Category: Human Rights

  • When young girls pay the cost of climate change

    When young girls pay the cost of climate change

    Jaffarabad, Balochistan: When floodwaters swept through Shaista’s village in 2022, they didn’t just take her family’s home and farmland, they also took away her childhood. Just 14 years old, Shaista was married off to a man twice her age in exchange for a small dowry. 

    Her father, a daily wage laborer, said it was the most painful decision he has ever made.

    “I didn’t want to do it,” he said, his eyes fixed on the cracked earth where his fields used to be. “But I have four other children to feed and no land to farm. We lost everything.”

    Stories like Shaista’s are becoming increasingly common across Balochistan, Pakistan’s poorest province. In 2022, devastating floods there driven by record-breaking monsoon rains and accelerated glacial melt linked to climate change, displaced over 1.5 million people.

    There is worldwide recognition that extreme weather events — not just floods, but drought, heatwaves, tornados and hurricanes — are becoming more frequent and less predictable as the planet warms. These events have devastating and long-term consequences for people in poor regions. 

    Young girls as assets 

    In districts like Jaffarabad and Chowki Jamali, the aftermath of the disaster has left families grappling with deepening poverty, food insecurity and crushing debt. For many, marrying off their young daughters is no longer just a tradition, it’s a form of survival.

    A 2023 survey by the Provincial Disaster Management Authority reported a 15% spike in underage marriages in flood-affected regions. Child rights activists warn that these numbers likely underestimate the scale of the crisis, as most cases go unreported.

    “In flood-hit areas, families are exchanging their daughters to repay loans, buy food or simply reduce the number of mouths to feed,” said Maryam Jamali, a social worker with the Madad Community organization. “We’ve documented girls as young as 12 being married to men in their forties or fifties. This isn’t about tradition anymore, it’s desperation.”

    Bride prices, once a source of negotiation and family prestige, have plummeted due to the economic collapse. Activists report instances where girls are married for as little as 100,000 Pakistani rupees (roughly US$360), or in some cases, simply traded for livestock or debt forgiveness.

    “There are villages where girls are married off like assets being liquidated,” said Sikander Bizenjo, a co-founder of the Balochistan Youth Action Committee. “It’s not just a violation of rights, it’s a systemic failure rooted in climate vulnerability, poverty and legal gaps.”

    Marriage as debt payment

    In Usta Muhammad, another flood-ravaged district, 13-year-old Sumaira (name changed) was married off just weeks after her family’s mud house collapsed. Her parents received 300,000 rupees (a little over $1,000) from the groom’s family, which they used to rebuild their shelter and repay moneylenders. 

    Now pregnant, Sumaira, has dropped out of school and rarely leaves her husband’s house.

    “I miss my friends and school,” she told us softly. “I wanted to become a teacher. But my parents said there was no other way.”

    Child marriages like Shaista’s and Sumaira’s carry lasting consequences: early pregnancies that endanger both mother and child, disrupted education, psychological trauma and lifetime economic dependence. 

    A study following the 2010 floods found maternal mortality rates in some affected regions were as high as 381 per 100,000 live births, one of the highest in the world.

    “These girls are thrust into adult roles before they’re ready,” said Dr. Sameena Khan, a gynecologist in Quetta. “They face dangerous pregnancies, and many have no access to medical care. Their childhood ends the moment they say ‘yes’ or are forced to.”

    Giving girls an alternative to marriage

    The crisis unfolding in Balochistan is not unique. Across the world, climate shocks and civil strife are causing displacement that intensifies the risk of child marriage. 

    In 2024, News Decoder correspondent Katherine Lake Berz interviewed 14-year-old Ola, who nearly became a child bride after her Syrian family, displaced by war and facing severe poverty, began arranging her marriage to an older man. But before that coil happen, Ola was able to enroll in Alsama, a non-governmental organization that provides secondary education to refugee girls. In less than a year, she was reading English at A2 level.

    Alsama, which has more than 900 students across four schools and a waiting list of hundreds, has been able to show girls and their parents that education can offer an alternative path to security and dignity.

    In Balochistan, the absence of legal safeguards compounds the crisis. The Sindh province banned child marriage in 2013 under the Sindh Child Marriage Restraint Act which set the legal age at 18 for both girls and boys. But Balochistan has yet to enact a comparable law. 

    Nationally, Pakistan remains bound by the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, which requires nations to end child marriage but enforcement remains patchy. And Pakistan is not one of the 16 countries that have also signed onto the Convention on Consent to Marriage, Minimum Age for Marriage and Registration of Marriages, which forbids marriage before a girl reaches puberty and requires complete freedom in the choice of a spouse. 

    Pakistan needs to reform its laws, said human rights lawyer Ali Dayan Hasan. “Without a clear provincial law and mechanisms to enforce it, girls are at the mercy of social pressure and economic collapse,” Hasan said. “We need legal reform that matches the urgency of the climate and humanitarian crises we are facing.”

    Attempts to introduce child marriage laws in Balochistan have repeatedly stalled amid political resistance and lack of awareness. Religious and tribal leaders argue that such laws interfere with cultural norms, while government officials cite limited administrative capacity in rural areas.

    Bringing an end to child marriages

    The solution, experts agree, is multi-pronged: legal reform, economic recovery and access to education.

    “We can’t end child marriage without rebuilding livelihoods,” said Bizenjo. “Families need food, land, healthcare and hope. If they can’t survive, they’ll continue to sacrifice their daughters.”

    Grassroots organizations like Madad and Sujag Sansar provide vocational training, safe shelters and legal awareness sessions in flood-affected areas. In one case, Sujag Sansar intervened to stop the marriage of 10-year-old Mehtab in Sindh, enrolling her in a sewing workshop instead.

    UNICEF estimates that child marriages could increase by 18% in Pakistan due to the 2022 floods, potentially reversing years of progress. The agency is urging governments to integrate child protection into climate adaptation and disaster relief programs.

    “Girls must not be forgotten in climate response plans,” said UNICEF Pakistan’s representative Abdullah Fadil. “Their future cannot be the cost of every flood, every drought, every crisis.”

    Back in Jaffarabad, Shaista now lives with her husband’s family in a two-room house. Her dreams of becoming a doctor have faded, replaced by household chores and looming motherhood. “I wanted to study more,” she said. “But now I have to take care of others.”

