Waqf Protest Debate: Faith and the Constitution — A Contract, Not a Creed

Amana Begam Ansari’s recent article, “Religious autonomy isn’t absolute. Imarat-e-Shariah protest in Patna sidelined Pasmandas,” published in The Print on July 4, 2025, offers a pointed critique of the June 29 ‘Waqf Bachao, Samvidhan Bachao (Save Waqf, Save Constitution)’ protest at Gandhi Maidan led by Ameer-e-Shariat Ahmed Wali Faisal Rahmani, raising important questions about community leadership, inclusivity, and the broader discourse on rights. But it ultimately suffers from a pattern all too common in elite commentary on religion and law: it reaches sweeping conclusions based on selective logic, misapplied analogies, and deep suspicion of religious actors in public life.

The result is a flawed and divisive argument—one that undermines both constitutional integrity and the spirit of coexistence it was designed to protect.

1. The Constitution Is a Contract, Not a Competing Faith

At the heart of Ansari’s article is the suggestion—direct or implied—that invoking religious autonomy as part of constitutional rights is somehow contradictory or dangerous. But this reflects a fundamental misunderstanding. The Constitution of India is not a religion, nor does it ask anyone to abandon theirs. It is a ‘contractual agreement’ between citizens and the state: a framework negotiated in good faith so that people of different faiths, castes, languages, and regions can live together in mutual respect.

To suggest that asserting religious autonomy puts one outside the “national fabric” is to confuse the pluralistic spirit of the Constitution with a monolithic identity project. Religious freedom, as enshrined in Article 25, is not some grudging concession—it is a foundational right. The framers did not view the state as an overlord dispensing limited rights, but as a facilitator of peaceful diversity, bound to neutrality.

2. Fear-Mongering Through False Analogies

A major flaw in the article is the use of slippery slope reasoning. It asks: if one religious group demands autonomy in Waqf matters, what stops others from claiming constitutional protection for child marriage or other violations? But this is an illogical leap. Not all forms of autonomy are alike, and the Constitution is not without mechanisms to judge what is just or unjust.

The Waqf protest was not a call for extrajudicial immunity or rejection of civil law. It was a demand to preserve a centuries-old charitable system that Muslim communities have governed internally—often without public controversy—within the legal framework. Equating that with socially harmful or criminal practices is a gross category error.

The implication that any recognition of group rights will lead to barbarism is not just false; it feeds a colonial-era suspicion of non-Western traditions as inherently regressive. There is no way to engage a diverse republic.

3. Misreading Religion’s Relationship with Human Rights

The article hints that religion—particularly in its collective form—is often at odds with justice, equality, or individual dignity. But such generalisations ignore the moral and ethical frameworks within religions themselves, particularly in Islam. For example, the Qur’an says: “If anyone kills a person unjustly, it is as though he has killed all of humanity.” This moral weight placed on individual life is not peripheral; it’s central.

To assume that human rights are purely secular, modern, and linear in their evolution is historically and philosophically flawed. Human dignity has been a core religious value long before the UDHR was drafted in 1948. Moreover, modern rights discourses are themselves contested and evolving. They are not monolithic blueprints against which all religious practice must be judged.

Religion does not stand in opposition to rights. It often speaks a language of rights, just in different idioms, rooted in different worldviews.

4. Selective Critique of Religious Institutions

Ansari rightly raises concerns about how some religious institutions exercise power, especially regarding internal social hierarchies and women’s rights. But she moves from critique to broad delegitimisation. The Imarat-e-Shariah is portrayed as a parallel legal system with no accountability and no constitutional conscience. That’s a severe claim—yet no evidence is given that participants were coerced or that Imarat’s interventions are systematically unjust.

It is also worth noting the double standard: when Hindu or Christian institutions handle internal matters consensually, they are seen as civil society actors. When Muslim institutions do so, they are labelled separatist or feudal. This framing is neither intellectually consistent nor socially just.

5. The Pasmanda Question Deserves Attention, Not Instrumentalisation

Amana Begam raises concerns about Ashraf’s dominance and Pasmanda exclusion in the Imarat-e-Shariah protest. But this framing does not hold up under scrutiny. Several of the speakers at the June 29 rally were themselves from Pasmanda backgrounds. More importantly, the Waqf Amendment Act—which was the central focus of the protest—does not even mention Pasmandas. To inject Ashraf-Pasmanda binaries into this conversation is to impose a sectarian narrative that is neither organically arising from the protest nor reflected in the law itself.

While caste remains a lived social reality for many Indian Muslims, the deployment of Ashraf-Pasmanda categories in this context appears to echo the larger ideological playbook of communal forces that seek to fragment Muslim unity. Let us ask honestly: does an Ashraf pray in a different mosque than a Pasmanda? Are there separate burial grounds? Don’t Pasmandas routinely lead prayers, teach, and serve in Islamic institutions?

Neither “Ashraf” nor “Pasmanda” appear in the Qur’an or Hadith—they are not part of the Islamic moral or legal vocabulary. Rather, they are social constructions shaped by India’s caste legacy, often exploited to pit communities against each other. The real risk today is that these divisions are being leveraged not to uplift marginalised Muslims, but to weaken collective claims, so that what is constitutionally due to Muslims as a group is quietly diverted to dominant caste groups from the majority community under the pretext of social justice.

None of this is to deny the importance of intra-community reform or inclusion. But such work must be done with sincerity and historical awareness, not by wielding caste categories as weapons to delegitimise genuine constitutional protests. Doing so undermines both justice and unity.

6. The Real Fear-Mongering Is Against Religious Communities

While accusing religious institutions of stoking fear, the article itself suggests that allowing any religious autonomy risks dragging India into chaos or tribalism. This is the core fear-mongering narrative of hyper-secular absolutism: that religious actors, left unchecked, will always abuse power and violate rights. It paints a picture of Muslims—especially religious Muslims—as inherently untrustworthy in constitutional matters.

This not only alienates millions of devout citizens, but it undermines the Constitution itself, which was drafted by people who believed that faith and law can—and must—coexist.

7. Fundamental Rights Are for All, Not Just the Secular Few

The Constitution of India does not ask us to choose between religion and rights. It was built to hold both in balance. The real threat to that balance is not religious autonomy, but the growing tendency to treat religious life as a constitutional liability.

India’s democracy cannot thrive by excluding religious voices or treating every act of religious assertion as a threat to the republic. Fundamental rights, after all, were not meant to be monopolised by secular elites, but to be shared by every citizen, including those who pray, who fast, who serve, and yes, who protest to protect what they believe is sacred.

The way forward is not suspicion. It is a constitutional trust. And that trust must go both ways.