After videos that went viral of a violent lynching of a Muslim man, Makarand Muhammad of Astia village in Odisha’s Balasore district, three suspects were reportedly arrested for lynching the 33-year-old. Before that, a video of social media, of the victim being asked to chant a religious slogan and being assaulted had emerged the previous day, Wednesday, January 7. The victim, Sheikh Makarand Muhammad of Astia village, was reportedly a helper in a pickup van that was waylaid for ferrying cattle. He was attacked with sharp weapons and pipes, cops quoting the man’s brother said. The viral video, alleged to be that of the incident, shows the group assaulting Mohammed with pipes and forcing him to shout “Jai Shri Ram” and “Gau Mata Ki Jai”. Despite his compliance with this violent aggression, the mob did not stop the beating.

At the outset, The Telegraph and New Indian Express reported, a group of cow vigilantes tried to stop the van Mohammed was in. The pick-up van travelling from the Jayadeva Kasba side, overturned on the outskirts of a town. While the driver of the van escaped, Mohammed was caught by the mob, The Telegraph reported.

Later though the police took Mohammed to hospital, but on Thursday, he succumbed to injuries he had suffered during the attack.

The police have registered a case under a section of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita that pertains to lynching by a group motivated by prejudice based on religion, race or caste. Mohammed’s brother. This is the second FIR in the case. Sk Jitendar Mahammad, had filed a police complaint and named five persons as suspects. In his statement, he alleged that five men had intercepted the van and assaulted his brother with deadly weapons. He further stated that although a police patrol vehicle reached the spot and shifted Mahammad to the Balasore District Headquarters Hospital, he died during treatment. Based on the second complaint, police booked five accused under Section 103(2) of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), which pertains to punishment for murder committed by a mob.

The Odisha police reportedly initially registered a first FIR based on a complaint related to the pickup van accident. According to this FIR, the vehicle, allegedly being driven rashly, lost balance and overturned on the roadside. It stated that by the time police reached the spot, the driver had already been shifted to a hospital and a cow was found at the site.

“The cow was seized and brought to the Maa Bharati Goshala, and the pickup vehicle was brought to the police station. The complainant submitted a written report for taking legal action against the owner and driver of the pickup van,” the first FIR noted.

Rabi Behera, the head of the Odisha Milk Farmers’ Association, was quoted as saying by The Telegraph that the activities of cow vigilantes had increased since the Bharatiya Janata Party government led by Mohan Majhi was elected to power in the state in June 2024. “The government must ensure stern action in such cases,” Behera said.

It is to be seen if any outcome comes of the final investigations, especially with relation to the mob violence and murder. Odisha has seen a spate of attacks on Dalits, Christians and Muslims over the past two years.

Related:

India tops among countries at risk of mass crimes, atrocities, US Holocaust Museum warns

Sharp spike in hate, minorities the target, hate is new normal: India Hate Lab Report 2025

Rituals of Fear, Politics of Hate: How AHP’s national network rewrote the boundaries of democracy and citizenship

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Reports by Zee News and others state that these series of violent incidents against Muslim hawkers and workers in Bihar has caused deep fear and anger, with families saying that poor members of the community are being targeted on mere suspicion, abused in public, and attacked without protection. Fresh cases from Katihar, Saharsa and Madhubani show a pattern where daily wage earners and small vendors were beaten, robbed, shot, or killed, while their families are now struggling for justice.

According to media reports, in Katihar district, a young Muslim utensil seller was thrashed after being abused as “Bangladeshi” and also robbed of his hard-earned money. In Saharsa, a biscuit seller was shot after a robbery attempt. In Madhubani, a Muslim youth died after being beaten by a group of people, with his family alleging mob lynching, even as police claim it was a road accident.

The most grievous assault and murder case has come from Madhubani district, where Mohammad Qayoom, a young Muslim man from Haithiwali village, died after being beaten in Pattitol village under Bhairabsthan police station. According to his family and relatives, Qayoom and two friends had gone to buy gutkha from a shop on a motorbike. An argument broke out with the shopkeeper. Soon after, several people gathered and attacked Qayoom.

Police are reported to have taken him to hospital, where doctors declared him dead. While police have suggested it was a road accident, Qayoom’s family strongly rejects this claim. “This was not an accident. He was beaten by many people. His body had injury marks,” a grieving family member said. “Why is the truth being hidden?” Community members say the family fears that the case may be weakened if it is treated as an accident rather than a lynching.

Seen together all these hate crimes have raised serious questions about the security and safety of daily wage earners –hawkers and labourers –in BJP-ruled Bihar, many of whom depend on daily sales to survive.

While the Katihar incident took place on January 11 in the Pothia police station area and the victim, Akmal Rehman, a resident of Simaria Chowk under Korha police station, had gone to Chakla village in Sameli block to sell utensils.  According to victim, Rehman, who spoke to the media, two local youths stopped him, abused him, and accused him of being Bangladeshi. When women who were buying utensils objected, the attackers threatened them as well.

“They started abusing me and saying I was Bangladeshi. When the women spoke up, they got angry and hit me with sticks,” Rehman said from his hospital bed.

The assailants allegedly hit him on the head with a stick. After he fell unconscious, they took ₹12,000 from his shirt pocket and fled. Rehman was admitted to Korha Community Health Centre and is said to be in stable condition. While a written complaint has been submitted to Pothia police station and the Sub-Divisional Police Officer. Police questioning of villagers and women buyers led to the identification of the accused as Chuiya Mandal, son of Patal Mandal, and another local resident of Chakla village.

Sub-Divisional Police Officer (Sadar-2) Ranjan Kumar Singh said, “At first look, this appears to be a robbery case. Villagers have told us that the accused are known for attacking hawkers. We are investigating and action will be taken.”

Relatives and family members, however, say the attack was also driven by hate and fear created around Muslim identity. “My son went to sell utensils, not to fight. Calling him Bangladeshi was an excuse to beat and loot him,” a relative said. In another disturbing case, criminals in Saharsa targeted a Muslim biscuit seller, Mohammad Mujahid. According to police and family sources, Mujahid was robbed and then shot by miscreants. He was rushed to hospital in a critical condition and remains under treatment. Doctors have confirmed that the bullet caused serious injury.

Several locals told media reporters that small Muslim vendors are easy targets because they carry cash and have no protection. The incident has created fear among other hawkers, many of whom have stopped working after dark. Police have said they are searching for the attackers, but no arrests have been announced so far.

Human rights activists and local residents say these incidents show how Muslim hawkers and workers are being treated as suspects instead of citizens under the newly elected administration. “Poor Muslims who sell utensils, biscuits, or small items are being attacked on suspicion alone. This is not law and order, this is failure,” said a local social worker in Katihar. Families of the victims have demanded fair investigation, strict action against the accused, and protection for hawkers who move village to village to earn a living.

As cases pile up, pressure is growing on the Bihar administration to act firmly and restore confidence among Muslim communities who say they feel unsafe even while doing honest work.

Related:

Bihar News: कटिहार में मुस्लिम फेरीवाले से मारपीट; मधुबनी में मॉब लिंचिंग,सहरसा में मारी गोली!

The post Bihar under BJP: Hate attacks against Muslims spiral, one dies appeared first on SabrangIndia.

India was never built on bulldozers. It was built on pluralism, dignity, and equal citizenship.

First, a medical college in Jammu was shut down because Muslim students got admission to MBBS on merit.

Now, a school in Baitul district of Madhya Pradesh has been bulldozed simply because it was built by a Muslim, ON HIS OWN LAND, WITH HIS OWN MONEY, to educate Dalit and Tribal… pic.twitter.com/X65w2Sa1SO

— Gaurav Pandhi (@GauravPandhi) January 15, 2026

Meanwhile the Indian Express  reported that a private school built to educate children from nursery to Class 8 in Madhya Pradesh’s Betul district became the target of a kind of prejudicial politics by the administration when, after rumours falsely branding it as an unauthorised madrasa led to its partial demolition, officials told the newspaper on January 14, Wednesday.

Abdul Naeem, a local resident who had reportedly poured nearly Rs 20 lakh of borrowed money and family savings into the construction, watched portions of his “educational dream” turn to rubble on the evening of January 13 as the dreaded JCB/earthmovers unilaterally brought down the walls and a front shed under administrative orders. No notice, no chance to explain was given to the private owner of the building on private land raising serious questions of the lawfulness or constitutionality of the perverse action.

Reports state that for several years, Naeem had envisioned a nursery-to-Class 8 school for children in Dhaba village and surrounding tribal hamlets, where families often send their children miles away for decent education. He persisted and thereafter secured commercial land diversion, obtained a panchayat NOC, and on December 30 filed his formal application with the School Education Department, submitting all requisite land documents.

“I had decided to construct the school on my private land so that my village can progress and some people can study. Senior officials claimed that we were doing wrong things here,” Naeem said. Even when construction was progressing smoothly when, just three days of viciously circulated rumours led to the brazen action, the demolition. The rumours circulating stated false that a madrasa was being built in the area. Even construction of a Madrasa is in no way a prohibited act!! An anguished Naeem said, “ “This is a village with only three Muslim families. How would a madrasa even function here? And the building wasn’t even complete — no classes, no students,” Naeem said.

Chronology

Last Sunday, January 11, the Gram Panchayat issued a notice ordering Naeem to demolish the structure himself, citing lack of permission. When he rushed to the panchayat office to submit a formal response, he says officials refused to accept his application and told him to return later. Without giving him any opportunity to be heard, two days later, on January 13, as Naeem and a group of concerned villagers travelled to the district collectorate to meet the Collector and seek clarity, the administration moved in. A JCB machine, flanked by heavy police presence, arrived at the site in Dhaba. By dusk, a portion of the school building and the front shed had been razed.

Despite being a public servant answerable to the rule of law and Constitution, Sub-Divisional Magistrate Ajit Maravi defended the action, saying it followed a complaint from the gram panchayat alleging encroachment and rule violations. “A verification found that part of the construction fell under encroachment. Only the illegal portion has been removed, not the entire building,” Maravi said, adding that all mandatory permissions had not been obtained. Naeem strongly disputes this. “I had the panchayat NOC. I had applied for school approval. If there was any mistake in paperwork, I was ready to pay whatever fine the government demanded.”

The Video may be seen here

Related:

Sharp spike in hate, minorities the target, hate is new normal: India Hate Lab Report 2025

Rituals of Fear, Politics of Hate: How AHP’s national network rewrote the boundaries of democracy and citizenship

India tops among countries at risk of mass crimes, atrocities, US Holocaust Museum warns

The post Hate Crime: Abdul Naeem’s school built with private money on his land demolished by bulldozers in Madhya Pradesh appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Resurrecting the outlook of Father Stan Swamy and Prof. G. N. Saibaba, Whither Human Rights in India is both a chronicle of resistance and a call to reshape the future of democracy and human dignity.

Reviews highlight it as imperative for understanding the struggles of minorities, the role of activist scholars (like contributors Harsh Mander, Teesta Setalvad), and the impact of laws like the UAPA on activists.

It is an illustrative and lucid anthology that provides a panoramic view and an unwavering critical analysis of the aggravating crisis in human rights in India, offering profound research on systemic failures and the ongoing fight for justice.

Principally, the book is a comprehensive exploration of how the devastation of human rights over the parts decade are not just a continuation of past patterns but symbolise a crucial departure or rupture, manifesting a new fascist paradigm which will make it an arduous task for future generation s to stand up against to restore past rights.

The essays trace the historical and ideological roots of India’s human rights evolution. They explore how colonial past and constitutional ideals grossly contradict current realities. Critiques analyse the rise of majoritarian politics, state violence, and impunity, especially against minorities.

The book scrutinizes the judiciary, hate speech, “bulldozer justice,” and development models. Features contributions from leading voices like Teesta Setalvad, Harsh Mander, Gautam Navlakha, and Kalpana Kannabiran.

The book addresses the persecution of activists (like the book’s editor, Anand Teltumbde under laws like the UAPA.

In a most illustrative and congeal manner the chapters of the book encompass the unprecedented destruction of human rights during the tyranny of BJP rule.

The first part includes seven papers that give a clear theoretical cognitive on vital spheres lie state violence, impunity, ‘Urban Naxal narrative, the hate speech epidemic persecution engineered by the constitutional executive, controversial supreme court rulings, growing inequality, and the superstructure of New India promoted by BJP, the Gujarat model and the ‘bulldozer justice.’

The second part features nine papers, documenting violations on minority communities like Muslims and Christians.