    Questions to consider:

    1. How does the marriage of young girls connect to climate change?

    2. How can societies end the practice of child marriage?

    3. Why do you think only 16 countries have signed the UN treaty that requires consent for marriages?

     

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  • East Africa’s Queer communities show progress and hope

    East Africa’s Queer communities show progress and hope

    Around the world, Queer rights are being challenged, attacked and denied. Governments are cutting budgets for important health and other programmes. 

    But in parts of Africa, there are distinct signs of progress. Organizations that serve and advocate for Queer communities in Eastern Africa now see hope for the future. That’s the case even in Uganda where “aggravated homosexuality” has carried the death penalty since 2023.

    “It is still a very hard environment but we are doing much better than a lot of people think,” said Brian Aliganyira, founder and executive director of the Ark Wellness Hub, an organization based in Kampala, Uganda, that helps LGBT community members who have difficulty accessing health services in public hospitals due to both anti-Queer laws and ongoing community stigma and discrimination.

    “We are doing better in terms of fighting back and supporting communities, not necessarily better in terms of protection, rights and freedoms,” Aliganyira said. 

    In Kenya, homosexual acts are illegal. Rodney Otieno, who is the co-founder and policy director for the Queer & Allied Chamber of Commerce Africa of Nairobi (QACC), described the creation of a “Queer ecosystem” that mobilises resources, builds social enterprises, creates sustainable economic pathways for people of the Queer community and attracts impact investments – using money for good causes even as it generates wealth. The QACC now boasts over 3,000 members in Kenya, plus others across Africa.

    Language and discrimination

    Otieno and the four other East African community leaders interviewed for this article generally prefer to use the more fluid term “Queer” rather than “LGBTQ” or any of its many variations. 

    Kevin Ngabo, a Queer activist and social justice advocate, said that local languages often lack positive or even neutral words to describe queer identities — only stigmatizing ones.

    “‘Queer’ gives us an umbrella that feels both flexible and affirming, allowing people to belong without being boxed in by rigid categories,” Ngabo said. “It’s a way of saying: I am different and that difference is valid.”,

    Ngabo was born and raised in Rwanda before moving to Nairobi, Kenya late last year.

    In Rwanda, there are no anti-discrimination laws but the government does not recognize same-sex marriages. 

    Pride in one’s identity

    A Queer rights activist in Kigali, who asked not to be identified, said that young people are feeling more comfortable with their identities. “GenZers are taking up more space as their authentic selves,” the activist said. “They are even getting more understanding and affection from their families. It is not ‘weird’ anymore. This will become the norm.”

    The Kigali activist has recently been involved in both a Pride Party and a Queer film festival, which attracted over 600 paying participants from around the region. 

    Queer community leaders point out different elements of both recent progress and hopes for sustainable success in the future beyond the constant imperative to keep community members safe and to try to get discriminatory laws repealed.

    “We need to continue to work together, make good use of our limited resources, be clear about what we are doing, raise awareness and be diplomatic when dealing with the authorities” says another anonymous Queer activist and feminist in Rwanda.

    Ngabo in Nairobi believes that Queer people across the region need to develop a strong sense of community and be “stubborn when they are told they can’t do something, and take space and stand up for what they believe in.”

    Finding allies to your cause

    Aliganyira in Kampala agrees that people should not run away from their ongoing challenges with safety, respect and equal opportunity and instead continue to show courage, resilience and perseverance to defend their current rights and expand them in future.

    A Queer activist in Rwanda stressed the need to work with allies and others to create more education and training to promote awareness, understanding and empathy.

    Ngabo shared some advice: “Start small and start where you are,” he said. “Speak up when you hear harmful stereotypes. Make space for people to share their stories without fear. Support Queer-led groups, attend events, or even just show up for your friends when they need someone safe to lean on.”

    Allyship isn’t always grand, he said. “It’s often in the quiet, consistent choices to affirm someone’s humanity,” he said.

    Queer community leaders say they are generally optimistic about the future.

    “In five to 10 years’ time, the narrative will change completely,” said Otieno in Nairobi.

    Changing people’s perceptions

    Young queer activists are being empowered and learning how to take on leadership roles in government and in other decision-making spaces, said one Rwandan activist.

    Another Rwandan activist envisions a future where same sex couples will be able to get married, adopt kids and access medical services freely.  

    “Things will improve if we are smart,” the activist said. “I hope we will see more safe spaces, more affirming healthcare (especially in mental health), more economic inclusion, and more media and policy-making representation. In the end though, dignity is more important than law changes.”

    Ngabo in Nairobi agrees: “We want respect,” he said. “We want to feel safe. We don’t want equality. We want equal opportunities. We want to thrive.”

    Real progress means being able to live authentically without having to conform, he said. “Stronger protections under the law, safe spaces to gather, visibility in public life, and most importantly, Queer people leading the narrative about our own lives,” Ngabo said. “These are what a brighter future looks like to me.”

    Even in Uganda, Aliganyira believes things can still change for the better.

    Uganda was once considered the safest place for Queer people in East Africa before the 1990s, he said.

    “Uganda can undo what it has done and get beyond fear and uncertainty,” he said. “It’s up to everyone to come together and overcome division.”

    Questions to consider:

    1. Why do LGBTQIA+ community members in East Africa prefer to call themselves “Queer”?

    2. What are the key elements of a brighter future for the East African Queer communities?

    3. What can you do yourself to stand up for human rights as an ally or a member of a Queer community where you live?

     

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  • Should a society pay for sins of the past?

    Should a society pay for sins of the past?

    The Church of England announced in January that it would pledge £100 million to address the past wrongs of its historic links with the colonial-era slave trade.

    The acknowledgment by Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury, that it was “time to take action to address our shameful past” was a sign of a growing focus on reparations for the sufferings of slavery some two centuries after it began to be outlawed.

    At issue is the question of whether states, institutions and even individuals, whose predecessors and ancestors profited from trans-Atlantic slavery, owe a debt to the descendants of those who were forced to endure it.

    Up to 12 million enslaved Africans are estimated to have been forcibly shipped across the Atlantic from the 16th and 19th centuries by European colonisers.

    The now independent countries of the Caribbean and Africa that emerged from the colonial era have long pressed for an apology and restitution from those societies that were enriched by the trade.

    Slavery and civil rights

    In the United States, those pressuring for reparations to be paid to the descendants of slaves have highlighted the continuing economic and social pressures on many Black Americans, a century and a half after the institution of slavery was formally abolished.

    The U.S. debate has led to political controversy over who should receive reparations, with some campaigners in California pressing for potentially life-changing pay-outs to individual descendants of those exploited well into the post-slavery era. In January, Los Angeles County agreed to pay $20 million for a beach that was seized from a Black family in the 1920s and returned to their heirs this summer.

