—the belief that the state belongs equally to all citizens, regardless of number or faith. When that belief weakens in one state, minorities everywhere listen.
India has already paid dearly for communal division. Partition was not merely a redrawing of borders; it was a civilisational trauma born of the belief that coexistence had failed. Independent India chose a different path—not because it was sentimental, but because it was necessary for survival. That choice was enshrined in the Constitution’s promise of equality, dignity, and fraternity.
To casually reopen that wound in the name of electoral strategy is not political realism. It is historical amnesia.
Assam deserves leadership that can address legitimate anxieties without weaponising identity; that can protect land and culture without demeaning citizens; that can speak firmly without speaking cruelly. India deserves a politics that understands a simple truth: hate can win elections, but it cannot govern a republic indefinitely.
If this road continues unchecked, it will not only wound Muslims or divide Assam. It will steadily impoverish the idea of India itself—until the Constitution becomes a document we quote ceremonially but no longer practise seriously.
That would be a loss far greater than any election victory.
(The Federal seeks to present views and opinions from all sides of the spectrum. The information, ideas or opinions in the articles are of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Federal.)