Introduction by Author

Teltumbde gives a most comprehensive introduction where he explores the evolution of human rights in India from the Colonial days of the British rule, linking it with the rise of British liberalism. He examined the contradictions of British imperialism with liberalism as well as the percolating of liberal ideas and catalysed social reforms that addressed oppressive practices. He chronicled the events that orchestrated the wave of human rights in the Freedom struggle and why World War 2 became a turning point in the global recognition of human rights, with creation of United Nations. Teltumbde has appraised the Indian Constitution of 1950 that secured important rights, praising India’s dedication to preserving human rights in that era.

Pertinent and positive that Tetumbde exposes the glaring loopholes in late prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru’s policies, who he described as fostering caste discrimination as well as inequality to engineer a largely undemocratic social order, promoting even Preventive Detention and toppling the elected government of Sheikh Abdula h in Kashmir and the Elected Communist party in Kerala.

Anand makes an intensive exploration of the gradual deterioration of human rights in periods like Indo-China War, Emergency, and events under the Congress regimes that were the precursor-sponsored rise of BJP neo-fascism was bitterly critical of the regimes of Indira Gandhi and Rajiv Gandhi, supressing workers and student movements. He scrutinized how the 1991 economic reforms although boosted private enterprise and consumer freedom, escalated economic equality, displaced large populations and marginalised the poor due to privatisation, and linked those aberrations with informalisation of labour and commercialisation of services like healthcare and education that engineered a new era of human rights violations.

Teltumbde recounted the Babri Masjid demolition orchestrating communal polarisation and widespread violence and the transition to the 202 Gujarat agenda, with the gruesome Godhra carnage. In the main Teltumbde navigated how in essence the state’s actions stood in stark contrast to the lofty ideals of the constitution.

Anand finally explored and evaluated the making and fabric of fascism in India under Narendra Modi He reflected the role played by the media. He elaborated how Modi regime viewed civil society as an enemy, mercilessly framing activists and dissenters as threats to national security. Teltumde chronicled events symbolising the multidimensional assault on human rights, like Pulwama action, Citizenship amendment act, abrogating article 370 in Kashmir, criminalising human rights organisations, extensive use of colonial era laws like UPA.etc.

In his conclusion of the introduction, he diagnoses a return to the ancient Brahmanical order, stripping al human rights. He expresses fear of the silence and indifference of the Indian public on Modi’s regime and relentless propaganda that conceal the truth.

Chapters in the Volume

Kalpana Kannabiran examines how state actions over seven decades have reinforced impunity and aggression.

Ajay Gudavarthy and G Vijay navigate targeting of activists as anti-Hindu and terrorist to supress resistance of civil society.

Mihir Desai explores the Supreme Court’s failures to safeguard constitutional rights over the lats decade.

Subbhas Gatade draws similarities of the bulldozing of Muslim homes with Israeli demolitions in Gaza.

Teesta Setalvad diagnoses the reactionary character of the ‘Gujarat Model’, evaluating it as facade to engineer corporate welfare and communal polarisation.

Gautam Navlakaha recollects life serving a sentence as an undertrial prisoner, revealing how special laws are designed to undermine the principle of innocence until proven guilty, denying bail to prisoners making them languish for years.

Harsh Mander touches on the escalation of hate speech, vilifying Muslims as traitors.

Aakar Patel explores the persecution of Muslims, tracing it to the ideological roots of the BJP, describing Modi’s regime as one mercilessly promoting nationalism.

Vineeth Srivastav characterises Modi’s regime as fascist, which fuses rhetoric nationalism, religious identity and anti-elitism to trigger Hindu nationalism. He lucidly analyses Fascist underpinnings exploring how the cult of Modi, the normalisation of Hindu nationalism, the mockery of constitutional values, the power of propaganda, the dominance of mob mentality, the revival of religious myths, as national narratives and ‘bulldozer justice’, are a testament to New India’s transformation into a fascist society. This new India’s characterised by a fascist revival of a mythic past as well as a dynamic relationship of the state, corporate interests and highly mediated cultural nationalism, bolstering ultra-nationalism with crony capitalism.

Anand Teltumbde investigates the organised erosion of Dalit rights, in the backdrop of the marinization of constitutional protection.

Vernon Gonzalves chronicles the systematic extinguishing of prisoners’ rights under Modi.

Lancy Lobo describes the Violence unleashed on Christians, with anti-conversion laws enforced to attack on Christians.

Irfan Engineer covers the escalating violence and discrimination of Muslims under Modi’s rule.

Mahruk Edenwala exposes the failure of child protection laws, particularly in aftermath of NRC.

Bittu KR analyses the restriction on rights of the LGBTQIA for living freely and equally.

(The author is a freelance journalist)

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Ritwik Ghatak transcended realms unexplored to reinvent art of Indian revolutionary film making

“The Cell and the Soul: A Prison Memoir” by Anand Teltumbde stands as one of the most powerful indictments of Indian democracy

Iconoclast: Path breaking biography of BR Ambedkar projects his human essence

The post Imperative for Understanding Evolution of Human Rights Paradigm: Whither Human Rights in India appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The India Hate Lab (IHL) has documented 1,318 verified in-person hate speech events targeting religious minorities across India in 2025, spanning 21 states, 1 Union Territory, and the National Capital Territory of Delhi. That is nearly four hate speech events every day. Compared to 2024, this reflects a 13% increase, and compared to 2023, a 97% increase from the 668 incidents recorded then.

The findings below have been drawn from India Hate Lab’s 2025 report and it has published key findings.

But the most disturbing insight is not only the rise in numbers. It is the pattern the numbers reveal: hate speech is no longer confined to election campaigns or sudden flashpoints. It is beginning to resemble a routine instrument of mobilisation, used repeatedly across public gatherings—political rallies, religious processions, protest marches, and nationalist events—without consistent institutional consequence.

These are verified public events; the report does not attempt to measure private conversations or all online hate.

IHL’s introduction to the 2025 report makes a crucial point: after the “unprecedented surge” in 2024, 2025 did not mark a correction. It marked consolidation. Hate speech, the report suggests, is now operating as a round-the-clock mechanism for far-right mobilisation—less like a temporary electoral tactic, and more like a continuous mode of governance and street-level politics.

BJP-ruled states remain the main theatre for hate

One of the report’s most striking findings is geographical and political. Of the 1,318 events, 1,164 incidents (88%) occurred in states governed by the BJP, either independently or through coalition partners, as well as in BJP-administered Union Territories. This is a 25% increase from the 931 incidents recorded in BJP-ruled jurisdictions in 2024.

By contrast, the report notes that seven opposition-ruled states recorded 154 hate speech events, a 34% decrease from the 234 incidents documented in those states in 2024.

The concentration is stark. The five highest-reporting jurisdictions were: Uttar Pradesh (266), Maharashtra (193), Madhya Pradesh (172), Uttarakhand (155), and Delhi (76)—together accounting for roughly two-thirds of all incidents.

This is not simply a map of hate; it is a map of political permissiveness, where repeated public incitement appears easier to organise, safer to perform, and harder to penalise.

Muslims are targeted in 98% of events; anti-Christian hate rises sharply

IHL records that 1,289 of the 1,318 events (98%) targeted Muslims—explicitly in 1,156 cases, and alongside Christians in 133 cases. This represents a nearly 12% increase from the 1,147 instances recorded in 2024.

The report also documents a troubling rise in anti-Christian hate speech: 162 incidents (about 12% of all events), reflecting a 41% increase from the 115 anti-Christian incidents recorded in 2024. Of these, Christians were explicitly targeted in 29 cases, and targeted alongside Muslims in 133 cases.

The implication is clear: while anti-Muslim incitement remains the ideological core of this ecosystem, hate against Christians is being normalised more openly and more frequently.

How hate is built: conspiracy ‘jihads’, de–humanisation, and calls to violence

A major portion of hate speech documented in 2025 relied on conspiracy narratives. The report records 656 hate speeches—nearly half—referencing “love jihad,” “land jihad,” “population jihad,” “vote jihad,” and newer variations such as “thook (spit) jihad,” “education jihad,” and “drug jihad.”

These conspiracy frames perform a consistent political function: they translate everyday anxieties into claims of organised minority aggression, and then present majoritarian retaliation—social exclusion, boycott, and violence— as “self-defence.”

The danger is not abstract. IHL records that:

• 308 speeches (23%) contained explicit calls for violence
• 136 speeches contained direct calls to arms
• 120 speeches called for social or economic boycotts (an 8% increase from 2024)
• 276 speeches called for removal or destruction of places of worship, including mosques, shrines, and churches
• 141 speeches used dehumanising language—calling minorities “termites,” “parasites,” “insects,” “pigs,” “mad dogs,” “snake-lings,” “green snakes,” and “bloodthirsty zombies.”

When such language becomes familiar in public life, it does not remain “speech”. It becomes permission—permission to harass, exclude, attack, and deny belonging.

Dangerous speeches: Maharashtra stands out

The report notes that Maharashtra recorded the highest number of “dangerous speeches”—78 incidents, up from 64 in 2024. Nearly 40% of the state’s 193 hate speech events involved explicit calls for violence—the highest proportion recorded for any state.

Among individuals delivering the most dangerous speeches, Maharashtra minister Nitesh Rane is identified as being among the top five actors issuing calls to violence.

This matters because dangerous speech is not merely a measure of “tone”; it reflects an ecosystem where the line between political mobilisation and incitement becomes increasingly thin.

Organisers and actors: a network, not outliers

IHL identifies more than 160 organisations and informal groups as organisers or co-organisers of hate speech events in 2025. The Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP) and Bajrang Dal emerge as the most frequent organisers, linked to 289 events (22%), followed by Antarrashtriya Hindu Parishad (138 events).

The report also identifies the most prolific individual hate-speech actors in 2025:

• Uttarakhand CM Pushkar Singh Dhami: 71 speeches
• Pravin Togadia: 46 speeches
• BJP leader Ashwini Upadhyay: 35 speeches

When chief ministers and prominent leaders appear as frequent actors in such datasets, the issue stops being about “fringe” mobilisation. It becomes a question of political signalling, where the top legitimises the bottom, and the bottom operationalises the top.

April spike: processions, backlash rallies, and rapid mobilisation

The report records that April had the highest monthly spike with 158 hate speech events, coinciding with Ram Navami processions and hate rallies organised in response to the Pahalgam terror attack.

In the 16-day period between April 22 and May 7, IHL documented 98 in-person hate speech events, indicating rapid and nationwide anti-Muslim mobilisation.

The pattern is politically significant: a terror incident becomes a trigger not for measured accountability but for public rhetoric, that collapses an entire community into a suspect population.

‘Outsider’ tropes: Rohingya and ‘Bangladeshi infiltrator’ narratives

IHL records 69 hate speech events targeting Rohingya refugees, and 192 speeches invoking the “Bangladeshi infiltrator” trope, frequently used to stigmatise Bengali-origin Muslims as foreigners.

These tropes are effective because they blur the line between citizenship and suspicion, turning identity into a permanent trial—where belonging must be constantly proved and can be constantly denied.

Social media: the multiplier of public hate

A defining feature of 2025 is the speed of amplification. Videos from 1,278 of the 1,318 events were first shared or live-streamed on social media platforms.

The breakdown is telling:

• Facebook: 942 first uploads
• YouTube: 246
• Instagram: 67
• X: 23

This confirms that the “in-person” event is no longer the endpoint. A local gathering becomes national content within minutes—clipped, circulated, and rewarded by engagement. Platform policies against hate speech exist, but the report’s documentation shows how digital impunity persists in practice.

It begins with words—and survives through institutional hesitation

The democratic danger here is not only moral; it is institutional. A society can endure hateful individuals. What it cannot safely endure is predictable public incitement without predictable legal consequence.

When hate speech becomes routine, it creates two realities: one in the Constitution, and one on the streets. The first promises equality and dignity. The second teaches communities to accept humiliation, exclusion, and vulnerability as ordinary facts of life.

The IHL report does not ask whether hate exists. It records what happens when hate is allowed to become ordinary—and how quickly the ordinary can become dangerous.

If hate speech has become routine, the response must become routine too: prompt FIRs where applicable, platform enforcement, and transparent public accountability.

The report may be read here.

(The author is a lawyer and Constitutional Law Researcher based in New Delhi)

Related:

Rituals of Fear, Politics of Hate: How AHP’s national network rewrote the boundaries of democracy and citizenship

Free Speech in India 2025: What the Free Speech Collective report reveals about a year of silencing

The ‘Shastra Poojan’ Project: How the ritual of weapon worship is being recast as a tool of power and hate propaganda

The post Sharp spike in hate, minorities the target, hate is new normal: India Hate Lab Report 2025 appeared first on SabrangIndia.