    Wider attention to the issue was spurred in part by the aftermath of the murder of George Floyd, an African-American man, by a white police officer in Minneapolis in 2020.

    His death galvanised the Black Lives Matter movement and prompted widespread demonstrations that spread from the U.S. to more than 60 countries.

    Within weeks of Floyd’s murder, anti-racism protestors in the UK had toppled the statue of Edward Colston, a 17th-century Bristol merchant and slave trader who, until then, was barely known outside his home city. Other monuments to those said to have profited from the trade were also targeted.

    One factor in the wider public’s previous ignorance of Colston and others might be that the history of the slave era had traditionally been taught in Britain and elsewhere from the perspective of the positive legacy of white abolitionists such as William Wilberforce, rather than on the perpetrators of slavery.

    Restitution now for sins of the past

    The issue of reparations — should they be paid and, if so, to whom? — raises important moral and philosophical questions.

    Should modern generations pay for the crimes of their ancestors, while others are compensated for wrongs they did not personally suffer? Even the Christian Bible is ambivalent about whether the sins of the father should be visited on the son.

    In the midst of the wider theoretical debate, however, some people have already made up their own minds.

    This month [Eds: February], the family of BBC correspondent Laura Trevelyan announced they would pay £100,000 in reparations for their ancestors’ ownership of more than 1,000 enslaved Africans on the Caribbean island of Grenada.

    They also planned to visit the now independent state of Grenada to issue a public apology.

    Trevelyan and her relatives had been unaware of the slavery connection until her cousin, John Dower, uncovered it in 2016 while working on the family’s history.

    Can equity be achieved without reparations?

    Dower acknowledges the role of George Floyd’s death and the Black Lives Matter campaign in raising the profile of the reparations debate. But he says it was the publication of a database of slaveowners by University College London that led to the revelation of his own family’s connection.

    He told News Decoder the world continued to live with the legacy of slavery. Dower is a resident of Brixton, a London neighbourhood that attracted Caribbean immigrants from the 1950s.

    “I see the effects of slavery every day of the week in terms of people’s lives and job prospects,” Dower said.

    Laura Trevelyan meanwhile acknowledges she is a beneficiary of the activities of her ancestors of which she had previously been unaware. “If anyone had ‘white privilege’, it was surely me, a descendant of Caribbean slave owners,” the London Observer quoted her as saying.

    “My own social and professional standing nearly 200 years after the abolition of slavery had to be related to my slave-owning ancestors, who used the profits to accumulate wealth and climb up the social ladder.”

    From individual action to a societal response

    Dower said he hoped the family’s contribution would act as an example. “We are giving according to our means. And it will be going to educational funding. We are talking about mentorship and knowledge exchange.”

    The actions of individuals may indeed put pressure on others linked to the slave trade.

    The government of Barbados is reported to have been in touch with the multimillionaire British Conservative MP Richard Drax, whose ancestors were among the prime movers behind the slave-based sugar economy on the Caribbean island.

    He still owns a plantation in Barbados as well as the 17th-century Drax Hall that local politicians want to turn into an Afro-centric museum.

    Barbados and other states in the Caribbean Community (Caricom) have long been campaigning for the payment of reparations from former colonial powers and the institutions that profited from slavery.

    It now seems that individuals might set a trend that politicians and institutions would be obliged to follow.

    The reparations debate remains a live one. It raises potentially divisive issues of Black and white identity that already feed the so-called culture wars. In the light of economic turmoil, it can also spur the rhetoric of those who oppose reparations on the grounds that ‘charity begins at home’.

    Those arguing for reparations perhaps have one trump card in their hand. One community was indeed compensated when the era of trans-Atlantic slavery ended. It was the slaveowners themselves.

    Money that should perhaps have gone to the victims of the slave trade went, instead, to those who had profited from their labours.

     

    Questions to consider:

    1. Should modern generations pay for the crimes of ancestors who owned slaves?

    2. Should people be compensated for wrongs done to their families long before they were born?

    3. If reparations are paid, should they go to individuals; governments; or to institutions that might foster greater inter-community understanding?

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  • When nations go too far

    When nations go too far

    When one nation invades another as Russia did with Ukraine, or when one country attacks civilians and then in retaliation for attacks on its citizenry the other country launches disproportional violence, where does international law come in?

    What good is international law if countries continue to violate its basic premises?

    Even though going to war violates most international law, international humanitarian law (IHL) is designed to establish parameters for how wars can be fought.

    So, paradoxically, while war itself is illegal except for under unusual circumstances such as when a country’s very existence is at stake, international humanitarian law establishes the dos and don’ts of what can be done during violent conflicts. (IHL deals with jus in bello, how wars are fought, not jus in bellum, why countries go to war.)

    The basics of international humanitarian law have evolved over time.

    The development of proportional response

    One of the earliest sets of laws came out of ancient Babylon — which is now Iraq — around 1750 BC. The Hammurabi Code, named after Babylonian King Hammurabi, declared “an eye for an eye,” which was a precursor of the concept of proportional response.

    Proportionality means if someone pokes out your eye, you cannot cut off his legs, hands and head and kill all his family and neighbors.

    Most modern laws of war date from the U.S. Civil War and the Napoleonic wars in Europe. During the American Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln asked Columbia University legal scholar Franz Lieber to establish a code for conduct for soldiers during war.

    At about the same time, after observing a particularly horrendous battle of armies fighting Napoleon, the Swiss Henry Dunant and colleagues founded the International Committee of the Red Cross which lay the groundwork for the Geneva Conventions, which govern how civilians and prisoners of war should be treated.

    The basics of modern international humanitarian law can be found in the four Geneva Conventions of 1949 and their Additional Protocol of 1977. The purpose of the Conventions and Protocol is the protection of civilians by distinguishing between combatants and non-combatants and the overall aim of “humanizing” war by assuring the distinction between fighters and civilians.

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  • Can your religion put your nationality at risk?

    Can your religion put your nationality at risk?

    Standing on the charred remains of his hut in a village near Assam’s Morigaon district in South India, Shafik Ahmed clutched a worn folder of papers: land deeds, ration cards and a laminated voter ID, all declaring the 68-year-old bicycle repairman an Indian citizen.

    None of it mattered when bulldozers rolled into his neighbourhood in June 2025, demolishing 17 homes, all belonging to Bengali-speaking Muslims.

    “I was born here, voted here, paid taxes here,” Ahmed said. “Still, they told me I am a foreigner. They dumped us near the border like we are cattle.”

