India’s Controversial Law Ignites Public Resentment and Riots

 Photo source: Scroll.in

 By Naveed Qazi | Editor, Globe Upfront

The passage of the Citizenship Amendment Act in December 2019 was described by The Hindu as one of the most divisive legislative moves in recent Indian history, a moment when religion was explicitly introduced into the framework of citizenship. The Act, introduced by the Bharatiya Janata Party government led by Prime Minister Narendra Modi, provides a pathway to citizenship for undocumented migrants from Afghanistan, Bangladesh and Pakistan belonging to six non-Muslim religious communities—Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, Jains, Parsis and Christians—who entered India before 31 December 2014. BBC News reported that the exclusion of Muslims immediately raised questions about the secular character of the Indian state, with critics warning that it could marginalise India’s 200 million Muslims. The government defended the law as a humanitarian measure to protect persecuted minorities in neighbouring countries, yet the choice of countries and communities was highly selective. Indian Express noted that Afghanistan was included despite not sharing a border with India or being part of the 1947 Partition, while Sri Lankan Tamils—who have long sought refuge in India—were excluded. The Telegraph carried legal experts’ views that the Act implicitly introduced the idea of religious persecution without explicitly mentioning it, thereby creating a framework that privileges certain identities while ostracising others.

The genealogy of the CAA can be traced back to the Assam Accord of 1985, which emerged from a six-year-long agitation against Bangladeshi refugees in Assam. The Accord, signed between the leaders of the Assam Movement and the Government of India, set a cut-off date of 24 March 1971 for detecting and deporting illegal migrants. This agreement led to amendments in the Citizenship Act of 1955, making it mandatory to prove that at least one parent was an Indian citizen at the time of birth. Later, in 2004, the law was further tightened to stipulate that neither parent should be an illegal migrant for a child to qualify as a citizen by birth. These changes laid the groundwork for the National Register of Citizens, an official register intended to contain the names of all Indian citizens. The NRC debate, in turn, gave rise to the National Population Register, envisaged as a comprehensive identity database of all usual residents in India. The Citizenship Rules of 2003 made it mandatory for every resident to enrol in the NPR, thereby institutionalising a system of verification that treats citizenship not as an inherent right but as a status to be proven through documentation.

Against this backdrop, the CAA appears as a continuation of the distinction between legal and illegal migrants, but with a crucial ideological twist. While earlier amendments focused on documentary proof and cut-off dates, the CAA introduces religion as a decisive criterion. This selective humanitarianism has been defended by the government as a measure to protect persecuted minorities in neighbouring Muslim-majority countries. Yet critics have pointed out several inconsistencies. Afghanistan, for instance, does not share a border with India and was not part of the 1947 Partition, unlike Pakistan and Bangladesh. If the rationale was to protect persecuted minorities in the neighbourhood, why were Sri Lankan Tamils excluded, despite their long history of displacement and refuge in India? Moreover, the Act does not use the term “minority” but instead lists six specific communities, thereby departing from established constitutional principles that recognise minorities as a category deserving protection. Legal experts have argued that the Act implicitly introduces the idea of 'religious persecution' without explicitly mentioning it, creating a framework that privileges certain identities while ostracising others.

The Joint Parliamentary Committee discussions on the Citizenship Amendment Bill 2016 highlighted these concerns. Critics within the committee questioned the exclusion of Muslims and the selective choice of countries. Defenders of the Bill invoked the doctrine of 'reasonable classification,' arguing that the law’s distinctions were rationally connected to its objective of aiding persecuted minorities. However, constitutional scholars such as Niraja Gopal Jayal have described the CAA as the gravest threat to India’s self-definition as a nation, undermining the secular and egalitarian foundations of the republic. Jayal, in interviews with The New Yorker, noted that the figure of the 'illegal migrant' under the CAA becomes a proxy for the Indian Muslim, who is as much a part of the soil as any other citizen.

The passage of the Act triggered widespread protests across India, with the most iconic being the women-led sit-in at Shaheen Bagh in Delhi. This working-class Muslim neighbourhood became the epicentre of resistance, with women occupying public space for over three months in a peaceful demonstration that combined constitutional patriotism with everyday acts of care. The protest was marked by art installations, public readings of the Constitution, and solidarity visits from activists, students and civil society groups. The Hindu reported that Shaheen Bagh transformed into a symbol of democratic resilience, challenging the narrative that Muslims were passive recipients of state policy. Instead, Muslim women asserted their agency by reimagining citizenship in inclusive and pluralist terms.

The state’s response to these protests was often heavy-handed. Police entered university campuses, including Jamia Millia Islamia and Aligarh Muslim University, detaining students and using force against demonstrators. In Uttar Pradesh and Karnataka, protests turned violent, resulting in the deaths of at least twenty-seven people, according to Indian Express reports. In Assam, opposition to the CAA stemmed from fears of demographic change, with locals worried that the influx of Hindu refugees from Bangladesh would threaten their culture, language and resources. Five people were killed during protests in Assam, while in West Bengal, demonstrations led to arson and the blockage of highways and railway lines.