While India has long witnessed episodic flashes of communal hostility or sporadic acts of vigilantism, the six-month period under study stands apart for its density, coordination, and geographic spread. Under Togadia’s polarising leadership, AHP and RBD conducted dozens of public rallies, Shastra Puja ceremonies, trishul and weapon distribution events, ideological training camps, anti-conversion protests, disruptions of minority religious gatherings, and direct interventions into interfaith and community life. The patterns revealed in these events are not incidental expressions of bigotry but components of a carefully structured ideological project that merges theology, masculinity, ritual, and violence into a coherent organisational strategy.

CJP is dedicated to finding and bringing to light instances of Hate Speech, so that the bigots propagating these venomous ideas can be unmasked and brought to justice. To learn more about our campaign against hate speech, please become a member. To support our initiatives, please donate now!

The socio-legal significance of this mobilisation lies not only in the content of the speeches or the frequency of the gatherings but in the formation of a parallel normative order—a majoritarian apparatus that increasingly shapes public life, community relations, and the distribution of violence. AHP–RBD’s activities represent the consolidation of what may be termed an infrastructural form of vigilante sovereignty. In this system, communal identity becomes the organising principle of public order; violence is reimagined as moral duty; masculinity becomes a civic ideal; and the state’s authority is supplemented—or overridden—by militant religiosity. This is not a spontaneous phenomenon. It is patterned, scripted, routinised, and embedded in organisational structures that grant it continuity, reproducibility, and diffusion.

This article examines the six-month mobilisation through a socio-legal lens, drawing from an extensive dataset of AHP–RBD events across multiple states (see attached document for a comprehensive list). By tracing thematic narratives, analysing rhetorical patterns, studying ritual practices, and observing the organisation’s interactions with state institutions—particularly the police—we demonstrate how AHP–RBD’s activities signal a dangerous reconfiguration of India’s democratic order. The mobilisation reveals the emergence of a dual authority structure: the formal, constitutional state that guarantees equality, liberty, and religious freedom, a constitutional order that is being hollowed out; and a parallel, extra-legal majoritarian sovereignty that polices interfaith intimacy, adjudicates religious legitimacy, regulates gender and sexuality, and authorises violence in the name of community protection.

The implications for constitutional democracy are profound. AHP–RBD’s activities challenge the secular and egalitarian commitments of the Constitution. More critically, they expose how these commitments are weakened not only through state action but through state inaction—through selective policing, tacit endorsement, rhetorical alignment, or the silent normalisation of extremist discourse. As hate becomes publicly permissible, minority communities experience shrinking civic space, and majoritarian aggression becomes an accepted instrument of social control.

From a social movement perspective, AHP–RBD functions as a radical flank within the wider Hindutva ecosystem. By expanding the boundaries of extreme speech and acceptable violence, it shifts the Overton window rightward and allows mainstream political actors to appear moderate while benefiting from the emotional climate generated by extremist mobilisation. From a legal standpoint, the group’s actions—ranging from hate speech and incitement to weapons handling and vigilantism—constitute repeated violations of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, the Arms Act, and fundamental constitutional rights.

This article argues that AHP–RBD’s mobilisation is not merely evidence of rising majoritarian aggression but an indication of a new mode of communal politics—one that fuses ritual, masculinity, religious symbolism, historical revisionism, and legal ambiguity into a potent political formation. It is both ideological and infrastructural, capable of generating continuity, producing cadres, shaping emotional climates, and influencing electoral behaviour. To understand its legal implications, we must move beyond individual violations and analyse the broader socio-legal transformation it represents: the gradual emergence of a parallel polity that threatens to displace constitutional democracy from within.

From VHP margins to radical extremist formation

Praveen Togadia, a trained cancer surgeon, entered the arena of Hindu nationalism through the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) and subsequently rose to –or was ordained to–become the International Working President of the Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP). This period was his political crucible. He distinguished himself through militant cultural mobilisation, most notably the organisation of ‘Trishul Deeksha’ (trident distribution) ceremonies for Bajrang Dal activists, a direct act of communal provocation and arms dissemination that often-violated state bans.

The Bajrang Dal, the original youth wing of VHP, provided the blueprint for AHP-RBD’s operational tactics. Its foundational ideology—Hindutva, Islamophobia, and a far-right position—was perfected during the Ram Janmabhoomi movement and the subsequent Gujarat pogrom of 2002, where Togadia’s influence was significant. For a previous and thorough analysis of Togadia’s antecedents and actions, see the May 2003 issue of Communalism Combat, Against the Law.[1] The Bajrang Dal legacy of violence and communal targeting, from anti-Christian attacks to ‘moral policing,’ is the exact ideological inheritance upon which the AHP-RBD is built.

The AHP-RBD is Togadia’s vehicle to claim his position as the authentic voice of uncompromising, hardline Hindutva. This background explains several features of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation:

• its rhetorical extremism, which goes beyond even the most polarising elements within mainstream Hindutva;
• its obsession with demographic fear and gender policing;
• its reliance on ritual militarisation as a means of identity formation;
• its disregard for legality and due process;
• and its strategic positioning as a radical flank to the BJP, indirectly reinforcing the latter’s political dominance.

AHP–RBD is a product of ideological intensification, organisational displacement, and the opportunities created by a political climate increasingly tolerant of majoritarian aggression. It thrives in the gaps between state authority and nationalist discourse—in the ambiguities of legal enforcement, the ambivalence of political leadership, and the anxieties of a society grappling with polarisation, insecurity, and historical grievance.

Hate as a structure- analysis of the pattern

The events analysed in this article consists of detailed descriptions of AHP–RBD events across India between April and November 2025. These events include rallies, speeches, religious ceremonies, festivals, weapons training camps, “awareness” drives, protests against minority institutions, processions, and interventions in local disputes. Each event contains descriptive information about the location, the nature of the activity, the content of speeches, the symbols deployed, the performative elements (such as tridents, swords, firearms), and the presence or absence of police.

Through this article, the events of the past six months are seen not as a collection of isolated incidents but as an aggregated structure—a corpus of political performance through which a particular vision of the nation, society, and citizenship is constructed and enacted.

Based on the data, a clear pattern emerges in the language and symbolic repertoire deployed across AHP events. Hate speech, in this context, must be understood not simply as verbal hostility but as a technique of discursive engineering—an organised method of drawing communal boundaries, allocating moral worth, identifying enemies, and legitimising forms of aggression. Across states and settings, the same tropes reappear with remarkable consistency: demographic panic, the spectre of “love jihad,” historical grievance, territorial loss, and civilisational threat. These are not spontaneous utterances but components of a deliberate ideological script crafted to evoke fear, shame, pride, and defensive anger in the audience.

Equally revealing is the ritualised dimension of the mobilisation. Ceremonies such as Shastra Puja, Trishul Deeksha, communal sword-blessing, or the devotional display of firearms function as much more than cultural performances. They represent attempts to sacralise violence by embedding it directly into religious and moral practice. When weapons are blessed, displayed, and circulated as objects of collective reverence, the boundary between devotion and aggression collapses. Drawing from anthropological work on ritual and theories of political religion, this analysis reads such events as performative acts that create a moral obligation toward vigilantism. They invite participants to imagine themselves not merely as believers but as defenders, making violence appear righteous and necessary.

The data also reveals how AHP–RBD positions itself as a source of extra-legal authority. In numerous instances, cadres assume functions associated with policing: intervening in interfaith relationships, raiding churches or prayer meetings, detaining individuals accused of “suspicious” behaviour, or monitoring localities under the guise of protection. Viewed through socio-legal theory, these actions are not isolated encroachments but indicators of a parallel governance structure. AHP effectively performs sovereign functions—identifying threats, enforcing discipline, and adjudicating moral transgressions—thus competing with the state’s monopoly over lawful coercion. Vigilantism here becomes a mode of rule, not an aberration.

Placed against constitutional and statutory frameworks, the significance of this pattern becomes sharper. The organisation’s rhetoric raises questions under hate-speech jurisprudence; its weaponised rituals potentially violate the Arms Act; its interventions into religious practice implicate Articles 25 and 26; and its targeting of Muslim and Christian communities challenges the equality guarantees of Articles 14 and 15. The concern is not the presence of individual violations but the cumulative erosion of constitutional norms they represent. As such practices become normalised, the protective architecture of fundamental rights weakens, and the boundaries between state authority and majoritarian desire blur.

Seen through the lens of social movement theory, this mobilisation aligns with what many term a radical flank: an extremist wing of a broader ideological ecosystem that shifts public norms by expanding the limits of permissible discourse. AHP’s open hostility, explicit calls for social segregation, and sacralised vigilantism create a climate in which mainstream political actors appear moderate even as they move closer to majoritarian positions. The dataset illustrates how such fringe rhetoric does not remain at the edges but gradually migrates toward the centre of political common sense, fuelling polarisation and recalibrating the moral thresholds of democratic life.

The analysis therefore treats hate not as a series of discrete incidents but as a structure—an enduring architecture embedded in speech, ritual, space, and authority. Mobilisation is read as a continuous process of meaning-making, one that is inseparable from legality, identity, and the distribution of state power. Recurrent performances of communal hostility gradually establish new baselines for what counts as acceptable public behaviour, shifting social norms long before laws change. At the same time, the analysis foregrounds how extra-legal actors strategically exploit legal ambiguities and enforcement gaps to assert control over public space, intimate life, religious practice, and everyday social relations. In this view, hate operates both as discourse and governance, reshaping the moral and constitutional landscape from below.

1. Majoritarianism, vigilante sovereignty, and the production of fear

To understand AHP–RBD’s mobilisation based on the data, the organisation must be placed within three key theoretical perspectives: majoritarian nationalism, vigilante sovereignty, and the politics of fear. Majoritarian nationalism describes systems where one religious or ethnic community is treated as the true owner of the nation, while minorities are viewed as conditional members or potential threats. This framework aligns closely with AHP–RBD’s speeches, which repeatedly frame India as a Hindu nation and portray Muslims and Christians as outsiders who must be monitored or restrained.

The idea of vigilante sovereignty helps explain how non-state groups act like extensions of the state. Such groups enforce moral rules, police communities, intervene in personal relationships, and sometimes use or threaten violence. AHP–RBD’s raids, detentions, and street-level interventions fit this pattern, challenging the state’s exclusive right to use force and maintain public order.

The politics of fear shows how movements rely on fear not only as an emotion but as a tool of mobilisation. By invoking demographic threats, “love jihad,” religious conversion conspiracies, and historic betrayals, AHP–RBD creates an atmosphere of danger that makes aggressive action seem justified. Fear becomes the glue that binds supporters together and the justification for exceptional attitudes and behaviours.

In a one-sided political vacuum where the Opposition is yet to come up with a convincing, consistent and effective response to all the hyper claims made in hate speeches unleashed –be it on “demographic fear”, the “communal regulation of intimacy”, “ritual militarisation” and strong, street-level enforcement(s) of the rule of law, this vigilantism goes unchecked.

2. The politics of demographic fear

Demographic fear sits at the heart of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation strategy. Across the six-month dataset, leaders repeatedly promote the idea that Hindus are on the verge of becoming a minority and that Muslims are growing in number with deliberate, strategic intent. This narrative is presented as unquestionable fact. It relies less on evidence and more on repetition, emotion, and imagery: Muslims are described as multiplying rapidly, expanding territorially, organising politically, and threatening the very survival of the nation.

Although demographic anxiety has long existed within Hindu nationalist thought, AHP–RBD deploys it with unusual intensity and uniformity. Whether speaking in Ahmedabad, rural Maharashtra, small towns in Uttar Pradesh, or border districts in Assam, leaders use almost the same script: Hindus are shrinking; Muslims are taking over land; demographic imbalance will end Hindu civilisation; Muslim “vote banks” control politics; and Hindu women face imminent danger. The consistency of this message across regions reveals a coordinated ideological project rather than scattered local sentiment.

Viewed through a socio-legal lens, demographic fear acts as a political tool. It creates a sense of permanent emergency, shaping the present through imagined threats from the future. In this atmosphere, constitutional norms appear inadequate. Hate speech is reframed as a “warning,” weapons training becomes “protection,” and vigilantism is cast as “preventive action.” Even constitutional equality is portrayed as a risk Hindus can no longer afford.

Demographic fear also becomes a way of mapping territory. Several speeches describe Muslim-majority areas as “occupied zones,” “mini-Pakistans,” or “Bangladeshi territories.” This transforms ordinary patterns of residence or work into symbols of invasion. A Muslim neighbourhood becomes hostile territory; daily life becomes evidence of encroachment.

Socially, demographic fear collapses individuals into a threatening collective. A Muslim child becomes a sign of “population jihad,” a Muslim family becomes a plan of conquest, and a Muslim locality becomes a base of expansion. This removes any possibility of seeing Muslims as citizens or neighbours. They are recast as demographic threats, not people. Such dehumanisation makes discriminatory acts or violence appear justified.