    Ahmed is among the hundreds of Muslims who say they were pushed across India’s eastern border into Bangladesh in recent months, as part of what human rights lawyers say is a rapidly intensifying campaign of ethnic targeting in Assam, a region famous across the world for the quality of tea it produces. 

    The drive has escalated in the run-up to the 2026 state elections, with Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma branding undocumented Muslims as “infiltrators” and vowing to “protect the culture of Assam.”

    Islamophobia is a global concern.

    The expulsions, many executed without due legal process, have sparked concern far beyond India’s borders. As the United Nations warns of a global surge in anti-Muslim bigotry, activists say Assam’s campaign fits a broader pattern of Islamophobia playing out across continents.

    “They call it pushback,” Ahmed said. “We call it expulsion.”

    Across Assam, particularly in Muslim-majority districts like Dhubri, Barpeta and Goalpara, families wake up to midnight police knocks, arbitrary detentions and the looming threat of forced deportation.

    Rubina Khatun, 53, said she was taken without explanation from her home In May 2025, driven 200km to the Matia detention centre and later left in the no-man’s land near the India-Bangladesh border along with other women and children.

    “The soldiers shouted at us: ‘You’re not Indian anymore. Go to your country’,” she said. “But I have never been to Bangladesh. We spent hours in the swamp. No food, no water. It felt like we were being erased.”

    Applying old laws to new intolerance

    Human rights lawyer Hameed Laskar, who represents several families appealing the orders by the Foreigners Tribunals, says the government is misusing a 1950 law meant for undocumented immigrants.

    “These people have lived in Assam for generations,” Laskar said. “Some even appear on the National Register of Citizens. But a misspelled name or a missing land receipt from 1970 is enough to be declared a foreigner. It’s not legal enforcement. It’s engineered exclusion.”

    The targeting of Muslims in Assam is not new. But since the conservative Bharatiya Janata Party came to power in India in 2014, the rhetoric has hardened and the policies have sharpened.

    In 2019, the national registry process excluded nearly 2 million people, most of them Muslims. That has left families in limbo. While Hindus excluded from the list can claim citizenship under India’s 2019 Citizenship Amendment Act, there is no such provision for Muslims.

    The wife of Parvez Alam, a schoolteacher in the city of Barpeta, Aswas recently declared a foreigner despite having a birth certificate and electoral record.

    “Muslims now need 20 documents to prove their Indian-ness. Hindus only need to declare it,” Alam said. 

    Ping-ponging people across borders

    According to a June statement from Chief Minister Sarma in the state assembly, more than 300 “illegal Bangladeshis” have been expelled since May. Local media and community groups put the number closer to 500, including at least 120 women.

    But the Bangladeshi government has rejected many of these returnees, saying they have no proof of origin. Several have been stranded in border areas, caught in a bureaucratic tug-of-war.

    In one incident that drew widespread attention, 60-year-old Salim Uddin, a retired truck driver from Golaghat, was found wandering along the India-Bangladesh border after his family saw a viral video showing him being handed over to Bangladesh’s border guards.

    His son, Rashid, later confirmed that Uddin had served in the Assam Police for nearly three decades.

    “How can the son of a state police officer be declared Bangladeshi?” Rashid asked. “Had my grandfather been alive, it would have broken his heart.”

    A pattern of prejudice

    The Assam government has denied that the crackdown is communal, insisting it targets only “illegal foreigners.” But the pattern tells a different story. A recent report by a coalition of civil society groups found that over 95% of those detained or expelled this year were Bengali-speaking Muslims.

    The fear gripping Assam’s Muslims mirrors rising Islamophobia globally. From bans on hijabs in French schools to mosque attacks in the United Kingdom, Muslims across continents are facing what the United Nations calls a “widening wave of intolerance.”

    On March 15, UN Secretary-General António Guterres marked the International Day to Combat Islamophobia by warning of a disturbing rise in anti-Muslim bigotry. “This is part of a wider scourge of extremist ideologies and attacks on religious groups,” Guterres said in a video address. “Governments must foster social cohesion and protect religious freedom.”

    He called on online platforms to curb hate speech, and on leaders to avoid rhetoric that demonizes communities. Muslim civil rights groups in Europe and North America have echoed those concerns.

    A spread of intolerance across the globe

    A recent report by the Council on American-Islamic Relations documented a record 8,658 anti-Muslim incidents in 2024 alone.

    In the UK, advocacy group Tell MAMA has reported a 30% increase in Islamophobic hate crimes since October 2023, including attacks on mosques, verbal abuse and discrimination in housing and employment.

    Dr. Arshiya Khan, a political sociologist based in London, said these patterns are not isolated. “They’re interlinked,” Khan said. “What starts as state policy in one country often emboldens vigilante behaviour in others.”

    In Assam’s tea belt, the fear is palpable. In several villages, Muslim residents say they have stopped going to police stations or even hospitals, afraid they might be detained. In one case, a 27-year-old man who went to register a land dispute at a local police station was declared a foreigner after a routine ID check.

    “We don’t know who is next,” said Shahina Begum, a mother of three. “They say we don’t belong here. But where do we go?”

    Fighting back

    At least four petitions have been filed in the Assam High Court since June by families who say their relatives disappeared after being taken by police. Most had no ongoing legal cases against them.

    “They’re being disappeared without a trace,” said Laskar. “This is not law enforcement, it’s ethnic cleansing in slow motion.”

    Back in Morigaon, Shafik Ahmed said he has no plans to leave, even as bulldozers return to neighbouring villages.

    “This land is all I know. If they push me out again, I’ll come back again,” he said, eyes fixed on the debris of his former home.

    But for those like Rubina Khatun the trauma is lasting. “We’re citizens,” she said. “We have documents. We were born here. But in their eyes, we will never be Indian enough.”

    As global attention briefly turns to Assam, with international bodies urging India to uphold human rights, residents say they don’t expect justice, only survival.

    “Every day we live feels like another test to prove we exist,” Ahmed said.

     

    Questions to consider

    1. Why do Muslim citizens of Assam India believe that their government treats them differently than non-Muslims? 

    2. Should religion be a factor in determining whether someone should get national citizenship?

    3. Should a government be concerned about the religions of its citizens? 

     

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  • U.S. campuses are no longer safe spaces

    U.S. campuses are no longer safe spaces

    Leslie Ortega is pursuing her second bachelor’s degree in botany at a university in California. She earned her first degree in business administration back in December 2016. That was before U.S. President Donald Trump took office. The experience was much different then. 

