Author: AHAD AI SamyaTattwa

https://m.thewire.in/article/communalism/rewriting-a-martyr-the-hindutva-push-to-recast-guru-tegh-bahadurs-legacy-in-todays-india/amp

Guru Tegh Bahadur Is Not a Pawn in Today’s Wars

The easiest way to flatten a complicated past is to frame it as a theft. The recent claim that “Hindutva” is recasting Guru Tegh Bahadur’s legacy rests on precisely that move: if Hindus revere the Ninth Guru as Hind di Chadar—the Shield of Hind—it must be a contemporary appropriation. History, Sikh memory, and the record of India’s shared civilizational life tell a different story.

Begin with the uncontroversial core. Guru Tegh Bahadur was executed in 1675 after refusing to abandon his principles under Aurangzeb’s rule. Sikh and non-Sikh historians across a century concur that the immediate context involved the plight of Kashmiri Pandits petitioning for protection, and that the Guru chose martyrdom to defend freedom of conscience. Max Arthur Macauliffe’s six-volume classic, The Sikh Religion (1909), records both the petitions and the Guru’s deliberate sacrifice, drawing on early Sikh sources and oral tradition. Harbans Singh’s Encyclopaedia of Sikhism at Punjabi University, Patiala—widely used in Sikh studies—summarizes the same episode and explains why Hind di Chadar became a natural epithet in Sikh memory, not a party slogan grafted centuries later (Macauliffe 1909; Harbans Singh, Encyclopaedia of Sikhism).

To say that Hindus honoring this martyrdom is a “recast” assumes Sikh remembrance must be sealed off from the broader Indic world in which Sikhism arose, took form, and flourished. That assumption is historically thin. For much of early modern history, social life, kinship networks, festivals, and even devotional languages braided Hindus and Sikhs together in a civilizational commons. Khushwant Singh’s A History of the Sikhs notes how identity boundaries hardened relatively late under colonial modernity; before that, the traffic of people and ideas was dense, familial, and everyday. The fluidity did not negate Sikh distinctiveness; it contextualized it in a shared universe of meanings. To commemorate the Ninth Guru as a protector of all is therefore not a new “claim”; it is how many Indians—Sikh and Hindu—have long understood the moral of his death (Khushwant Singh 1963).

That moral sits inside a wider arc of suffering. It is uncomfortable, but honest historiography acknowledges a long premodern chapter of temple desecrations and religiously inflected coercions. You can debate scale and motive, as scholars do, yet the existence of that chapter is scarcely in doubt. Even a critic of “Hindutva,” the historian Jadunath Sarkar, documented aspects of Aurangzeb’s religious policy that created precisely the pressures the Guru confronted, including targeted demolitions and a turn toward stricter orthodoxy (Sarkar, History of Aurangzib). One need not caricature the entire Mughal period to see why an act of defiance undertaken for the vulnerable—for the other—reverberated so deeply among Hindus and Sikhs alike. It spoke to a civilizational instinct: when rulers turn predatory, communities must become shields for one another.

That instinct is also the best explanation for why the Ninth Guru’s memory remains so alive in a modern republic. India has lived through waves of terrorism and sectarian sabotage designed to rupture social trust, from the 1980s into the present. A meticulously documented 2022 compendium by the Vivekananda International Foundation walks through dozens of groups, their methods, and their state patrons in the region. You come away understanding not a propaganda point, but a security reality: the country’s pluralism endures in part because a sentinel ethic—the willingness to stand guard for neighbours not like you—has been made a matter of habit and honour (VIF, A Compendium of Terrorist Groups, 2022). In that light, invoking Guru Tegh Bahadur as Hind di Chadar is less about “rebranding” and more about renewing a civic vow.

The essay The Wire published invokes the Citizenship (Amendment) Act as a lens on “appropriation.” That move collapses facts into suspicion. The CAA explicitly offers an accelerated path to Indian citizenship for persecuted minorities—including Sikhs—from Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Afghanistan who entered India by the end of 2014; the government notified implementing rules in March 2024 and began issuing certificates in May. This is not theory but response: Pakistan’s small Sikh community has endured repeated targeted killings and intimidation—two Sikh shopkeepers shot dead in Peshawar in May 2022; further killings in 2023; and a broader climate for minorities flagged by U.S. religious-freedom reporting. Yet the same Pakistan has, at times, platformed Khalistan messaging to needle India—most notoriously an official Kartarpur Corridor promotional video that featured posters of Khalistani militants, and episodes that drew Indian demarches over propaganda aimed at visiting pilgrims. Put plainly: Sikhs flee Pakistan seeking safety—a reality the CAA tries to address—even as Pakistani organs and proxies instrumentalize Sikh sentiment for geopolitical gamesmanship. That is exploitation, not solidarity.