At the same time, demographic fear reshapes Hindu identity. It portrays Hindus as vulnerable and under siege, encourages men to adopt a protector role, and frames women as symbols of community honour. This narrative helps unify diverse Hindu groups around a shared sense of danger and duty. In speech after speech, AHP leaders ask Hindus to “wake up,” “stay alert,” and “prepare for struggle.” Fear becomes a tool for building collective identity.

Legally, demographic fear is not just misleading—it is harmful. It fuels discrimination, normalises exclusion, and creates justification for violence. Indian constitutional law, especially in hate speech cases such as Pravasi Bhalai Sangathan (2014) and Amish Devgan (2020), makes clear that speech portraying an entire community as dangerous violates equality, dignity, and public order. Yet at many AHP–RBD events, police and local authorities stand by, signalling that such rhetoric is tolerated. This gap between constitutional protection and on-ground practice allows demographic fear to circulate freely and take root in public life.

In the end, demographic fear is the foundation on which AHP–RBD’s entire mobilisation rests. It casts Muslims as permanent adversaries, turns reproduction into a battleground, and provides justification for weapons rituals, gender policing, vigilantism, and calls for segregation or violence. Without demographic fear, much of AHP’s narrative loses force. With it, almost any action becomes thinkable.

3. Gender, sexuality, and the communal regulation of intimacy

Gender and sexuality lie at the centre of AHP–RBD’s ideological project. Although the organisation claims to defend “Hindu dharma” and “protect Hindu women,” its speeches reveal a deeply patriarchal, hyper-masculine, and communal vision in which women’s bodies and choices are controlled in the name of community honour. The conspiracy theory of “love jihad”—the claim that Muslim men intentionally form relationships with Hindu women to convert them and weaken Hindu society—functions as the main tool for this control.

Nearly half the events in the data refer directly to “love jihad.” This is not accidental. It reflects a worldview in which gender becomes the most important site of communal conflict. Hindu women are portrayed as innocent, gullible, and easily manipulated. Muslim men are cast as predatory, cunning, and hypersexual. This binary has no factual basis, but it is designed to justify constant vigilance, suspicion, and hostility.

Within AHP–RBD’s discourse, the Hindu woman is not treated as an autonomous individual with constitutional rights. Instead, she is imagined as the carrier of Hindu lineage and the symbol of community purity. Her body becomes communal property; her relationships are judged through the lens of demographic threat. Any interfaith relationship is interpreted as coercive by default. By denying Hindu women agency, the organisation turns them into objects of protection rather than subjects of choice.

This framework produces three major socio-legal consequences.

• First, it legitimises the surveillance of women. AHP–RBD members monitor public spaces—markets, colleges, workplaces—to watch interactions between Hindu women and Muslim men. Their presence creates an environment of constant scrutiny. Hindu women become boundary markers rather than free citizens, their mobility and friendships policed in the name of protection.

• Second, it encourages violence against Muslim men. In many speeches, Muslim men are presented as inherent threats, and audiences are urged to confront, punish, or even kill them. Such rhetoric directly violates the BNS and constitutional guarantees of equality and personal liberty. Yet these statements are made openly, often with police present, signalling that communal violence in the name of gender protection is tolerated.

• Third, this discourse undermines constitutional rights. The Supreme Court in Hadiya affirmed that adults are free to choose their partners. Judgments in Shafin Jahan, Navtej Johar, and Puttaswamy recognise autonomy, dignity, and privacy as core constitutional values. AHP–RBD’s mobilisation, however, replaces individual autonomy with communal control. Interfaith relationships are reframed as conspiracies, and constitutional protections are cast as threats to Hindu survival.

Sociologically, this gendered narrative binds Hindu men together through a shared sense of masculine duty. The call to protect Hindu women becomes a mechanism for creating solidarity among Hindu men. Masculinity is defined in militarised terms—strength, vigilance, and readiness for confrontation. Rituals such as weapon worship or trishul distribution reinforce this ideal. In effect, gender becomes a tool for producing a community of men primed for conflict.

“Love jihad” is therefore not only a myth or a political slogan. It is a central organising principle of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation. It regulates women’s autonomy, fuels hostility against Muslim men, strengthens group identity, and provides moral justification for vigilante action. It transforms everyday intimacy into a battleground and reimagines private relationships as matters of communal survival.

4. Ritual militarisation and the sacralisation of violence

One of the most notable features of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation is the central role of ritual in normalising violence. The dataset records numerous events involving Shastra Puja (weapon worship), Trishul Deeksha (the distribution of tridents), firearm training sessions, self-defence workshops, and public displays of swords, guns, and tridents. These are not decorative additions to political gatherings. They form the core of the organisation’s ideological strategy.

Shastra Puja, traditionally a religious ritual, is given a distinctly political meaning in AHP–RBD events. In Togadia’s speeches, weapons are celebrated not for their symbolism but for their function: the ability to defend the Hindu community through force. Swords stand for courage, tridents for purity, and guns for preparedness. When weapons are blessed, violence itself is blessed. The ritual frame offers moral cover for aggression, allowing political intent to hide behind religious practice.

Trishul Deeksha takes this further. Distributing tridents to young men is presented as a religious initiation, but it effectively creates a pool of recruits marked as “defenders of Dharma.” These tridents act as identity symbols—visible signs of readiness for confrontation. Such initiation rituals resemble practices used by militant groups in other contexts, where symbolic objects bind participants emotionally to the idea of collective struggle.

The presence of firearm training raises serious legal concerns. Under the Arms Act, handling or training with weapons requires strict permissions. Yet AHP–RBD frequently holds such sessions in public, often without police objection. Firearm training serves two purposes: it teaches practical skills and signals that the organisation sees itself as a force parallel to the state. It implies that AHP–RBD does not accept the state’s monopoly over violence.

From a sociological perspective, these rituals work to create a sense of community built around aggression. They produce male-dominated spaces where violence is sanctified, celebrated, and practiced. Religious devotion merges with militant nationalism, creating what scholars call a “sacralised polity”—a political identity shaped through ritualised displays of strength and readiness for conflict.

The socio-legal implications are far-reaching. Ritual militarisation dissolves boundaries between religion and politics, symbolism and force, legality and illegality. It creates a community that believes it has a moral right—perhaps even an obligation—to act outside the law. Weapons become sacred objects, violence becomes a communal act, and vigilantism becomes a perceived duty. In doing so, these rituals undermine the fundamental principle that only the state may use legitimate force, eroding a key pillar of constitutional democracy.

5. Territorial mythology, historical revisionism, and the spatialisation of hate

A key feature of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation is the way it reimagines geography and history through a communal lens. The organisation does not limit itself to present-day political disputes; it draws from a broad mix of mythologised history, civilisational claims, and territorial grievance. This revisionism is not merely cultural. It is a strategic attempt to redefine who belongs to the nation, who owns its land, and who has moral authority over its public and sacred spaces. Claims that global religious sites—Mecca, Medina, the Vatican—were once Hindu temples are historically baseless, but they serve an ideological purpose. They create a narrative in which Hindu civilisation is the original owner of sacred geography, and Islam and Christianity are portrayed as late, intrusive forces that took what was not theirs.

This worldview forms the core of AHP’s political theology. Hinduism is framed as the world’s first civilisation and the rightful custodian of global sacred space. Muslims and Christians are described as foreign arrivals, civilisational disturbers, and historical invaders. This racialised framing attempts to detach Indian Muslims and Christians from national belonging itself. If even Mecca is described as stolen Hindu territory, the implication is clear: if global Islamic spaces are illegitimate, then Indian Muslims’ connection to India is even more fragile.

These ideas have concrete socio-legal effects. Outlandish territorial claims become the basis for communal mobilisation. The demand to “reclaim” Kashi or Mathura is not an isolated argument about specific temples; it rests on a broader theory that all Muslim religious structures were built on destroyed Hindu sites. Mosques are reframed as symbols of past defeat. Muslim presence becomes a reminder of humiliation. Violence, in this worldview, becomes not aggression but restitution—an attempt to “correct history.”

This spatial politics is reinforced by emotionally charged language. Muslims are frequently described as “occupiers,” “encroachers,” “land-grabbers,” “Bangladeshis,” or “jihadi settlers.” These labels turn ordinary residential areas into imagined battlegrounds. Citizenship becomes a form of occupancy, always at risk of being revoked. In cities like Ahmedabad and Vadodara, leaders claim that Muslim-majority areas function as “no-go zones,” suggesting that the state has lost control over its own territory. Even though such claims lack factual basis, they generate territorial fear—a sense that Hindus are losing physical ground within their own homeland.

AHP’s territorial imagination therefore operates as a project of remaking India’s social geography. It asserts Hindu ownership over land, temples, cultural memory, and even urban space. It calls for active “reclaiming,” often framed as a religious duty. Ayodhya is invoked repeatedly as proof that reclamation is both possible and necessary; from this starting point, Kashi, Mathura, and numerous other sites are presented as the next steps in a never-ending civilisational project. The logic then extends beyond religious sites to entire regions. Districts in Assam, border areas in West Bengal, and parts of Uttar Pradesh or Karnataka are portrayed as “Hindu land under occupation.”

This mythologised re-territorialisation creates an atmosphere where violence becomes spatially authorised. Areas labelled as “occupied” become legitimate targets. Local Muslim communities are cast as heirs of historical invaders. Calls for “ghar wapsi” (re-conversion) sit alongside calls for the physical return of land and shrines. Space itself becomes a tool for asserting dominance.

Constitutionally, this spatialised rhetoric cuts at the heart of India’s secular framework. It undermines equal citizenship, freedom of religion, and the principle that every person belongs to the nation regardless of ancestry or historical claims. The Constitution does not recognise civilisational ownership as a basis for citizenship or territorial rights. Yet AHP’s vision creates precisely this hierarchy, reducing minorities to conditional members whose belonging is always in question.

By turning geography into ideology and history into grievance, AHP reshapes the everyday landscape of citizenship. Places where Muslims live, work, study, or pray are reframed as contested space. The symbolic “reclaiming” of Ayodhya, Kashi, and Mathura becomes a template for local domination. In this way, territorial mythology becomes a form of mobilisation, transforming public space into a site of communal assertion and fear.

6. Vigilante sovereignty and the emergence of extra-legal authority

A striking pattern across the six-month dataset is AHP–RBD’s routine assumption of policing powers in public life. The organisation intervenes in interfaith relationships, raids Christian prayer meetings, stops or disrupts mosque construction, questions Muslim men in public spaces, conducts anti-conversion patrols, and targets activities it labels as threats to “Hindu interests.” These are not isolated excesses. Together, they form a consistent system of vigilante sovereignty—where a non-state group exercises coercive authority normally held by the state. The singular impunity enjoyed by them is reflected in the wilful inaction of the police and administration wherever such rallies are/may be held.

Vigilante sovereignty describes situations in which the state’s exclusive control over violence weakens, and ideological groups step in to enforce their own moral and communal rules. AHP–RBD does not simply break the law; it creates an alternative legal order grounded in majoritarian claims rather than constitutional principles. Under this order, minorities are treated as security risks, women’s choices are subject to policing, and dissent becomes dangerous.

This vigilante order is maintained through three connected practices: surveillance, intervention, and punishment.

• Surveillance involves monitoring interfaith couples, tracking alleged conversions, observing the building or renovation of mosques, keeping watch on Muslim-owned businesses, and noting “suspicious” gatherings. This is not state surveillance—it is community surveillance. AHP cadres patrol local areas, monitor social media, gather information through informal networks, and maintain lists of individuals labelled as threats. Public safety is redefined to mean Hindu security; the presence of Muslims is framed as danger.
• Intervention is the next step. AHP–RBD members frequently enter private or semi-private spaces—homes, shops, churches, prayer halls, schools—to stop activities they see as harmful. These interventions often occur in the presence of police. In many events, police officers accompany AHP cadres when confronting interfaith couples or disrupting prayer meetings. The police rarely intervene to protect constitutional rights. This signals a breakdown of state neutrality and a sharing of authority between state and vigilante actors.
• Punishment is the final mechanism. Punishment may take the form of threats, public shaming, calls for economic boycotts, harassment, or physical assault. In several speeches, AHP leaders openly call for killing Muslim men accused of forming relationships with Hindu women. Such statements amount to direct criminal incitement, yet legal action is rare or non-existent. This impunity reinforces the belief that AHP is entitled to enforce its own version of justice.

The growth of vigilante sovereignty signals a larger transformation in India’s political culture: the emergence of a dual legal order. One order is constitutional, grounded in equality, dignity, personal liberty, and religious freedom. The other is majoritarian, grounded in identity, hierarchy, and demographic fear. AHP–RBD’s activities show that in many contexts, the majoritarian order is beginning to overshadow the constitutional one.