    “Obama was president when I was in college from 2012-2016 and I remember how happy everyone was around me,” Ortega said. “There was an oblivious feel to it where we felt safe. Now being in school I notice that there is definitely more fear in classrooms.”

    With Trump in office for a second term, Ortega said she sees a major shift. It is no longer easy to be blind to the realities of how so many lives are changing. 

    “Existing in a world where your neighbor or your favorite food vendor can be snatched off the street on the basis of their skin color and occupation is impossible to hide from,” she said. “This has always been happening even during Obama but we had rose colored glasses when he was in office.”

    As someone who recently graduated two months ago with a bachelor of arts focused in ethnic studies, I have to agree with Ortega. I cannot ignore the current political state of the country, especially as students and universities remain potential targets of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids. 

    An attack on diverse perspectives

    On top of that, conservatives are actively taking actions that threaten diversity, equity and Inclusion measures and certain subjects like critical race theory. My major, rooted in critical race theory, is deemed controversial by some because it teaches students to critically analyze information and question authority in a sense. Ethnic Studies courses are typically taught to engage people to uncover history from non-white perspectives, unveiling a legacy of imperialism and racism. 

    Actions that make it difficult to teach or learn these concepts are being enacted by people in power who seem to lack consideration for how marginalized communities will be affected. 

    At the California university I attended, two emails from the administration addressed the topic of immigration this past semester. The first was a letter from the interim president back in February 2025 which outlined guidance for university employees and students on how to interact with ICE officers if they ever showed up on campus. 

    It stated that since a large portion of the campus is open to the general public, it is therefore open to federal officers.

    However, ICE agents could not enter areas not open to the public such as residence halls, confidential meeting rooms, employee offices or classrooms while the university was in session. This email also outlined resources students and staff could turn to such as the Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights and a new center for “Dreamers” – undocumented people who had been brought into the United States as children. It also explained how to create an immigration preparedness plan. 

    A second email was sent out two months later, with quick guide cards and a link to an immigration resources page on the university website.

    Will campus be an unsafe haven?

    It is currently summer. How the university will actually respond if ICE were to show up on campus is really up in the air. It is one thing to voice concern and another to actually intervene in the face of injustice to protect targeted individuals. 

    While I will not return to campus this fall, I have no doubt that it will be students and staff of color who will ultimately serve as the first line of defense. Given how the university has responded in the past to student activist efforts, I would not be surprised if the campus administration did little should ICE arrive. 

    Across the country, university students have watched the detainment of student activists by ICE agents. Merely advocating against Israel’s ongoing genocide of the Palestinian people in Gaza, has been deemed a crime worthy of detention and deportation.

    These detainees included Mohsen Mahdawi and Mahmoud Khalil from Columbia University and Rumeysa Ozturk from Tufts University. Khalil spent more than three months in detention before his release on 20 June. 

    The arrests of students simply for speaking out angers students like Ortega. 

    “It is infuriating to hear about student’s visas being revoked for their stance on supporting Palestine during a presidency that criminalizes opposition to the status quo,” Ortega said. “[This is] referring to anyone that critiques American ideology, the military complex or simply the American flag.”

    Arrests in the City of Angels

    Los Angeles has seen a surge of undocumented immigrants being arrested. According to the Los Angeles Times, nearly 2,800 people have been picked up by masked ICE agents on the streets, at job sites, Home Depot parking lots and even outside immigration court hearings since 6 June 2025.

    Across the country these numbers could rise. In July, the U.S. Congress passed a national budget called the “Big Beautiful Bill” which will greatly increase the number of ICE agents and detention centers. 

    I view this bill as a way to cement discrimination against immigrants into the U.S. legal framework. We are already seeing the rapid construction and opening of detention centers such as Alligator Alcatraz in Florida – a tent city that can hold up to 3,000 people 

    According to public and internal data from the U.S. Customs and Border Protection agency, as collected by NBC News, more than 56,000 people were being held in ICE detention centers as of 1 Aug. 2025.

    All this has created a state of fear. I spoke to someone who lives in California and currently holds a student visa holder. I’m not identifying the person because of fear that doing so will make them a target. The student recently earned a master’s degree in education and is currently in the admission process to a teaching credential program. 

    “There’s a culture here [in the U.S.] that when they hear that you don’t have a social security number, they stop helping you as if you were a pariah,” the person said. “I couldn’t work on campus, I lost a lot of opportunities because I didn’t have a social security number. Sometimes I could get stipends or fellowships but it was because of people who understand immigrants.”

    Silencing of student activism

    They now have a work visa and hope to get permanent residency, but given all the threats the current presidential administration has made to student visa holders, they wonder about their prospects. 

    “The silencing of the student activists is sending a message to everyone that if you dissent, if you protest, if you do not agree with what’s going on right now, then there will be consequences,” they said. 

    They said they used to be politically active, but no longer feel safe to do so here, or at least to the same degree. 

    “There’s an executive order that says that the first thing they’re going to look at about you is your social media, so you cannot even post about what you think, what you defend,” they said. “You cannot talk about the ongoing genocide anymore, because then, all the money that you have invested in changing your migratory status will be thrown to the trash. You give all your money, that’s dispossession without violence, you make this enormous sacrifice and then you don’t want to lose it, right, so you are forced, you are silenced.”

    I am choosing to censor the person’s name for the sake of their own safety and wellbeing, I can’t help but wonder if doing so represents yet another way immigrants are silenced. 

    Fighting desensitization

    All of this is to say that being a person of color and a student during this presidential administration has been exceptionally difficult. That’s particularly true for someone like Ortega, who attends school in a predominantly White area.

    “It is emotionally and mentally draining to be focusing on your safety existing on a campus that doesn’t support you if you choose to wear a keffiyeh or a patch in opposition of a felon as a president,” Ortega said. 

    I recognize that as a person of color, I might not have the same advantages as someone who is White. As an American citizen though, I have some sense of protection in speaking up. But it is my Mexican and Guatemalan heritage that fuels my fight. 

    My existence is a result of immigration; I would not be where I am today if it were not for my family members who chose to come to the United States.

    While it can be easy to become desensitized, especially with a new devastating headline every day, I urge others to hold onto some sense of hope by leaning into community resistance. Only by letting go of the belief that “this doesn’t personally affect me, so I don’t care” can we truly begin to dismantle systems of power.