The most tragic consequence of the anti-CAA mobilisation was the communal violence in North East Delhi in February 2020. The riots, which lasted several days, left 53 people dead and over 200 injured, with Muslims disproportionately targeted. Scroll.in and BBC News documented how Muslim men were forced to strip to prove circumcision before being brutalised, and how mosques were set ablaze by rioters. Properties belonging to Muslims were destroyed at a disproportionate scale, and many families fled their neighbourhoods in fear. Relief camps were set up in madrasas, hospitals and prayer grounds, with the largest being at Idgah in Mustafabad. Doctors reported widespread anxiety and trauma among victims, underscoring the psychological toll of the violence.

The origins of the riots lay in Jaffrabad, where women had staged a sit-in against the CAA, blocking a major road. BJP leader Kapil Mishra issued an ultimatum to the police to clear the protest, threatening to mobilise supporters if they failed to act. Soon after, violence erupted, with most deaths attributed to gunfire. Eyewitness accounts and journalistic investigations suggested that the balance of violence shifted towards Hindu rioters, with Muslims bearing the brunt of attacks. By March 2020, police had registered 690 FIRs and detained around 2,200 individuals. Yet the Delhi Minorities Commission, led by Zafarul Islam Khan, alleged that 1,300 Muslim youths had been arrested, often on fabricated charges, while Hindu perpetrators were spared. A leaked order from the Special Commissioner of Police instructed officers to exercise 'due care and precaution' when arresting Hindu youth, citing resentment among the Hindu community.

The handling of the riots drew sharp criticism from opposition leaders and civil society. Home Minister Amit Shah, however, commended the Delhi police for their efforts and blamed Muslim leaders and Congress politicians for instigating the violence. BJP MP Meenakshi Lekhi went so far as to claim that ISIS elements had organised the riots, a statement widely dismissed as baseless. Opposition figures such as Kapil Sibal, Adhir Ranjan Chowdhury and Asaduddin Owaisi accused the government of failing to act in time and of allowing communal tensions to spiral out of control. Journalists covering the riots were also attacked by mobs, raising concerns about press freedom and the safety of reporters in conflict zones.

Beyond the immediate violence, the CAA has generated widespread anxiety among ordinary citizens, particularly poorer Muslims, about documentation. The Telegraph and The Quint described how people queued at district offices to obtain records, often selecting incorrect documents in desperation. In West Bengal, there were even cases of suicide among individuals fearful of being declared non-citizens. The panic reflects the broader fear that the CAA, when combined with a nationwide NRC or NPR, could render many Muslims stateless by demanding documentary proof that they cannot provide.

The critical analysis of the CAA thus rests on several pillars. First, the law’s selective humanitarianism undermines the principle of equality before law enshrined in Article 14 of the Constitution. If the objective is to protect persecuted minorities, a religion-neutral refugee or asylum law would be more consistent with constitutional values. By naming six religions and three countries, the CAA institutionalises exclusion. Second, the law’s genealogy reveals a continuity with Partition-era policies that conflated refugee relief with majoritarian protection, thereby marginalising Muslims. Scholars such as Manav Kapur have shown how debates in the 1950s about citizenship and refugee rehabilitation laid the groundwork for today’s selective classifications. Third, the administrative overreach associated with the NRC and NPR threatens to disproportionately burden the poor and marginalised, who often lack documentary proof of citizenship. The panic over documents, suicides in Bengal, and queues at district offices illustrate the human cost of such policies. Fourth, the state’s handling of protests and riots raises concerns about democratic resilience. While Shaheen Bagh exemplified peaceful constitutionalism, the Delhi riots exposed the fragility of communal harmony and the dangers of politicised policing.

The defenders of the CAA argue that it is a legitimate exercise of parliamentary sovereignty and that the doctrine of reasonable classification allows the state to draw distinctions in pursuit of specific objectives. They claim that the law does not directly affect Indian Muslims, as it only concerns undocumented migrants from neighbouring countries. Yet this defence ignores the broader context in which the CAA operates. When combined with the NRC and NPR, the law creates a framework where Muslims must prove their citizenship through documentation, while non-Muslims from specified countries are granted a safety net. This asymmetry, as The Hindu’s editorial board noted, risks institutionalising a two-tiered system of belonging, where one community is perpetually under suspicion and another is afforded presumptive protection.

The implications of such a system are profound. Citizenship in India has historically been understood as a civic identity, rooted in constitutional guarantees rather than ethnic or religious affiliation. By introducing religion into the equation, the CAA shifts the paradigm towards an ethnicised conception of nationhood. Scholars such as Niraja Gopal Jayal have argued that this represents a fundamental rupture in India’s democratic trajectory, moving away from the inclusive vision of the Constitution’s framers. The New Yorker interview with Jayal captured this sentiment vividly, noting that the 'illegal migrant' becomes a proxy for the Indian Muslim, thereby transforming a legal category into a political weapon.