This shift carries serious jurisprudential consequences. The Constitution assumes that the state alone protects rights and wields legitimate force. When non-state actors take on state functions—raiding, interrogating, disciplining—without consequence, the constitutional promise collapses. What emerges is a patchwork of informal jurisdictions where constitutional rights are selectively enforced or suspended. These are not declared emergencies; they are silent, everyday suspensions made possible by police complicity, public fear, and the normalisation of hate.

This pattern is not unique to India. Similar dynamics have appeared in other democracies under strain: paramilitary groups in Colombia, extremist Buddhist groups in Myanmar, anti-Muslim vigilantes in Sri Lanka, and evangelical militias in Brazil. In each case, vigilante sovereignty grew when governments aligned themselves with majoritarian ideologies, allowing the line between state and militia to blur.

AHP–RBD’s actions place India on a comparable path. By intervening in relationships, the organisation claims control over personal freedom. By stopping prayer meetings, it claims control over religious expression. By patrolling public spaces, it claims control over visibility and movement. Through weapons training and youth mobilisation, it claims control over violence itself.

The consequences are profound. Vigilante sovereignty normalises discrimination, encourages extremism, weakens formal policing, and turns public space into a site of communal conflict. It reduces minority communities to conditional citizens whose rights depend on majoritarian approval. And it undermines constitutional remedies, because the harm is inflicted not directly by the state but by private actors operating with state tolerance.

The rise of this parallel authority may be one of the most serious threats facing India’s constitutional democracy today. It is not a temporary disruption. It is a developing system of governance—one that allocates coercive power along communal lines and embeds majoritarian dominance into everyday life.

7. The expansion of hostility toward Christians

Although Muslims remain the primary focus of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation, the dataset shows a clear and growing hostility toward Christians. This appears in speeches, protests against churches, disruptions of prayer meetings, accusations of forced conversion, and repeated rhetorical attacks on Christian institutions. The widening of the “enemy” category—from Muslims alone to Muslims and Christians together—signals a broader ideological ambition: the construction of a multi-target hate regime capable of policing all religious minorities under a single civilisational narrative.

The language used against Christians differs in content but mirrors the structure of anti-Muslim rhetoric. Muslims are portrayed as demographic threats; Christians as conversion threats. Muslims are framed as territorial and violent; Christians as deceptive and manipulative. Muslims are labelled infiltrators; Christians are labelled converters. Both sets of stereotypes reduce entire communities to singular, hostile identities serving a supposed anti-Hindu agenda.

This hostility toward Christians draws from a long-standing theme in Hindu nationalist thought. Since the colonial period, Christian missionaries have been depicted as foreign agents seeking to weaken Hindu culture through conversion. AHP–RBD revives this suspicion and blends it with contemporary anxieties about globalisation. Small prayer gatherings are described as “conversion factories,” and Christian charities are accused of hiding evangelism behind social service. Christian organisations are framed as part of a global conspiracy to destabilise India.

In multiple documented incidents, AHP members raided modest prayer meetings—often held in private homes or rented halls. These gatherings involved small groups reading scripture or singing hymns. Yet AHP cadres portrayed them as illegal conversion activities, despite any evidence. In some cases, police stood by silently or cooperated with the vigilantes. This produces a chilling effect: ordinary Christians fear harassment simply for assembling to pray.

Such acts strike at the heart of Article 25 of the Constitution, which protects the freedom to practise and profess religion. While propagation may be regulated, peaceful prayer cannot be criminalised. AHP’s interventions amount to an informal ban on Christian worship, undermining both religious freedom and equal citizenship.

At a strategic level, anti-Christian rhetoric helps AHP broaden its reach. By depicting Christians as agents of foreign powers, the organisation taps into nationalist anxieties about global influence and cultural loss. This narrative complements anti-Muslim fear: one enemy threatens demographics; the other threatens culture. Together, they create a sense of constant siege and justify continuous mobilisation. Unlike anti-Muslim mobilisation, which is often localised, anti-Christian mobilisation can be deployed even where Christians are few, giving AHP a tool for organising in diverse regions.

This has political effects as well. Christian communities often support opposition parties in states like Kerala, Goa, and parts of the Northeast. Intimidating these communities weakens their political engagement, reduces turnout, and disrupts civil society networks. Fear becomes a quiet form of electoral influence.

The hostility toward Christians is therefore not a minor extension of communal rhetoric. It reflects an attempt to define Indian identity through exclusion—to construct Hindu majoritarianism as the only legitimate form of belonging. In such a framework, constitutional rights become conditional, minority presence becomes suspect, and religious freedom exists more on paper than in daily life.

By targeting both Muslims and Christians, AHP–RBD is building a broader authoritarian cultural order. This multi-target hate regime claims the power to decide which religions are acceptable, whose practices are legitimate, and whose presence is a threat. It marks a deepening of communal authoritarianism in contemporary India—one that endangers minority rights and undermines the secular, democratic foundations of the Constitution.

The Regional Geography of Mobilisation: Spatial clusters, localised idioms, and the federal life of hate

The six-month dataset shows that AHP–RBD’s mobilisation is not uniform across India. It is spatially strategic. Events cluster in states where demographic anxieties, political incentives, and weak institutional checks come together. Each state reveals a distinct pattern of hate mobilisation, shaped by its own history, politics, and social structure.

Uttar Pradesh is the epicentre. The volume and aggression of AHP–RBD events are highest here. UP’s large Muslim population, history of communal violence, and increasingly majoritarian state machinery create a permissive environment. Leaders use UP platforms to deliver the most direct threats—calling for violence, monitoring interfaith couples, and enforcing social boycotts. Police often stand alongside AHP speakers, giving hate speech an aura of official sanction. In UP, the line between state power and vigilante action is blurred.

Gujarat functions as the ideological centre. Many of Togadia’s longest, most doctrinal speeches—on demographic war, civilisational supremacy, and global conspiracies—are delivered here. Gujarat’s political ecosystem, shaped by 2002 and deep institutional alignment with Hindutva, enables a more elaborate and ritualised form of mobilisation. The tone is less about street-level confrontation and more about sweeping historical claims and grand narratives of Hindu civilisation.

Maharashtra shows a dual pattern. In cities like Mumbai, Thane, and Pune, AHP focuses on rhetoric of “security,” appealing to middle-class anxieties. In semi-urban and rural belts—Jalgaon, Nashik, Dhule, Vidarbha—mobilisation becomes more militant, involving trishul distribution, Shastra Puja, and weapons demonstrations. Shivaji iconography and Maratha pride blend easily with AHP’s narrative of Hindu power and historical grievance.

Assam presents a different dynamic. Here, AHP taps into long-standing regional fears around migration and citizenship. The rhetoric of “Bangladeshi infiltration” dominates. Muslims of Bengali origin are framed as illegal occupiers rather than religious minorities. AHP simply amplifies anxieties already sharpened by the NRC, Foreigners Tribunals, and decades of political debate. The result is a powerful fusion of local ethnic fears and national Hindutva narratives.

Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, and Rajasthan serve as logistical hubs. These states host training camps, weapons rituals, and “awareness” programmes. The geography—forests, small towns, dispersed settlements—allows AHP to conduct paramilitary-style activities away from media scrutiny. The events may be less dramatic, but they are organisationally vital, producing cadres, distributing weapons, and building networks.

In Delhi, Haryana, Punjab, and Jammu, the mobilisation takes on distinct urban and border-specific tones. Delhi and NCR adopt a language of “national security,” framing hate as patriotism. Punjab’s smaller mobilisation focuses on anti-conversion rhetoric targeting Christian communities. In Jammu, AHP flattens the region’s complex social fabric into a simple Hindu–Muslim divide, feeding nationalistic grievance.

Taken together, these regional patterns show that AHP–RBD does not operate through a single model of mobilisation. It adapts to local fears, political opportunities, and cultural idioms. It can present itself as a militant outfit in one state, a cultural organisation in another, a devotional group elsewhere, or a community policing force where it faces little resistance. This spatial flexibility gives the organisation resilience and reach. It allows hate politics to be localised, normalised, and embedded in everyday life.

Understanding this spatial architecture is essential. It reveals that AHP–RBD is not just an ideological movement but a multi-scalar ecosystem—national in message, regional in form, and local in execution. This adaptability is what makes it both potent and difficult to regulate through conventional legal and administrative frameworks.

Electoral effects and the radical flank mechanism

AHP–RBD’s six-month mobilisation cannot be understood in isolation from India’s electoral landscape. Although the organisation is not seen formally part of the BJP–RSS structure, its activities consistently reinforce the BJP’s broader political strategy. Real and organisational connections also probably exist though these have not been publicly flaunted. The relationship is best explained through the “radical flank effect”—a social movement theory concept that describes how extremist groups shift public norms, allowing more “moderate” groups to appear reasonable while advancing a shared ideological agenda.

In practice, AHP–RBD performs the role of the radical flank. Its open calls for violence, its vigilante actions, and its demonisation of minorities create a political climate saturated with fear. Once such fear becomes ambient, the BJP’s own rhetoric—often couched in coded terms—appears centrist in comparison. When AHP demands expulsion of Muslims from certain areas, the BJP’s policies of strict policing or exclusionary welfare seem moderate. When AHP–RBD cadres raid prayer gatherings or harass interfaith couples, the BJP’s strong law-and-order posturing appears lawful rather than coercive. This triangulation enables the BJP to benefit from the emotional climate created by extremism without openly endorsing it.

Electoral data and field patterns show that regions with intense AHP–RBD activity often see heightened Hindu electoral consolidation. This shift does not require explicit coordination. It arises organically from the affective environment created by sustained hate mobilisation. When public discourse is filled with messages of demographic threat, “love jihad,” conversions, or “jihadist infiltration,” voters gravitate toward the party they perceive as the defender of Hindu security. Fear becomes the emotional engine of communal voting.

AHP–RBD’s activities also directly affect minority political participation. The intimidation of Muslim and Christian communities suppresses voter turnout, discourages public meetings, and deters grassroots organising. In regions with politically active Christian electorates—such as Goa, Kerala, Mizoram, and parts of the Northeast—the targeting of prayer gatherings and church-related activities has measurable political consequences. Fear reduces both visibility and voice.

The organisation also shapes elections by dominating local discourse. Its rallies receive disproportionate coverage in local media, creating a sense of tension even where none existed. Communal narratives crowd out issues like unemployment, inflation, agrarian distress, and welfare delivery. Once the baseline of public conversation shifts, secular concerns struggle to regain ground. Elections become referendums on identity rather than governance.

Finally, AHP–RBD acts as an ideological incubator. Themes it promotes aggressively—population control laws, campaigns against conversions, temple “reclamation,” policing of interfaith relationships—often migrate into mainstream party agendas or media debates. The journey from fringe to centre is gradual but unmistakable. Over time, these ideas stop appearing extreme and begin to seem like common sense.

The cumulative effect is a rightward shift of the entire political spectrum. Opposition parties find themselves forced to respond to issues defined by extremist actors. Centrist figures adopt majoritarian language to avoid appearing “anti-Hindu.” The space for dissent contracts. Minority political participation shrinks. Hate normalises itself within democratic life.

In this way, AHP–RBD’s impact is not limited to specific constituencies or elections. It reshapes the broader architecture of electoral politics. It alters what counts as legitimate speech, permissible demands, and acceptable public sentiment. It reconfigures the emotional and ideological terrain on which elections are fought. It changes the grammar of Indian democracy.

Legal Analysis: Hate speech, vigilantism, arms violations, and constitutional breaches

The six-month dataset reveals a consistent pattern of conduct that amounts to repeated, systemic, and often explicit violations of Indian criminal law and constitutional guarantees. These are not accidental excesses or spontaneous eruptions; they are central to AHP–RBD’s mode of mobilisation. Understanding their legal significance requires situating them within four frameworks: (1) hate speech and criminal incitement under the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), (2) vigilantism and due process violations, (3) illegal weapons display and training under the Arms Act, and (4) breaches of fundamental rights under the Constitution.

Hate speech and incitement: Indian hate speech jurisprudence—through Pravasi Bhalai Sangathan, Amish Devgan, S. Rangarajan, and the Delhi High Court’s rulings on inflammatory rhetoric—draws a clear distinction between offensive speech and speech that actively threatens public order or incites enmity. AHP–RBD’s rhetoric consistently falls in the latter category.

Statements urging violence against Muslim men, portraying Muslims as territorial invaders, or suggesting that Hindu women are targets of organised conspiracies constitute direct criminal incitement. Allegations that Muslims intend to “capture territory,” “eradicate Hindu civilisation,” or “control Hindu women” invoke the exact categories of prohibited speech under BNS provisions relating to public tranquillity and enmity between groups.