    Only seven months have passed since Trump returned to the presidential office. As he continues to carry out his seemingly racist agenda that targets anyone who is low-income, disabled, queer or non-White, university campuses that are supposed to be havens for learning and connecting with new ideas, are now filled with fear and suspense.

    Questions to consider:

    1. Why are increasing numbers of university students in the United States afraid to speak out?

    2. Why do you think the author feels she doesn’t have the same protections as a U.S. citizen as someone who is White?

    3. Do you think that people who want to study in another country should be able to do so? 

     

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  • Decoder Replay: Let’s celebrate Mandela Day

    Decoder Replay: Let’s celebrate Mandela Day

    February 11, 1990 was truly a turning point in the history of South Africa.

    For decades the nation at the southern tip of the continent had been pilloried by much of the rest of the world. This was because of its apartheid racial segregation laws that hugely favoured the white population over the far larger and mostly black majority.

    Apartheid means “separateness” in Afrikaans, the language rooted in Dutch that evolved when the country was a colony.

    By 1989 — itself a remarkable year for the wave of revolutions in communist East Europe — South Africa had made significant steps in its effort to end its pariah status. International sanctions were costing it dearly economically, culturally and in sporting terms.

    As a taste of events to come, the government freed senior figures in the African National Congress (ANC), the exiled organisation waging a low-level guerrilla campaign against apartheid.

    The fight against apartheid

    A favourite weapon of the ANC was small mines. One of them exploded in a shopping mall in the commercial capital Johannesburg just as I had finished shopping there and was safely in the mall’s car park.

    But there was no word when ANC leader Nelson Mandela — who ultimately spent 27 years incarcerated, much of it in an island prison — would be freed.

    Lawyer Mandela entered the world stage with a famous speech at his 1963 trial for sabotage acts against the state in which he stated that freedom and equality were “an ideal for which I am prepared to die.”

    Releasing Mandela from prison was a key card that South Africa could play to regain respectability, and the government would play it “soon,” Anton Lubowski, an anti-apartheid activist and human rights advocate, told me.

    Lubowski did not live to see his forecast fulfilled. In September 1989, gunmen pumped AK-47 rifle rounds into him, with the coup de grace a pistol bullet. He was the latest in a long list of opposition figures in southern Africa to fall victim to unnamed assassins.

    Freedom as news

    Knowing that Mandela was expected to be released — his freedom would be a huge news story — but not knowing how or when it would happen was particularly frustrating for a news agency reporter like me.

    Reuters and its rivals compete tooth and nail to get stories first, and to get them right. Being just one minute behind another news agency on a major story rates as a failure.

    What I dreaded most was that Mandela would be released from prison unannounced, just as his ANC colleagues had been. This possibility made it necessary for me and my colleagues to be constantly alert, straining to catch the first authentic information.

    The problem was that, then as now, the pressure to get hard information was compounded by a fog of fake news and hoaxes, saying that the release of Mandela was imminent or indeed had actually happened.

    These claims were typically relayed on pagers, the messaging devices of the pre-smartphone age. Such messages, no matter how bogus-sounding, had to be checked. This took time and energy and shredded nerves.

    Recognizing a hero

    It was one such scare that prompted reporters to flock to an exclusive clinic outside Cape Town where Mandela was known to be undergoing treatment.

    It was then that another problem surfaced: Nobody among us knew what Mandela looked like after his marathon spell in prison. There had been no pictures of him. Would we even recognise him if he walked out of the clinic?

    The hilarious result was that every black man leaving the clinic — whether porter, delivery man, cleaner or whatever — came under intense scrutiny from the ranks of the world’s press assembled outside.

    But on the timing of the release, I had a lucky break. A local journalist friend introduced me to a senior member of a secretive police unit who was willing to share with me whatever information he had on when Mandela would be a free man.

    The police official’s name was Vic — I did not then know his full name. But he was no fake policeman. He introduced me to his staff in his offices, which were in a shopping arcade concealed behind what looked like a plain mirror but was in fact also a door.

    Verifying fake claims.

    All cloak-and-dagger stuff. With enormous lack of originality, my Reuters colleagues and I referred to Vic as our “Deep Throat,” the pseudonym of the informant who provided Washington Post reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein with information about the 1972 Watergate scandal.

    Some time in the latter half of 1989, Vic told me in the less than cloak-and-dagger setting of a Holiday Inn coffee shop that Mandela was likely to be released in January or February of 1990.

    This was not precise information, but at least it was better than anything that I had, or apparently anybody else in the news business.

    In later meetings, Vic refined the information without disclosing the exact day of the release, which apparently was known to just four people in the South African government.

    One of the ways Vic was valuable to us was that whenever a fake claim about Mandela’s whereabouts surfaced, I could call him, day or night, to check. And it was Vic who told me on February 10 that “it looked like” Mandela would be a free man the next day.

    And so it proved.

    Mandela instantly became universally recognisable, South Africa disbanded apartheid, elections were held in which all races voted, the ANC won, and Mandela became South Africa’s first fully democratically elected president.

    February 11, 1990 is indeed a day to remember.

     

    Three Questions to Consider

    1. Why did apartheid last so long?

    2. What was the reaction of South African whites to Mandela’s release?

    3. Can you think of someone today who is trying to fight against an system of oppression?

     

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  • With a passport, you should be able to vacation abroad. No?

    With a passport, you should be able to vacation abroad. No?

    On a weekday in Kampala, people line up early outside the embassies of European countries. Last year, almost 18,000 Ugandans joined these queues, according to an analysis by the Lago Collective. This year, I was one of them, folder in hand, hope in check. 

    Typically, those folders contain bank statements, proof of visa payment, job contracts, medical records, photos of family members, land titles, academic transcripts, flight reservations and detailed itineraries — each one meant to prove stability, legitimacy and belonging. 

    After paying to apply for a Schengen visa — which allows free travel between some 29 European countries for a limited time period — 36% of those Ugandans were rejected. Why? Mostly because embassy officials doubted the applicants would return home.

    Each applicant must pay €90. That added up to more than €1.6 million that Ugandans paid Schengen countries last year, more than half a million of which was from applicants who ended up rejected. 

    The collective wager lost by Ugandan applicants was part of an estimated €60 million spent in Africa last year on Schengen visa applications that led nowhere. In fact, Africa alone accounted for nearly half of the €130 million the world paid in failed bids to enter the Schengen zone.

    The Schengen gate

    Tucked behind those numbers lies a quieter cost: missed opportunities for work or travel and the often-overlooked spending on legal consultations or third-party agencies hired to improve one’s chances. But more tellingly, there is a perception problem — wrapped in geopolitics and sealed with a stamp of denial.