The protests against the CAA, particularly at Shaheen Bagh, demonstrated the resilience of democratic dissent. Women from working-class Muslim households, many of whom had never participated in political activism before, occupied public space and articulated a vision of citizenship rooted in equality and pluralism. Their sit-in became a national symbol, inspiring similar protests across India. The Hindu described Shaheen Bagh as a 'laboratory of constitutional patriotism,' where ordinary citizens reclaimed the text of the Constitution as a shield against exclusion. This mobilisation was remarkable not only for its scale but also for its creativity, with art, poetry, and public readings transforming protest into pedagogy.

Yet the state’s response revealed the fragility of democratic institutions under strain. Police crackdowns on students at Jamia Millia Islamia and Aligarh Muslim University, the use of force against peaceful demonstrators, and the arrests of activists under stringent laws such as the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act signalled a shrinking space for dissent. Indian Express reported that in Uttar Pradesh alone, hundreds of protestors were detained, and properties of alleged rioters were seized, raising questions about due process and proportionality. The violence in Delhi in February 2020 further underscored the dangers of polarisation. BBC News documented how Muslim homes and mosques were disproportionately targeted, while Scroll.in reported testimonies of victims who described being singled out on the basis of religious identity.

The aftermath of the riots was equally troubling. Relief camps in Mustafabad and other areas were overcrowded, with doctors reporting widespread trauma among displaced families. The Delhi Minorities Commission alleged that police investigations were biased, with disproportionate arrests of Muslim youths and leniency towards Hindu perpetrators. A leaked police order, reported by The Wire, instructed officers to exercise caution when arresting Hindu suspects to avoid resentment in the community. Such directives, if accurate, point to institutionalised bias in law enforcement, further eroding trust in the state’s neutrality.

The broader panic about documentation illustrates the everyday consequences of these policies. The Telegraph reported queues at district offices where people sought to obtain records, often selecting incorrect documents in desperation. In West Bengal, The Quint documented cases of suicide among individuals fearful of being declared non-citizens. These tragedies highlight the psychological toll of policies that make citizenship contingent on paperwork, particularly in a country where many poor citizens lack birth certificates or other formal records. The fear is not abstract; it manifests in daily anxieties, desperate searches for documents, and in some cases, fatal despair.

Critically, the CAA must be understood not in isolation but in conjunction with the NRC and NPR. The NRC process in Assam, supervised by the Supreme Court, excluded nearly two million people, many of whom were poor and lacked documentation. While the government promised that the CAA would protect non-Muslims excluded from the NRC, Muslims were left vulnerable to statelessness. This combination of policies creates a layered system where religion determines access to protection, thereby institutionalising discrimination. The Hindu’s editorial analysis warned that such a framework risks undermining the secular foundations of the republic and creating a permanent underclass of citizens whose belonging is perpetually questioned.

The defenders of the CAA often invoke the doctrine of reasonable classification, arguing that the law’s distinctions are rationally connected to its objective of aiding persecuted minorities. Yet constitutional scholars counter that the classification is under-inclusive and religion-centred, failing to account for persecuted Muslim groups such as Ahmadis in Pakistan or Hazaras in Afghanistan. Moreover, the law’s reliance on categorical lists rather than case-by-case assessments of persecution makes it blunt and discriminatory. A religion-neutral refugee law, as suggested by several legal experts in The Telegraph, would better serve humanitarian objectives without violating constitutional principles.

The political context of the CAA also matters. The BJP’s rise in the 1990s was marked by the reinvention of Hindutva as a political project, which initially demanded a comprehensive review of the Constitution rather than outright opposition to its secular character. Over time, however, Hindutva has evolved into a project of constitutional reinterpretation, seeking to align citizenship and belonging with majoritarian identity. The CAA is emblematic of this shift, representing what scholars call 'contemporary Hindutva constitutionalism.' By embedding religion into citizenship law, the Act redefines the boundaries of the political community, privileging some identities while marginalising others.

The consequences of this shift are visible not only in legal frameworks but also in social relations. The Delhi riots revealed how political rhetoric can inflame communal tensions, leading to violence and displacement. The protests at Shaheen Bagh demonstrated how marginalised communities can reclaim constitutional values and articulate alternative visions of citizenship. The panic over documentation shows how policies can generate fear and despair among ordinary citizens. Together, these developments illustrate the profound impact of the CAA on India’s democratic fabric.

In conclusion, the Citizenship Amendment Act represents more than a legal amendment; it is a symbol of a broader ideological project that seeks to redefine citizenship and belonging in India. By introducing religion into the framework of citizenship, the Act undermines the secular and egalitarian foundations of the Constitution. The protests against the Act, particularly at Shaheen Bagh, demonstrated the resilience of democratic dissent, while the violence in Delhi exposed the fragility of communal harmony. The panic over documentation highlights the everyday consequences of policies that make citizenship contingent on paperwork. Scholars such as Niraja Gopal Jayal have rightly described the CAA as the gravest threat to India’s self-definition as a nation. As The Hindu, BBC News, Indian Express, The Telegraph and other outlets have reported, the law’s selective humanitarianism, its conjunction with the NRC and NPR, and its broader political context raise serious questions about the future of Indian democracy. Whether India can reconcile these tensions and reaffirm its commitment to secularism and equality will determine the trajectory of its democratic experiment in the years to come.