Critics will object: isn’t this just “Hindutva” trying to fold Sikh history into a Hindu narrative? That charge would carry more weight if the institutions caricatured as monolithic actually taught subsumption. They do not. The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh’s own introductory booklet—hardly a clandestine document—presents its mission in social rather than sectarian terms: character formation, national cohesion, and service. Its language about spirituality as the “soul of India” is inclusive by design, describing a civilizational ethos rather than a single denominational dogma (Vimarsh Prakashan, About RSS, 2023). You can disagree with the organization’s politics; many do. But to pretend that every Hindu articulation of reverence for Sikh heroes is an imperial edict aimed at erasing Sikh identity is to argue past the text and the facts.

A more honest conversation would centre the actual heart of Sikh teaching and the civilizational environment that received it. Mahatma Gandhi’s reflections on Hindu dharma—scattered across Young India, Harijan, and compilations like The Essence of Hinduism—describe a tradition that refuses monopoly over Truth, insists on many valid paths, and measures religious life by ethics rather than dogma. That porous, capacious sensibility is precisely the atmosphere in which the Sikh Gurus taught. When Gandhi could say “I am a Sanatani Hindu” and in the same breath affirm the equal dignity of other faiths, he was articulating an Indic grammar in which Sikhism is not foreign but familial. A Hindu who honours Guru Tegh Bahadur today is not trespassing into someone else’s shrine; he is paying respects in his own shared home (Gandhi, The Essence of Hinduism, Navajivan).

The deeper danger, in fact, lies in using imported templates to police Indian memory. If you believe the only safe way to respect minority distinctiveness is to draw rigid walls around remembrance—“Sikhs alone may speak of Sikh martyrs; Hindus keep out”—you are adopting exactly the adversarial identity logic that colonial and post-colonial multicultural bureaucracies hard-coded into public life. It is telling that even outside India, legal scholars have warned that such frameworks often misrecognize Indian traditions, mistaking overlapping communities for “oppressor–oppressed” blocs and incentivizing polarization. That lesson applies beyond courtrooms: a society that forgets how its communities bled for each other will slowly forget that they are communities at all (see Prakash Shah, “Caste in a New Light: Jati in British Multiculturalism,” 2023).

None of this asks anyone to suspend criticism of power or politics. It asks that we stop treating civilizational gratitude as theft. You do not “recast” a martyr by recovering the full circumference of the life he laid down: a teacher of the Naam, a defender of the weak, a signal of what it means to hold the line for another’s freedom. You honour him by resisting the temptation—our era’s sin—to turn saints into stakes in cultural turf wars. And you honour him by seeing his legacy walking around you, in the quiet courage that keeps a diverse nation going.

Look, finally, at the ledger of shared sacrifice in living memory. The Sikh and Hindu names etched into memorials from the borders to the streets are not segregated in death; they are shoulder-to-shoulder, as they often were in life. General V. P. Malik’s detailed account of the Kargil War captures that stubborn, ordinary heroism—the way young officers and jawans from every background bound themselves to a single purpose under fire (Malik, Kargil: From Surprise to Victory). The point is not to conflate identities, but to remember that India survives because its people, repeatedly, have refused to let identity be a permission slip to do less for one another.

You can, if you like, insist on reading every Hindu word about Guru Tegh Bahadur as a power play. Or you can read the sources, Sikh and otherwise, and notice what Indian hearts have known for three centuries: that the Ninth Guru’s sacrifice belongs to the nation because it was made for the nation’s freedom to breathe. Calling him Hind di Chadar is not a partisan trope. It is a civilizational thank you.

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Sources (external):
Max Arthur Macauliffe, The Sikh Religion: Its Gurus, Sacred Writings and Authors, 6 vols., 1909.
Harbans Singh (ed.), The Encyclopaedia of Sikhism, Punjabi University, Patiala.
Khushwant Singh, A History of the Sikhs, Vol. 1, Oxford University Press, 1963.
Sir Jadunath Sarkar, History of Aurangzib, 5 vols., 1912–24.
M. K. Gandhi, The Essence of Hinduism, Navajivan Publishing House, 1987 (compilation from Young India and Harijan).
Vivekananda International Foundation, A Compendium of Terrorist Groups, 2022.
V. P. Malik, Kargil: From Surprise to Victory, HarperCollins, 2006 (new edition preface for context).
Vimarsh Prakashan, About RSS, 4th ed., 2023.
Prakash Shah, “Caste in a New Light: Jati in British Multiculturalism,” Oñati Socio-Legal Series, 13(1), 2023.
Sita Ram Goel et al., Hindu Temples: What Happened to Them? Vol. 1, Voice of India, 1990.
Government of India, The Citizenship (Amendment) Act, 2019, Gazette of India (Act 47 of 2019).
Press Information Bureau, “First set of citizenship certificates after notification of Citizenship (Amendment) Rules, 2024,” May 15, 2024.
Reuters, “In historic homeland, Pakistan’s Sikhs live under constant threat,” Oct. 3, 2014.
Al Jazeera/Associated Press, “Suicide bomber targets security patrol in Pakistan… in a separate incident gunmen shot dead two minority Sikhs in Peshawar,” May 15, 2022.
Dawn, “Sikh trader shot dead in Peshawar,” Apr. 1, 2023.
Voice of America, “Islamic State Group Claims Killing Sikh Man in Pakistan’s Northwest,” June 25, 2023.
U.S. Commission on International Religious Freedom, Annual Report 2023: Pakistan.
NDTV, “Pakistan Kartarpur Video Shows Poster Of Killed Khalistani Separatists,” Nov. 6, 2019.
The Indian Express, “Kartarpur corridor: India dossier detailed Khalistan propaganda faced by Sikh pilgrims,” July 19, 2019.

