As eviction drives sweep through villages and settlements in Assam, thousands find themselves caught on the wrong side of an invisible fence.
In the lush, contested heartlands of Assam, the question of belonging is no longer just a matter of ancestry; it’s a matter of survival. As eviction drives sweep through villages and settlements deemed "illegal," thousands find themselves caught on the wrong side of an invisible fence- a line drawn not only by maps and documents, but by history, politics, and fear. For many, being Assamese is no longer defined by culture or contribution, but by paperwork, and the price of exclusion is exile. This unfolding crisis forces us to ask: Who decides who belongs, and at what human cost?
The verdant hills and fertile plains of Assam, long repositories of ecological wealth and civilizational memory, now echo with the anguish of displacement. In recent years, the state has become the stage for a fraught and complex confrontation, not of arms, but of belonging, legality, and identity. Beneath the surface of official policy and constitutional procedure lies a profound socio-political anxiety, expressed through widespread government-led eviction drives. Ostensibly initiated to remove “encroachers” from government and forest lands, these operations have become emblematic of unresolved tensions surrounding indigeneity, migration, land rights, and the very moral architecture of citizenship.
What unfolds in Assam is not merely a technocratic exercise in land recovery. It is a historical reckoning, a public struggle to determine who is native, who is outsider, and who ultimately has the right to call Assam home.
I. Reclaiming Land or Rewriting Identity?
The Assam government, led by the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), frames its eviction campaigns as legally justified actions aimed at reclaiming state or forest lands for development, public infrastructure, or ecological conservation. Citing Article 162 of the Indian Constitution and state land laws, officials defend the operations as necessary for projects such as agricultural colleges and protected reserves.
Yet, beyond this legal rhetoric lies a more contested reality. These evictions disproportionately affect Bengali-speaking Muslims, many of whom have lived in these regions for generations. Critics argue that land policy is being weaponised as a tool of demographic engineering, advancing an ethno-nationalist vision of "Assamese identity." In this context, the bulldozer is transformed from a neutral instrument of administration into a potent symbol of exclusion and ethnic assertion.
II. The Shadow of the NRC and the Specter of Immigration
The evictions cannot be disentangled from Assam’s long-standing anxieties about migration. The influx of Bengali-speaking Muslims, especially during and after the 1971 Bangladesh Liberation War, has generated deep-rooted fears among indigenous communities about cultural erasure and economic displacement.
These anxieties fuelled the Assam Movement (1979–1985), which culminated in the Assam Accord, a commitment to detect and deport "illegal immigrants." Its bureaucratic extension was the National Register of Citizens (NRC), an exercise to verify citizenship based on legacy documentation. However, the final NRC list, released in 2019, excluded 1.9 million individuals, including a substantial number of Hindus, challenging the communal narrative of "Muslim infiltration" and revealing a far more complex demographic matrix.
In this landscape of bureaucratic ambiguity, eviction has emerged as a physical manifestation of citizenship denial. For many, displacement has become a de facto disenfranchisement, enacted not through court judgments, but through the irreversible force of demolition.
III. Indigenous Rights or Settler Rejection?
For Assam’s indigenous communities, land is not merely a resource, it is integral to identity, autonomy, and cultural survival. Fears of losing ancestral territory to outsiders, especially those differing in language, religion, or ethnicity, have long fueled demands for legal safeguards, including the demarcation of tribal belts and blocks.
Organisations such as the All Assam Students’ Union (AASU) have historically advocated for such protections. While these concerns are not unfounded, the execution of eviction policies frequently fails to distinguish between undocumented immigrants and historically marginalised citizens who lack formal title deeds but have long-standing ties to the land.
This results in a profound ethical dissonance: a policy aimed at preserving indigenous identity may simultaneously undermine the dignity and rights of equally vulnerable communities. When the rhetoric of indigeneity is divorced from justice, it risks becoming a vessel for exclusion rather than empowerment.
IV. Politics Disguised as Policy
The timing of eviction drives often coincides with electoral cycles, cabinet reshuffles, and political mobilisations. Districts such as Darrang, Barpeta, and Goalpara have witnessed intensified eviction activity around key political events. These operations are then broadcast through official and partisan media as evidence of a government reclaiming land from "illegal" settlers.
Such political choreography serves dual objectives: reinforcing Assamese sub-nationalism while simultaneously appealing to Hindu majoritarian anxieties. The selective focus on minority-dominated areas casts doubt on the neutrality of the administrative process and suggests the presence of ideological motives behind the bureaucratic veneer.
This raises profound constitutional questions: Is the state genuinely upholding the rule of law, or is it selectively enforcing it to consolidate political power and reshape social demographics?
V. Legal Ambiguities and Humanitarian Costs
India’s legal framework mandates that no person, citizen or otherwise, may be evicted without due process. The Supreme Court has consistently held that even unauthorised occupants are entitled to notice, a fair hearing, and provisions for rehabilitation, especially when prolonged state inaction has facilitated long-term settlement.
Yet in Assam, these safeguards are frequently circumvented. Reports by Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, and the Human Rights Law Network document instances of evictions carried out without prior notice, legal reasoning, or resettlement measures. Many affected individuals possess documents such as ration cards, land pattas, voter IDs, and Aadhaar cards, evidence that is often dismissed as "inauthentic."
The Dholpur eviction of September 2021 remains a searing memory. A minor was shot dead during police firing, and a journalist was filmed desecrating the body, an image that epitomised the collapse of law, humanity, and state ethics.
VI. Conservation or Dispossession?
In several instances, the state has cited environmental concerns to justify evictions, particularly in floodplains and forest reserves. While ecological preservation is a legitimate objective, its selective application casts doubt on its sincerity. Indigenous communities often assert customary rights over forest land, rights legally recognized under the Forest Rights Act (2006).
Despite this, Assam has been notably reluctant to implement these protections. When conservation becomes a pretext for displacement without dialogue, compensation, or consultation, it ceases to be environmental stewardship and morphs into ecological authoritarianism.
VII. Between Law and Justice: A Moral Reckoning
The crisis in Assam demands more than a legalistic response. It necessitates a deeper ethical engagement. The issues at stake, migration, land, identity, and ecology, are complex and interwoven. A just approach must eschew majoritarian impulses in favor of inclusive governance.
Displacement must never precede rehabilitation. Legal ambiguities must be resolved through participatory frameworks. Most importantly, the humanity of the displaced must remain central to policymaking.
When legality is weaponised without legitimacy, and procedure takes precedence over people, governance itself begins to erode.
Conclusion: A Mirror to the Nation’s Democratic Soul
Assam’s eviction crisis is not a regional aberration; it is a prism reflecting the fragilities of India’s democratic promise. It challenges the country to confront its unresolved tensions around citizenship, pluralism, and the equitable use of state power.
Bulldozers may erase homes, but not histories. Administrative decrees may alter ownership, but not belonging. Citizenship is not merely about documentation; it is about recognition, dignity, and justice.
Until Assam, and indeed India, embraces this moral imperative, the question of "who belongs" will remain a wound unhealed, a question unanswered.
Vikiho Kiba