The dataset reveals a striking enforcement vacuum. Police presence at events where this rhetoric is openly delivered suggests not neutrality but deliberate non-enforcement. This institutional reluctance enables the normalisation of hate—from legal violation to public common sense—and marks a failure of the state’s constitutional obligation to ensure equal protection of the law.

Vigilantism and violations of due process: AHP–RBD repeatedly assumes policing functions: detaining individuals, interrogating alleged offenders, conducting raids on prayer gatherings, and enforcing communal boundaries. These actions strike at the core of Articles 21 and 22, which guarantee personal liberty and protection from arbitrary detention.

The Supreme Court’s landmark judgment in Tehseen Poonawalla (2018) imposes a positive duty on the state to prevent vigilante violence and prosecute perpetrators. Yet the dataset shows the opposite pattern—police inaction, presence without intervention, and in some cases, tacit collaboration. This creates a regime of dual policing:

• one legal, constitutional, and equal (in principle);
• the other informal, communal, and majoritarian (in practice).

Such a regime violates the constitutional commitment to secularism and the rule of law—principles recognised as part of the Basic Structure Doctrine. Vigilantism thus becomes not merely unlawful conduct but a challenge to constitutional sovereignty itself.

Illegal weapons display and training: AHP–RBD’s mobilisation features widespread use of weapons—swords, tridents, and firearms—through Shastra Puja, Trishul Deeksha, public marches, and explicit weapons training camps. Under the Arms Act, the display of many of these weapons in public or the provision of combat training requires stringent licensing.

The documented events violate these norms on multiple fronts. Weapons are not incidental accessories—they are ritual objects, identity markers, and instruments of political signalling. The religious consecration of weapons grants moral cover to acts that would otherwise attract immediate criminal sanction.

The legal concern is compounded by state inaction. When police stand by as weapons are worshipped, circulated, or used in training sessions, the constitutional principle that the state holds the exclusive right to deploy legitimate force becomes diluted. India’s long-standing policy of keeping arms out of civilian political mobilisation begins to erode, replaced by a permissive environment for private militias.

Violations of fundamental rights: The cumulative effect of AHP–RBD’s actions is a sustained infringement of the constitutional rights of religious minorities.

• Article 14 is violated through targeted discrimination and differential protection.
• Article 15 is breached when segregation, exclusion, or targeted hostility is encouraged.
• Article 19(1)(b) is compromised when minorities face intimidation from peaceful assembly or public expression.
• Article 21 is infringed through threats, coercion, and erosion of dignity.
• Article 25 and 26 are directly violated when prayer meetings are raided, religious practices disrupted, or Christian and Muslim institutions are targeted.

These violations operate not as isolated incidents but as a pattern of parallel sovereignty, where a non-state actor informally asserts the authority to regulate religion, intimacy, public space, and personal liberty. The most profound injury is to the principle of secularism, a core element of India’s basic structure. When the state tolerates a majoritarian organisation exercising coercive power, secularism becomes formal rather than substantive—its guarantees present in doctrine but eroded in lived reality.

Democratic risks and the normalisation of anti-minority governance

AHP–RBD’s six-month mobilisation points to a deeper institutional and cultural shift in India’s democratic landscape: the movement from a pluralist constitutional democracy to a majoritarian quasi-democracy, where minority rights exist formally but are systematically hollowed out in practice. This degradation does not occur through the formal suspension of rights or emergency powers. It occurs gradually, through the normalisation of communal hostility, which reshapes public behaviour, institutional norms, and the emotional structure of citizenship.

The first democratic risk arises from the de-legitimisation of constitutional norms. When communal mobilisation saturates public life, principles such as equality, religious freedom, and secular governance come to be seen not as foundational commitments but as obstacles to majoritarian will. Hate speech, demographic alarmism, and ritual militarisation generate an affective climate in which constitutional protections appear indulgent or even dangerous. In such a climate, minorities internalise fear, withdraw from public spaces, limit political participation, and experience democratic life on unequal terms. Electoral politics, too, becomes distorted: communal consolidation strengthens the majority vote, while minority voting becomes fraught with risk and reduced in impact.

A second democratic risk lies in the erosion of institutional neutrality. The dataset records repeated instances of police presence at events where inflammatory or openly violent rhetoric is delivered. The appearance of state authorities alongside vigilante actors produces a symbolic convergence between law and majoritarian sentiment. Law enforcement shifts from being an impartial guarantor of rights to an instrument of communal policing. When institutions fail to enforce constitutional norms, they lose legitimacy, and alternative power centres—majoritarian groups acting as de facto police—step into the vacuum.

The third democratic risk concerns the cultural redefinition of citizenship. AHP–RBD’s discourse fuses Hindu identity with national identity, constructing Muslims and Christians as conditional citizens whose loyalty must be proven and whose rights may be restricted. Citizenship becomes implicitly ethnoreligious, not civic. Such a transformation strikes at the core of the Indian constitutional order, which deliberately rejects indigeneity, religious majoritarianism, and racialised belonging as bases for citizenship. When minorities are framed as perpetual suspects, their participation in democratic life becomes precarious, and the republic shifts toward graded membership.

The final democratic risk is long-term polarisation. Hate mobilisation produces enduring harms: intergenerational fear, mutual distrust, and hardened communal identities. This polarisation is not limited to politics—it reshapes everyday life. Markets segregate, schools become communally divided, workplaces grow tense, and neighbourhoods fracture into hostile enclaves. Over time, these micro-segregations accumulate into structural separation, weakening the social cohesion that democracy requires. A society fragmented by fear cannot sustain collective governance, universal rights, or shared public institutions.

Together, these dynamics illustrate how AHP–RBD’s activities create not just immediate threats but a systemic democratic recession—a gradual hollowing of constitutional citizenship, institutional neutrality, and pluralist democracy.

Conclusion- The architecture of hate as parallel sovereignty

AHP–RBD’s events and the collated data reveals a sophisticated, multi-layered architecture of hate—one that operates not as episodic violence but as an emergent political order. This order is parallel to the constitutional state, majoritarian in ethos, and vigilante in practice. Through demographic panic, gendered control, ritual militarisation, territorial revisionism, anti-minority surveillance, and the normalisation of extra-legal punishment, AHP constructs a rival normative universe—a universe in which communal identity determines legitimacy, violence becomes moral obligation, and constitutional authority is displaced by militant religiosity.

This phenomenon is not merely a danger to India’s minorities. It is a profound challenge to the foundations of democratic life. When an organisation can redefine belonging, police intimacy, weaponise devotion, rewrite history, and regulate public space—often with the tacit tolerance or visible presence of state authorities—the very idea of citizenship becomes contingent. The rule of law fades into selective enforcement. The secular, civic character of the Republic becomes fragile, overshadowed by ethnoreligious belonging.

India is witnessing a deeper cultural shift:

—from pluralism to purity,

—from rights to obedience,

—from law to spectacle,

—from coexistence to conquest.

No democracy can survive the institutionalisation of hate as common sense. No constitutional order can endure when non-state actors are permitted to wield coercive power with impunity. No society can remain cohesive when its people are divided into protectors and threats, insiders and intruders, pure and polluted.

The challenge before India is therefore greater than the task of curbing a single extremist organisation. It is the task of reclaiming the constitutional imagination. This requires the restoration of institutional neutrality, the impartial enforcement of criminal law, renewed political commitment to equality and dignity, and a cultural repudiation of the politics of fear. It requires civil society vigilance and political courage that refuses to normalise hate.

AHP–RBD’s mobilisation is not the story of a fringe group. It is the story of a parallel polity—one that is emerging, expanding, and asserting influence. Whether this parallel polity becomes embedded in India’s future depends on how institutions, courts, political parties, and citizens respond to the early warning signs documented in this dataset.

The Constitution’s text remains intact. Its lived reality, however, is under deep strain. Even reduced to a hollow shell, some would argue.

The trajectory revealed here is not inevitable—but it is unmistakable. To confront it is not merely an analytical task for scholarship. It is a democratic imperative, central to safeguarding India’s identity as a plural, secular, constitutional republic.

Reference:

The Radical Flank Effect in Social Movements: Evidence from India

Hindutva Radicalisation of the Indian Youth and Its Impact on Freedom of Religion

The Hindu Far-Right and the Indian State: A Study of Vigilante Justice

Ideology and Organizational Strategy of Hindu Nationalism

Inequality, elections, and communal riots in India

The Political Economy of Religious Conflict in India

A Critical Study of Religious Polarization and Its Impact on the Secular Fabric of Indian Society

Profile: Pravin Togadia and the Rise of the Hardline

The Unimportance of Being Pravin Togadia: An Organizational Analysis

CJP moves NCM over Pravin Togadia’s communal oath at ‘Trishul Diksha’ event

Sheath the swords, while there is still time! (Report on AHP’s ‘Trishul Diksha’)

Hate Watch: Pravin Togadia administers communal and anti-minority oath in Haryana

RSS, Togadia decide to work together to ‘unite’ Hindus

India’s ‘love jihad’ conspiracy theory turns lethal

VHP releases over 400 alleged ‘Love Jihad’ cases; to launch awareness against religious conversion

How a ‘love jihad’ case was manufactured in India’s Uttar Pradesh

Hundreds In Mumbai March Against ‘Love Jihad’, Demand Anti-Conversion Laws

Nanded police book Pravin Togadia for hate speech

India Hindu leader in ‘hate speech’ row (2014 report on property eviction call)

Election Commission directs FIR against Pravin Togadia for ‘hate speech’

Togadia’s ‘hate speech’ video under EC scanner

Maharashtra Police registers case against VHP leader Praveen Togadia for hate speech

Pravin Togadia’s claim of being targeted by Modi govt not new

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/maharashtra/violence-erupt-in-nagpur-during-hindu-outfits-protest-for-removal-of-aurangzebs-tomb/article69341949.ece

https://www.newindianexpress.com/nation/2022/Jun/14/bajrang-dal-to-hold-nationwide-protest-against-violence-over-remarks-against-prophet-vhp-2465507.html

https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/allahabad/tension-erupts-in-myorabad-area-over-alleged-religious-conversion-activities/articleshow/125662303.cms

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/arunachal-pradesh/rally-for-anti-conversion-law-held-in-arunachal-pradesh/article70178964.ece

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/vhp-demands-central-law-against-conversion/article35803107.ece

https://www.csohate.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/Hate-Speech-Events-in-India_Report_2024.pdf

https://www.pudr.org/publicatiosn-files/2023-04-17-Jahangirpur-%20communal-incident.pdf

https://sabrangindia.in/karnataka-bajrang-dals-sanjay-nalvade-three-others-arrested-murder-muslim-teen/

https://sabrangindia.in/bajrang-dal-members-booked-for-hurting-religious-sentiments-in-malad-accused-of-deliberate-provocation/

[1] A look at the analyses of hate speeches here (https://sabrang.com/cc/archive/2003/may03/index.html), Togadia, then squarely with the Viswa Hindu Parishad (VHP) declares his/and organizational hate and harm-filled intent: to generate anarchy and anti-minority violence (civil war) in every village of the country. Neither logistics not resources have stymied this cancer surgeon who’s Dhanwantri Hospital in Ahmedabad was also noted for its refusal to treat patients belonging to the mass-harmed Muslim minority in February-March 2002. (https://sabrang.com/cc/archive/2002/marapril/hospital.htm, https://sabrang.com/tribunal/vol2/pubspace.html)

The post Rituals of Fear, Politics of Hate: How AHP’s national network rewrote the boundaries of democracy and citizenship appeared first on SabrangIndia.

A detailed audit titled “The Bihar Verdict 2025”, curated by Vote for Democracy (VFD), Maharashtra, suggests that this is precisely what unfolded in the 2025 Bihar Legislative Assembly elections. Drawing exclusively from official Election Commission of India (ECI) data, statutory provisions, constitutional norms, and documented inconsistencies, the report presents a disturbing account of how India’s most fundamental democratic exercise was methodically hollowed out—before, during, and after polling.

What emerges is not a story of sporadic irregularities or administrative error, but of systemic electoral engineering, carried out through opaque voter roll revisions, statistical impossibilities, data suppression, and post-poll manipulation—raising urgent questions about the credibility of India’s electoral institutions.

The said report has been authored and compiled by Vote for Democracy (VFD), Maharashtra under the guidance of experts MG Devasahayam (IAS (Retd) and Founder, Forum for Electoral Integrity), Dr Pyara Lal Garg, (Former Dean, Faculty of Medical Sciences, Panjab University, Chandigarh) and Professor Harish Karnick, (Computer Science Expert) and Madhav Deshpande, (Computer Science Expert).