    “It’s like betting,” says Dr. Samuel Kazibwe, a Ugandan academic and policy analyst. “Nobody forces you to pay those fees, yet you know there are chances of rejection.”

    One such story belongs to Fred Mwita Machage, a Tanzanian executive based in Uganda as human resource director at the country’s transitioning electricity distribution company. Machage thought he was just booking a summer getaway — a chance not only to unwind, but to affirm that someone like him, who had worked in Canada, had traveled to the United States and Great Britain, and, if you checked his profile, was “not a desperate traveler,” could move freely in the world. That belief, like the visa itself, did not survive the process.

    He had planned a trip to France the past April. Round-trip tickets? Booked. Five-star hotel? Paid. Travel insurance? Secured. A $70,000 bank statement and a letter from his employer accompanied other documents in the application.

    “They said I had not demonstrated financial capability,” Machage recalled, incredulous. “With my profile? That bank balance? It felt like an attack on my integrity.”

    Worse, the rejection wasn’t delivered with civility: “The embassy staff were rude,” he said. “And they weren’t even European — they were African. One of the ladies looked like a Rwandan. It felt like being slapped by your own.”

    Banned from travel

    For Machage, the betrayal was not just bureaucratic — it seemed personal. He estimates his total loss at nearly $12,000, including tickets, hotel deposits, agent fees and visa costs. While he hopes for a refund, it’s understood that most travel agents don’t return payments; instead, they often suggest that you travel to a visa-free country.

    That will likely get more difficult to do. This month, U.S. President Donald Trump issued a sweeping travel ban targeting twelve countries — seven in Africa. Somalia, Sudan, Chad and Eritrea faced full bans; Burundi, Sierra Leone and Togo, partial restrictions. The official reasons included high visa overstays, poor deportation cooperation from the home countries and weak systems for internal screening. And it ordered all U.S. embassies to stop issuing visas for students to come to the United States for education, although U.S. courts are considering the legality of that order.

    For Machage, the rejection left him with a lingering sense of humiliation, though he found some small relief in a LinkedIn post where hundreds shared similar tales of visa rejection.

    “I realised I wasn’t alone,” he said, “But the process still left me feeling worthless. Sorry to mention, but it’s a disgusting ordeal.”

    I know exactly how Machage feels.

    How to prove you will return home?

    When I applied for a visa to the United Kingdom, I too was rejected. The refusal read: 

    “In light of all of the above, I am not satisfied as to your intentions in wishing to travel to the UK now. I am not satisfied that you are genuinely seeking entry for a purpose that is permitted by the visitor routes, not satisfied that you will leave the UK at the end of the visit.”

    The “I am” who issued the rejection did not sign their name. Perhaps they knew I’d write this article and mention them. How easily the “I am” dismissed my ties, my plans, my story. Meanwhile, my British friend who had invited me was livid. 

    “It felt like they were questioning my judgment — about who I can and cannot welcome into my own home,” she said. She was angry not just on my behalf, but because she felt disregarded by her own government.

    Captain Francis Babu, a former Ugandan minister and seasoned political commentator, doesn’t take visa rejections personally. He said the situation is shaped by global anxieties over the scale of emigration out of Africa into Europe that has taken place over the past decade. 

    “Because of the boat people going into Europe from Africa and many other countries and the wars in the Middle East, that has caused a little problem with immigration in most countries,” he said.

    Needing, but rejecting immigrants

    The issue is complicated. Babu said that these countries depend on the immigrants they are trying to keep out. In the United States, for example, farms depend on low-cost workers from South America. 

    “Most of those developed countries, because of their industries and having made money in the service industry, want people to do their menial jobs. So they bring people in and underpay them,” Babu said. 

    For Babu, even the application process feels unfair. “Even applying for the visa by itself is a tall order,” he said. “There are people here making money just to help you fill the form.” 

    While Babu highlights the systemic hypocrisies and challenges, others, like Kazibwe, see hope in a different approach — one rooted in political and economic organisation. Where people enjoy strong public services and can rely on a social safety net, there tends to be low emigration so countries are less hesitant to admit them.

    “That’s why countries like Seychelles are not treated the same,” he explains. “It’s rare to see someone from Seychelles doing odd jobs in Europe, yet back home they enjoy free social services.”

    For Kazibwe, the long-term fix is clear: “The solution lies in organising our countries politically and economically so that receiving countries no longer see us as flight risks,” he said.

    Perhaps that is the hardest truth. Visa rejection is not just an administrative outcome, it’s a mirror: a verdict not simply on the individual but on the nation that issued their passport.

    Back at the embassies, the queues remain. Young Ugandans, Ghanaians and Nigerians — some with degrees, others with desperation — wait in line, folders in hand, their hopes in check. And every rejection carries not just a denied trip, but a deeper question:

    What does it mean when the world sees your passport and turns you away?

     

    Questions to consider:

    1. Why are so many Ugandans getting denied travel visas to Europe?

    2. Why do some people think that the visa and immigration policies of many Western nations are hypocritical?

    3. If you were to travel abroad, how would you prove that you didn’t intend to stay permanently in that country?

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  • When the government tells you that you cannot pray

    When the government tells you that you cannot pray

    When Abdul Kadeer returned from Saudi Arabia in last month to celebrate the Muslim festival of Eid-ul-Fitr with his family in Meerut, a city northeast of New Delhi in the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, the 32-year-old found himself gripped by fear. The local administration had announced tough restrictions on Eid-ul-Fitr prayers for Muslims. 

    Eid-ul-Fitr is one of two major holidays celebrated by Muslims and commemorates the end of the holy month of Ramadan, in which Muslims fast daily from before dawn until sunset.

    Because mosques and designated grounds for prayers, known as Eidgahs, have insufficient space to accommodate the large number of worshippers during these holidays people often stop on roadsides to offer prayers. 

    But just days before the festival, Meerut police announced that offering prayers on roads and other public places could lead to passport cancellations. 

    “I came home to celebrate with my family, but now we are living in fear,” Kadeer says. “Why is it that when we pray, it becomes a problem, but during other festivals, roads are blocked and nothing happens?”

    Jamia Masjid Srinagar closed for Eid prayers in Kashmir. (Photo by Sajad Hameed)

    A minority religion

    For Kadeer, losing his passport would cost him his job.

    “I work in Saudi Arabia to support my family here,” he said. “Why are we being targeted for a prayer that lasts barely 20 minutes?”

