Assam at the Crossroads: Identity, Religion, and the Two Bengalis

Assam, long a land of convergence, today stands as a symbol of political divergence. What began as a struggle over cultural identity and language has gradually evolved into a battle over religion, representation, and legitimacy. Behind the facade of laws and elections lies a deeper narrative—one where two Bengali identities, born of the same tragedy, now face each other across political lines.

The Shadow of Migration and the Birth of Binary Politics

Post-Partition and especially after the 1971 Bangladesh Liberation War, Assam witnessed a steady influx of Bengali-speaking migrants—Hindus and Muslims alike, both fleeing persecution, instability, or poverty. Both groups arrived seeking refuge and dignity. But over time, the same history bore two different political fates.

The United Minority Front (UMF) once tried to bridge the divide with a language-based platform. But with the rise of identity politics in India, religion soon replaced language as the axis of affiliation. The UMF dissolved into memory, and Assam’s Bengali Muslim population, largely rural and economically backward, became a political target—their identity flattened into the pejorative "Miya."

It was in this void that Badruddin Ajmal emerged. A businessman turned philanthropist, and finally a political heavyweight, he founded the All India United Democratic Front (AIUDF). For many Bengali Muslims, AIUDF became a symbol of protection and voice. But for the Hindu right, it became an opportunity.

The Rise of AIUDF and the RSS Counterplay

AIUDF’s presence in Assam politics was portrayed by the Sangh Parivar as a communal consolidation of Muslim votes, and this created a convenient counter-narrative: “If the Miyas have AIUDF, we have BJP.” This false binary worked well for the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) and BJP, especially among Bengali Hindus—who had long felt politically orphaned in Assam, caught between Assamese nativist movements and suspicion from Muslim-dominated parties.

In this climate, the Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA) was a political masterstroke. It offered legal sanctuary to Hindu migrants from Bangladesh, neatly carving a religious divide among migrants of the same origin. For Bengali Hindus, it was marketed as a lifeboat, for Bengali Muslims, a wall.

This was not merely legal—it was emotional weaponization. While one group was lifted from the margins and offered a constitutional embrace, the other was further othered, feared, and scapegoated. Assamese Hindus, meanwhile, were fed a steady diet of fear: “The Miya will take over Assam. The next CM will be Miya.”

Assamese Identity and the Arithmetic of Fear

In this polarizing climate, the indigenous Assamese population has found itself politically fragmented and numerically anxious. The fear of being swamped—once rooted in cultural terms—has been replaced with political mathematics. The 1983 Nellie massacre, the 1990s Bodo-Muslim riots, and the 2021 eviction drives in Darrang are all milestones of this fear turning violent.

For the Assamese Hindu middle class, the BJP offered a narrative of protection, while for the Bengali Hindu, it offered a passport to legitimacy. What was once a question of citizenship and culture has now become a contest between CAA beneficiaries and NRC rejectees, between “deserving victims” and “suspect infiltrators.”

Two Migrants, One Fate—Divided by Religion

The irony is glaring. Both Bengali Hindus and Bengali Muslims came from the same traumatic geography—East Pakistan, later Bangladesh. Both bore stories of displacement, fear, hunger, and longing. But today, they stand on opposite shores of India’s political current—one redeemed by religion, the other condemned by it.

AIUDF and BJP now stand as mirror images in Assam’s fractured mirror—each feeding off the presence of the other. The more Ajmal consolidates Muslim votes, the more BJP consolidates Hindu votes, particularly Bengali Hindu ones. In this calculated polarity, the real Assamese dream—of a plural, cohesive society—is the biggest casualty.

Conclusion: Assam, a Laboratory of India's Future?

Assam today is not just a state; it’s a case study—of how historical migration, unresolved citizenship issues, and cynical political strategies can turn neighbors into threats and fellow victims into enemies. The state stands as a cautionary tale for the rest of India, where the politics of identity is no longer about who you are, but who you are not allowed to be.

Unless the discourse returns to its roots—language, history, shared suffering, and coexistence—Assam will remain a hotspot, not just of hate politics, but of a much deeper national identity crisis