The Electoral ‘Ambush’: An unprecedented Special Intensive Revision

At the centre of the report is the Special Intensive Revision (SIR) of electoral rolls, notified by the ECI on June 24, 2025, just months before the Assembly election. While electoral rolls are periodically revised, the timing, scale, and opacity of this exercise make it extraordinary.

Bihar’s rolls had already undergone continuous revision since 2003, with a Special Summary Revision completed in January 2025. There was, therefore, no apparent administrative necessity for another sweeping revision so close to elections. Yet the ECI undertook precisely that—without recording reasons, disclosing empirical justification, or publishing a transparent methodology.

The report argues that this move violated statutory safeguards under the Representation of the People Act, 1950 and the Registration of Electors Rules, 1960, while also undermining constitutional guarantees under Articles 14, 19, 21, 325, and 326. Most alarmingly, the SIR reversed a core principle of electoral democracy: the presumption of inclusion of citizens on the voter roll.

Instead, the revision effectively placed the burden of proof on voters themselves, subjecting them to what the report describes as a citizenship-style verification exercise, without any legislative sanction.

Mass disenfranchisement hidden in plain sight

The consequences of the SIR were immediate and devastating. According to official ECI figures:

• On June 24, 2025, Bihar had 7.89 crore registered voters.
• By the Draft Roll of 1 August 2025, this number had dropped to 7.24 crore—a deletion of 65.69 lakh voters.
• The Final Roll published on September 30, 2025 stood at approximately 7.42 crore electors.

Yet, the report finds that only 3.66 lakh voters were ultimately found to be ineligible. The sheer scale of deletions—nearly twenty times higher than justified exclusions—points not to routine correction but to deliberate disenfranchisement.

The most shocking phase occurred between 21 and 25 July 2025, when over 21.27 lakh voters were deleted in just three days. During this period alone:

• 5.44 lakh voters were marked as ‘dead’,
• 14.24 lakh as ‘permanently shifted’, and
• those marked ‘untraceable’ increased by an astonishing 809% overnight.

Despite the SIR being justified as a means to remove “foreigners” from the rolls, not a single foreign national was identified.

As the report notes, such numbers defy administrative logic and statistical probability, pointing instead to algorithmic or bulk deletions, carried out without genuine field verification.

The ‘rectification’ that didn’t add up

Following public criticism, the ECI claimed to have undertaken a process of rectification, stating that approximately 17 lakh objections or applications were received. However, the final numbers tell a different story.

The report documents that around 22 lakh entries were modified—far exceeding the number of applications claimed. Even after accounting for these corrections, the voter roll should have mathematically settled at approximately 7.38 crore electors. Instead, the ECI declared 7.42 crore voters, leaving an unexplained surplus of 3.24 lakh electors.

No reconciliation statement, independent audit, or transparent explanation has been provided for this discrepancy—raising serious concerns about the integrity of the final roll itself.

When the rolls kept changing after elections were notified

Electoral law and convention require voter rolls to be effectively frozen once elections are notified, to ensure certainty and fairness. Yet, the report shows that in Bihar, the rolls continued to change even after notification.

• On October 6, 2025, the electorate stood at 7.43 crore.
• By poll day, it had risen to 7.46 crore.

In just ten days, 3.34 lakh voters were added, including a sudden and unexplained spike in young voters—an impossibility given eligibility timeline.

The sanctity of the voter roll, the report argues, was thus compromised at the most critical stage of the electoral process.

Structural rigging and data suppression

Manipulation was not confined to voter rolls alone. The report details a sharp increase in polling booths—from 77,462 in the 2024 Lok Sabha elections to 90,740 in Bihar 2025—without a corresponding expansion in remote or riverine areas, raising questions about constituency engineering.

Equally troubling was the Election Commission’s progressive withdrawal of transparency. Constituency-wise turnout figures and final votes polled before counting—data routinely published in earlier elections—were withheld. Instead, fragmented district-level data was released, making independent verification virtually impossible.

Institutional capture at the grassroots

At the ground level, the report highlights the deployment of 1.8 lakh ‘Jeevika Didis’ as poll volunteers—women who were also beneficiaries of state welfare schemes involving cash transfers. This, the report argues, blurred the line between welfare delivery and election administration, undermining the neutrality of the electoral machinery.

The imbalance in Booth Level Agents (BLAs) further compounded the problem. While the ruling alliance deployed over 91,000 agents, the opposition averaged just 1.55 agents per booth, creating vast unmonitored spaces within polling stations.

Poll-day violations and the ‘midnight hike’

Polling and counting days were marked by a series of disturbing incidents: CCTV failures, VVPAT slips found discarded on roads, unauthorised vehicles near strong rooms, and the transportation of approximately 6,000 voters from Haryana through special trains, allegedly facilitated with free tickets.

But the most consequential intervention came after polling had ended. On 12 November 2025, official data recorded a uniform 0.18% increase in voter turnout—identical for both men and women across phases. This “midnight hike” added 1,34,145 votes, altering outcomes in around 20 constituencies.

In 21 seats, victory margins ranged from zero to just 15 votes, yet no automatic VVPAT recount was ordered.

More than a Bihar story

“The Bihar Verdict 2025” concludes with a stark warning: what happened in Bihar is not an isolated aberration. It represents a new mode of electoral manipulation, executed not through visible violence or overt coercion, but through administrative opacity, legal sleight of hand, and data control.

At stake is not merely the outcome of one state election, but the constitutional promise of universal adult suffrage itself.

As the report makes clear, when voters disappear from rolls, when numbers defy arithmetic, and when transparency is treated as expendable, democracy itself becomes the casualty.

The complete report may be accessed here: https://votefordemocracy.org.in/wp-content/uploads/2026/01/260113-FINAL-THE-BIHAR-VERDICT.pdf

Presentation: https://votefordemocracy.org.in/wp-content/uploads/2026/01/THE-BIHAR-VERDICT-2025-ppt.pdf

Related:

VFD’s rebuttal of the Fadnavis’ Claims on Electoral Manipulation Allegations

VFD’s draft reports points to “electoral manipulation and irregularities” in Haryana and J&K 2024 assembly elections

Vote for Democracy (VFD) releases report on the conduct of General Election 2024

The Stolen Franchise: Why the Election Commission cannot escape accountability

EXCLUSIVE: Solid empirical evidence of tampering in Voter’s List mustn’t let us forget EVM Manipulations: Computer Expert Madhav Deshpande

Vote for Democracy: Statistical, legal and procedural irregularities dot Bihar’s controversial SIR process

Major Irregularities in 2024 Maharashtra Vidhan Sabha Polls; Vote for Democracy

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A quick search of the 142-page judgement, delivered by a bench comprising Justices Aravind Kumar and NV Anjaria, finds these key words missing. Instead, the judgement expanded the contours of terrorism. Further, it created two categories of accused – leaders and followers. Researchers Umar Khalid and Sharjeel Imam were designated as “architects” of the conspiracy and denied bail, whereas student activist Gulfisha Fatima, Meeran Haider, Shifa-ur-Rehman, Mohd. Saleem Khan and Shadab Ahmed were granted bail under stringent censorial conditions. All of them have been in jail since 2020.

While freedom of speech and the right to political dissent are significant contextual elements in the judgment, the Supreme Court explicitly clarified that they are not the core legal issues determining the outcome of the bail applications.

Critics, however, argue that the top court’s judgment sets a dangerous precedent by classifying political dissent and protest speeches as acts of terrorism.

Conditional freedom that robs the right to speak

Supreme Court imposed strict conditions while granting bail to the Fatima, Rehman, Khan, Haider and Ahmed. Apart from the ₹2 lakh personal bond each with two local sureties of the like amount, the top court also gagged the five activists from speaking about any issue from any platform after their release.

Conditions also include that they are:

• Required to stay within the territorial limit of Delhi NCT for the pendency of the trial. Not allowed to leave the city without court’s permission. Any request for travel shall disclose reasons, which would then be considered by the trial court “strictly” on its “merits”
• Surrender passports if any. If there is no passport, then an affidavit to be filed to that effect. Furthermore, immigration authorities have been direction to prevent any exit from the country without the court’s permission
• Twice weekly check-ins at the Delhi Police Crime Branch police station. The police are then required to submit monthly attendance reports to court; Furnish full current address and all contact details with the investigating officer of the case. there must be a seven-day notice before any change to the same.
• Co-operate during the trial, appear at every date unless exempted by court and ensure they don’t act in any way to delay the same
• No witness tampering, or any contact with them at all – direct or indirect. Not allowed to participate in the activities of any group or organization linked to the subject matter of the present FIR/ final report
• Complete media gag
• Gag on attending any rallies – political or otherwise, physically or virtually till the conclusion of the trial
• Not allowed to distribute any posts, handbills, posters, fliers, banners
• “Maintain peace and good behavior.” Violation of this condition gives the police “liberty” to seek revocation of bail

UAPA comes a full circle

The Supreme Court’s judgment in Gulfisha Fatima vs State (2026 INSC 2) represents a ‘coming to a full circle’ moment for the Unlawful Activity (Prevention) Act (UAPA), 1967. The UAPA, which was originally meant to address “secessionist” activities, was later amended and rebranded as India’s anti-terror law.

Around 1962-63, the then Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru envisioned UAPA to act as a deterrence against secessionist ideologies and preserve national integration. In the backdrop of the 1965 India-Pakistan war, UAPA was primarily intended to tackle the strong secessionist movement in Tamil Nadu which wanted to be a sovereign state. It was followed by a series of preventive detention laws and, when India signed and ratified all major United Nation counter-terrorism conventions after 9/11, the UAPA was specifically amended in 2004 to align with the country’s international obligations.

The law, in its current avatar, is so vast and vague, that even expressing disaffection towards the state or affection for another state, as in the case of the three Kashmiri youth who were jailed under sedition charges for allegedly cheering for Pakistan’s cricket team when it won the 2021 T20 World Cup, is liable for prosecution.

When protest becomes an act of terrorism

Can protest speeches, public meetings and WhatsApp group membership constitute conspiracy under Sections 16–18 of the UAPA at the bail stage?

According to the Supreme Court: Yes, they can. Even if the protests were peaceful assemblies.

The Supreme Court’s January 5 judgement essentially redefined terrorism. Even though the judgment recognized freedom of speech as a protected right, it stopped where an allegedly pre-planned conspiracy for systemic violence began. Ironically, cases against BJP politicians like Kapil Sharma, who made incendiary speeches on the eve of the breakout of violence in Delhi in 2020, continue at a snail’s pace,

Yet, the January 5 judgement read: “The factual record placed by the prosecution repeatedly returns to a distinction that is central to the case: the differentiation between a conventional dharna and a chakka jam. This is not treated as semantics. It is treated as strategy.”

“A dharna may be expressive; a chakka jam, as alleged, is disruptive by design. The prosecution case is that the sustained choking of arterial roads, replication of blockade sites, and the movement of crowds from minority clusters into mixed population areas were not accidental expressions of dissent, but calibrated acts meant to generate confrontation, overwhelm law enforcement, and create conditions for violence,” it added.

The top court said Delhi Police did not rely on a “single speech, a single meeting, or a single blockade” to oppose bail, rather it relied on “a course of conduct, spread over weeks, involving repeated meetings, formation of coordinating bodies, issuance of directions, and alleged preparations for escalation.”

“The Court cannot, at the bail stage, segregate this course of conduct into isolated benign fragments and assess each in abstraction,” the judgment read.

The Supreme Court reiterated that “dissent and protest occupy a protected space in a constitutional democracy,” however, that protection does not extend to a design that involves “systemic disruption, engineered confrontation, and preparatory steps towards violence”.

“At this stage, the Court must resist from committing two errors. The first is to criminalise speech merely because it is politically charged. The second is to immunize a continuing course of conduct merely because it contains language of non-violence,” the judgment read.

“In the application of such law, the Court does not proceed on identity, ideology, belief, or association. It proceeds on role, material, and the statutory threshold governing the exercise of jurisdiction,” the judgment read. “…[the judgment] neither endorses the prosecution case nor prejudges the guilt of any accused,” the court said adding that it applied the law as it stands, “recognising that individual liberty must be protected, but that it must also withstand the legitimate demands of national security and collective safety.”

“This balance is not a matter of preference rather it is a matter of constitutional duty,” the court added.

Selective application of law

While the Supreme Court’s judgment could be seen as a mixed bag of relief for some accused, in the denial of bail to Imam and Khalid, the top court selectively applied its own judgement and those of the high court on free speech or even bail under section 43d of the UAPA.

In cases like Vernon Gonzalves, Shoma Sen, Arvind Kejriwal, Manish Sisodia, Javed Gulam Nabi Shaikh, Sheikh Javed Iqbal, the top court granted bail due to prolonged incarceration despite the bar under section 43D of the UAPA act.