    The state of Uttar Pradesh has a predominantly Hindu population, with Hindus comprising around 80% of the total population, while Muslims make up approximately 19%.

    Across Meerut, sentiments like Kadeer’s resonate deeply. Many Muslims in the city ask why they face restrictions when Hindu festivals frequently involve processions on public roads without similar consequences.

    “Why is it that only during Eid, roads become a law-and-order issue?” questions a shopkeeper in the city’s old quarter. “During Holi or Diwali, no one is threatened with legal action.”

    Holi and Diwali are major Hindu festivals celebrated with their own distinct rituals rooted in mythology, seasonal change and spiritual themes. Holi celebrates spring with colors, water fights and sweets, symbolizing good over evil. Diwali, the festival of lights, involves lamps, fireworks and sharing food, marking prosperity and the return of the Hindu god Rama.

    When the Indian government restricts public prayer during Muslim festivals like Eid-ul-Fitr it says it does so to maintain public order and prevent communal tensions. Authorities may cite concerns about large gatherings in public spaces causing traffic disruptions, noise pollution or potential clashes, especially in areas with a history of religious friction. 

    Tensions peaked on 31 March, for example, when violence erupted after the Eid prayer in Siwalkhas, a town northeast of New Delhi. According to police, members of two groups clashed, with reports of gunfire. Security forces quickly intervened, dispersing the crowds, but not before more than six Muslims were injured.

    A double standard?

    The restrictions on prayer have sparked national debate. Popular comedian Munawar Faruqui criticised the decision on social media, questioning why a short prayer was being singled out. But Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath defended the measure, citing the Maha Kumbh in Prayagraj as an example of religious discipline. 

    “[Six hundred and sixty million] people attended the Maha Kumbh without any incidents of violence, harassment or disorder. Roads are meant for walking,” he said, suggesting that Muslims should learn from Hindu festival gatherings. 

    Nasir Qureshi, 47, of Bijnor, said that even before Eid, they were warned not to gather in large numbers for prayers. “But when Hindus celebrate their festivals, there are no such restrictions,” he said “Why is there one rule for us and another for them?”

    The directive has drawn criticism not only from opposition parties but also from within the allies of the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party or BJP.

    Iqra Hasan, a member of parliament for the socialist Samajwadi Party, questioned the intent behind the restrictions while Chirag Paswan, a BJP ally, called for a focus on broader issues rather than communal divisions. And Union Minister Chaudhary Jayant Singh compared the crackdown to authoritarian measures described in George Orwell’s book “1984”.

    Opponents to restrictions argue that the Hajj in Mecca, with 2–3 million Muslims praying peacefully, shows that large Muslim gatherings can be managed safely, like the Maha Kumbh’s 400 million Hindus. With proper planning, India could allow Eid prayers fairly, avoiding bias.

    Police and worshippers

    In Meerut, protests took shape in subtle ways. Some worshippers displayed posters stating, “It’s not just Muslims who pray on roads.” The banners listed instances of Hindus and others conducting religious activities on public streets.

    Authorities forcibly removed the posters, leading to further tensions. Among the congregation, expressions of solidarity with Palestine were visible, with worshippers seen holding “Free Palestine” placards and some donning traditional Palestinian attire.

    Mohammed Saeed, 29, a resident of Meerut, said that the police didn’t let them complete their prayers. “They stormed in, shouting at us to leave, and when people protested, they started hitting us,” Saeed said. “Even elderly men were pushed around.”

    Police have registered cases against those raising Palestine-related issues in previous instances, making this a sensitive act of defiance. Beyond Meerut, other decisions have added to the sense of alienation. In Haryana, the state government removed Eid from its list of gazetted holidays, relegating it to a restricted holiday status. This means government offices will remain open on Eid and employees —Hindus or Muslims — must request leave if they wish to observe it.

    Asaduddin Owaisi, an member of parliament from Hyderabad and chief of the right-wing political party All India Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen, said that these kind of decisions are a direct attack on Muslim minorities in the country. 

    He also said that earlier last year the central government ordered a survey of the Jamia Masjid in Uttar Pradesh, a 500-year-old mosque that is part of a UNESCO World Heritage site. It turned into violence with five people killed and 30 injured. 

    “Hundreds were detained only to deny the survey,” Owaisis said. “These decisions will increase the hate in the communities nothing else.”

    Religious clashes elsewhere

    While India sees frequent communal flashpoints between Hindus and Muslims, other South Asian nations have also witnessed religious tensions manifesting in different ways.

    In Pakistan, religious minorities, particularly Hindus and Christians, have often faced restrictions on their religious practices, though state-imposed bans on mass religious gatherings have been rare.

    In Bangladesh, political conflicts sometimes intertwine with religious identity, leading to incidents of violence during Hindu Durga Puja celebrations. Sri Lanka has seen its own set of religious tensions, with growing restrictions on Muslim practices such as a ban on the niqab — a face veil worn by women — following the 2019 Easter bombings when 269 people were killed in six suicide bombings in churches and hotels. 

    In Kashmir, meanwhile, the state’s approach to religious gatherings has taken a different but equally restrictive form. On 31 March, as Muslims worldwide prepared for Eid-ul-Fitr, authorities in Srinagar locked down the historic Jamia Masjid, preventing worshippers from offering prayers there.

    The region’s chief cleric, Mirwaiz Umar Farooq, was placed under house arrest, a move he strongly condemned.

    “When huge claims of ‘normalcy’ are made every day by the authorities, why are Muslims in Kashmir being kept away from their religious places and practices?” Mirwaiz said in a statement. “What is the agenda? Is the collective identity of Kashmiri Muslims a threat to the rulers?”

    The Jamia Masjid closure follows a pattern seen in recent years, where authorities have restricted access to religious sites on key Islamic occasions, citing security concerns.

    Earlier in March, the mosque was locked for Shab-e-Qadr and Jummat-ul-Vida prayers, triggering strong reactions from opposition parties in Kashmir.

    Darakhshan Andrabi, who is a senior BJP leader and chairs the Jammu and Kashmir Wakf Board, a body that controls the use of religious and charitable properties, justified the decision, stating that Eid prayers could not be held at Eidgah grounds due to ongoing construction work. However, many local residents and religious leaders see such restrictions as politically motivated and part of broader efforts to control religious expression in the region.

     

    Questions to consider: 

    1. What is Eid-ul-Fitr?

    2. What is a rationale the Indian government has to restrict public prayer during Muslim festivals?

    3. Do you think that the government should be able to regulate religion? Why?

     

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