On free speech, the Supreme Court in its 2015 Shreya Singhal judgment said that dissenting discourse is not a crime. In its Balwant Singh judgment, the court emphasized that shouting stray slogans like “Khalistan Zindabad” were not a crime.

In fact, the Delhi High Court granted bail to student activists Devangana Kalita, Natasha Narwal and Asif Iqbal Tanha—co-accused in the 2020 Delhi Riots conspiracy case—and pulled up the Delhi Police for its “wanton use” of the UAPA.

In this case, the High Court clearly stated: “… in its anxiety to suppress dissent and in the morbid fear that matters may get out of hand, the State has blurred the line between the constitutionally guaranteed ‘right to protest’ and ‘terrorist activity’. If such blurring gains traction, democracy would be in peril.”

“… the intent and purport of the Parliament in enacting the UAPA, and more specifically in amending it in 2004 and 2008 to bring terrorist activity within its scope, was, and could only have had been, to deal with matters of profound impact on the ‘Defence of India’, nothing more and nothing less,” it added.

Process is the punishment

In the past decade, the State (or corporations) has often been accused of (mis)using the law to stifle dissent. In effect, making the process of law the punishment. Sedition (the old and new avatar), UAPA, defamation, Copyright Act are all being used against free speech.

The NewsClick founder editor Prabir Purkayastha was charged under the draconian UAPA for publishing “propaganda” reports on China that allegedly served to endanger the “sovereignty, unity and security of India.” He secured bail after seven months in custody after the Supreme Court held that his arrest was “invalid in the eyes of the law.”

Sedition, in its new avatar, has been used against climate activist Sonam Wangchuk, Ashoka University professor Ali Khan Mahmudabad, stand-up comic Kunal Kamra, satirists Madri Kakoti and Shamita Yadav better as Dr Medusa and Ranting Gola respectively, Bhojpuri singer Neha Singh Rathore, TV star and Big Boss winner Akhil Marar, a 20-year-old autorickshaw driver Sahil Khan and even Pushpa Sathidar, wife of the late actor Vira Sathidar, who was booked for merely reciting the acclaimed Faiz Ahmed Faiz poem ‘Hum Dekhenge’ at a meeting.in Nagpur in May 2025.

Even after sedition cases are dropped, the punishing process does not end, as the ordeal of Manipuri journalist Kishore Wangkhemcha, booked for speaking out about the struggles of leaders of Manipur or film maker Aisha Sultana, charged for criticising the Lakshadweep administrator, bears out..

Clearly, the price of dissent and critical thought is extremely high. And now, a Supreme Court order penalises peaceful protest and expression as acts of terror, effectively putting an undemocratic premium on the freedom to speak freely.

*About the Author: After an almost decade-long career as a photojournalist in Mumbai, Ritika now covers the Indian judiciary and hopes to simplify the law and decode the judiciary. Now based in Delhi, Ritika is a writer, part-time dreamer & full-time K-drama addict who escapes the city when she’s not bingeing on K-dramas.

Courtesy: Free Speech Collective

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Clearly, after the widespread criticism and the sensitiveness of the issue given he upcoming local corporation elections (municipal corporation elections are on  Thursday January 15), on January 8, Yogesh Sabale, Senior Police Inspector of the Mata Ramabai Ambedkar Nagar Police Station, called Deepak Pawar and who informed him that they were dropping the case and hence they did not need to appear in court! Since no formal intimation (or confirmation of the withdrawal of the misconceived case by the police has yet been received) Pawar raised the question: “…ahead of the elections, are you suggesting that I should not come to court on January 12 because the government does not want unnecessary trouble over the Marathi issue? However, does that mean the case has been withdrawn? On this point, Sabale could not give a definitive answer—nor could he!”

Pawar further writes, “For a grassroots activist, if within the span of ten days one is first ordered to appear in court and then requested not to appear, one can imagine the mix of happiness and astonishment this would cause. Over the past two or three decades, the decline of street-based movements has meant that even the police are unsure how to deal with people who come out onto the streets through lawful means—especially for causes like language and schools. Therefore, if those who ordered the registration of the case and instructed that charges be framed changed their minds within 24 hours, there may be reasons for this that we are not aware of. What are those reasons?”

Deepak Pawar, a renowned figure in Maharashtra also queries that,” If a case was to be registered, it should have been registered against Uddhav Thackeray, Sanjay Raut, Harshvardhan Sapkal, and Nitin Sardesai for the June 29 programme. Similarly, cases should have been registered against all leaders of political parties present at the December 18 programme. This clearly shows how convenient and selective the police’s process of registering cases is.”

The entire tale runs thus:

On January 7, a letter was published on social media in my (Deepak Pawar’s) name and in the name of Anand Bhandare. That letter concerned the case registered by the police in connection with the march we had organised on December 18, 2025—from Hutatma Smarak to the Municipal Corporation headquarters—to save Marathi schools, and about appearing before the Mazgaon court on Monday, January 12, for the framing of charges. The post highlighted that, in Maharashtra, carrying out a lawful agitation for Marathi schools has effectively been treated as a crime. After the text was published on social media, it was widely shared. Citizens’ reactions strongly condemned the government and the police in harsh terms.

नमस्कार,
७ जानेवारी रोजी समाजमाध्यमांवर मी आणि आनंद भंडारे यांच्या नावाने एक पत्र प्रसिद्ध केले होते. १८ डिसेंबर २०२५ रोजी हुतात्मा स्मारक ते महानगरपालिका मुख्यालय या दरम्यान मराठी शाळा वाचविण्यासाठी आम्ही आयोजित केलेल्या मार्चाबाबत पोलिसांनी दाखल केलेला गुन्हा आणि सोमवार, दिनांक… pic.twitter.com/hDqmJAZkJe

— Dr. Deepak Pawar दीपक पवार (@drdeepakpawar) January 11, 2026

Hello,

(Continued text of tweet)…Even if it is difficult for our voices to reach a government with a brute majority, there is a possibility that the police may still be somewhat sensitive to public criticism. Accordingly, the very next day I received a call from Yogesh Sabale, Senior Police Inspector of the Mata Ramabai Ambedkar Nagar Police Station, who informed me that they were dropping the case. I asked him to convey this in writing, and by the end of the day I received a letter from him, which is attached here. Three days later, letters addressed to Anand Bhandare, Girish Samant, and Pranali Raut arrived. Notably, while Pranali Raut had never received a letter asking her to appear in court, she did receive a letter telling her that she need not appear in court.

If an agitation has taken place under my chairpersonship (Deepak Pawar), then at the very least, the names of everyone who participated in that agitation should have appeared in my letter. That did not happen. Not only that, but while we were initially instructed to appear in court on Monday, letters began arriving one after another—right up to Saturday night—saying that there was no need to appear. If the police are sending such letters via a police station’s WhatsApp, some basic questions arise: does each police station have an email ID, and if so, why is it not being used for this purpose—what exactly is it used for?

Yogesh Sabale, Senior Police Inspector of the Mata Ramabai Ambedkar Nagar Police Station, spoke to me at length over the phone. The very system that officially exists to maintain law and order often ends up suppressing the rights of ordinary citizens. Officers like him work at the intermediate level within this system, and therefore their authority has limits. Perhaps their personal integrity and goodwill exceed their formal powers. That may be why he said to me (Deepak Pawar), “I request you not to appear in court on Monday.”

For a grassroots activist, if within the span of ten days one is first ordered to appear in court and then requested not to appear, one can imagine the mix of happiness and astonishment this would cause. Over the past two or three decades, the decline of street-based movements has meant that even the police are unsure how to deal with people who come out onto the streets through lawful means—especially for causes like language and schools. Therefore, if those who ordered the registration of the case and instructed that charges be framed changed their minds within 24 hours, there may be reasons for this that we are not aware of. What are those reasons?

The question I (Deepak Pawar ) put to Sabale was this: ahead of the elections, are you suggesting that I should not come to court on the 12th because the government does not want unnecessary trouble over the Marathi issue? But does that mean the case has been withdrawn? On this point, Sabale could not give a definitive answer—nor could he. He merely said that cases had been registered against workers of political parties. However, this claim does not hold water. I (Deepak Pawar) had already demonstrated this by citing the names of those against whom cases were, and were not, registered in connection with the June 29 programme protesting unjust government resolutions. If a case was to be registered, it should have been registered against Uddhav Thackeray, Sanjay Raut, Harshvardhan Sapkal, and Nitin Sardesai for the June 29 programme. Similarly, cases should have been registered against all leaders of political parties present at the December 18 programme. This clearly shows how convenient and selective the police’s process of registering cases is.”

At the point of writing this detailed post on social media, Pawar informs people of Maharashtra “all of us activists from the Marathi Abhyas Kendra are busy in Shirur with preparations for the 9th Marathi-loving Parents’ Conference.”

The letters sent by the police may be read here:

(The original tweet on X was in Marathi)

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The post Academic, Deepak Pawar to Mumbai Police: Are frivolous cases against us –filed after a peaceful demonstration to save Marathi schools –being dropped because of the upcoming BMC polls? appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The country, India, the world’s largest democracy, placed fourth out of 168 nations assessed for the likelihood of what researchers call intrastate mass killings. More significantly, India topped the list of countries facing such danger that are not already experiencing large-scale violence.

This is the December 2025 report Countries at Risk for Intrastate Mass Killing 2025-26, Statistical Risk Assessment Results, available here, from the museum’s Early Warning Project estimates India has a 7.5% chance of seeing deliberate mass violence against civilians before the end of 2026. The researchers define such violence as armed groups killing at least 1000 non-combatants within a year based on their group identity, which could include ethnicity, religion, politics or geography.

Three countries scored higher than India. Another South Asian neighbour, Myanmar, holds the top spot, followed by Chad and Sudan. However, the difference is that several high-ranking nations including Myanmar and Sudan are already dealing with ongoing mass killings, making India’s position particularly noteworthy as a potential new flashpoint.

Methodology: Researchers at the museum and Dartmouth College analysed decades of historical data to identify patterns. They look at which characteristics countries shared in the years before mass violence erupted, then search for similar warning signs today.

“Which countries today look most similar to countries that experienced mass killings in the past, in the year or two before those mass killings began?” the report asks.

The model examines more than 30 factors, from population size and economic indicators to measures of political freedom and armed conflict. Historically, roughly one or two countries experience new episodes of mass killing each year.

It was Lawrence Woocher, research director at the museum’s Simon-Skjodt Center for the Prevention of Genocide, wrote in the report’s foreword that the project aims to help officials and organisations decide where to focus resources for prevention. Pointing out that the Holocaust was preventable, Woocher wrote, “By heeding warning signs and taking early action, individuals and governments can save lives”.

The assessment looks only at future outbreaks, not whether existing violence might worsen. This approach helps fill what researchers see as a gap in prevention efforts, since ongoing crises often dominate attention.

Crucially, the researchers caution against viewing their findings as predictions. The statistical model identifies risk factors that historically appeared before mass violence, but these factors do not necessarily cause such events.

“Readers should keep in mind that our model is not causal,” the report states. “The variables identified as predicting higher or lower risk of mass killings in a country are not necessarily the factors that drive or trigger atrocities.”

For instance, a country’s large population, for instance, does not trigger violence. However, nations with bigger populations have historically been more likely to experience mass killings, making it a useful indicator when combined with other data.

The model relies on publicly available information from 2024, which means events from 2025 do not reflect in the current rankings. Data limitations also mean the assessment may not fully capture conditions in places where governments restrict access to observers. “This assessment is just one tool,” the report underlined. “It is meant to be a starting point for discussion and further research, not a definitive conclusion.”

Identifying the countries in the top tier, the report lays out specific concerns.

“For every country in the top 30, we recommend that policy makers consider whether they are devoting sufficient attention to addressing the risks of mass atrocities occurring within that country,” the authors recommended.

The report suggests several lines of inquiry. Are governments paying enough attention to the danger of systematic attacks on civilians? What specific triggers, whether elections, political upheaval or protests, could spark widespread violence?

The authors recommend that international bodies and national governments conduct their own detailed assessments of high-risk countries. Such reviews should examine what drives the risk, what scenarios seem plausible, and what existing strengths in a society need to be reinforced to prevent violence.

“Strategies and tools to address atrocity risks should, of course, be tailored to each country’s context,” the report noted.

The Early Warning Project has released annual assessments since 2014. In that time, mass atrocities have occurred in multiple countries, including genocide against the Rohingya in Burma and mass civilian deaths in South Sudan and Ethiopia. “Even in cases like these where warnings have been issued, they have simply not prompted enough early action,” Woocher stated.

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