https://www.middleeasteye.net/opinion/why-britain-can-no-longer-turn-blind-eye-hindutva-extremism

Britain Doesn’t Have a Hindutva Extremism Problem — It Has a Hinduphobia Narrative Problem

When Middle East Eye published its dramatic piece claiming that Britain “can no longer turn a blind eye” to Hindutva extremism, it attempted to inflate a fringe narrative into a national security concern. But the reality behind its centrepiece example—the Leicester disturbances of 2022—tells a story very different from the one MEE insists on. Evidence from police statements, intelligence assessments, and independent investigations showed that the earliest sparks of violence were triggered not by Hindu groups at all, but by radical Islamist misinformation networks, many operating from outside the UK, which spread fabricated claims of “Hindu mobs” and coordinated efforts to inflame communal tensions. These online campaigns—identified by both community monitors and open-source intelligence researchers—deliberately misrepresented events, mobilised crowds through incitement, and created an atmosphere of hostility that spilled into the streets. Yet MEE sidesteps this documented digital radicalism entirely, choosing instead to retrofit the unrest into a story of Hindu extremism that the facts simply do not support.

The Leicester example reveals the central problem with the MEE narrative: nuance disappears the moment it conflicts with a convenient political storyline. While Leicestershire Police made it clear that the disturbances involved multiple actors and were fuelled heavily by misinformation, the article pushes aside this complexity, eager to portray an entire religious minority as an organised extremist bloc. This selective reading becomes the foundation for a much broader—and equally unfounded—claim about Hindutva extremism supposedly rising in Britain.

The article then pivots to vague insinuations about “RSS-linked groups” operating in the UK, yet conspicuously avoids naming a single organisation. The reason for this avoidance is straightforward: no registered Hindu charity or cultural body in Britain has ever been flagged by counter-terrorism units, the Home Office, or the Prevent programme for extremist activity. Prevent, which explicitly monitors Islamist radicalisation, far-right extremism, and conspiracy-driven ideologies, has never identified Hindutva as a concern. Hindu groups in the UK operate openly, register transparently, and focus on cultural education, seva, youth mentorship, yoga programmes, and humanitarian projects. The absence of any substantive evidence forces MEE to rely instead on insinuation.

This reliance becomes more pronounced when the article attempts to use events in India as proof that Hindu extremism is spreading transnationally. But domestic Indian incidents cannot be casually projected onto diaspora communities, especially when the incidents themselves are misrepresented. The banning of the Popular Front of India (PFI), for example, was not a product of “Hindutva governance,” as MEE suggests, but the culmination of years of documented involvement in radicalisation, political violence, and recruitment pathways connected to global Islamist networks. Even Indian Christians have been targeted by ISIS-linked groomers, as documented in Swarajya’s reporting on trafficking and indoctrination cases in Kerala. Yet the MEE article avoids engaging with this extensive record of Islamist extremism, preferring instead to redirect attention toward Hindus—who have no comparable extremist footprint.

This selectivity extends to the article’s choice of “experts.” Rather than consult security professionals, intelligence analysts, or counter-extremism researchers, MEE turns to ideologues whose work depends on depicting Hindu identity as inherently oppressive. These commentators offer no primary data—no arrest records, no intelligence findings, no court cases, no patterns of radicalisation within the British Hindu community. Their authority is purely rhetorical, based on ideological predispositions rather than empirical evidence.

The deeper challenge is the longstanding misalignment between British multicultural discourse and the realities of Indian civilisational identity. British institutions, conditioned by Western racial frameworks, often misinterpret Hindu cultural expressions by squeezing them into categories such as “majority supremacy” or “ethno-nationalism,” frameworks designed for Abrahamic contexts. This misreading transforms cultural self-identification into proof of extremism. It is precisely this epistemic distortion that fuels the MEE narrative: by misunderstanding Hindu concepts, it invents threats where there are none.

What is most striking, however, is what the MEE article leaves out. Britain’s most persistent extremist threats have never come from Hindu groups. They have come from Islamist networks, far-right cells, and ideological ecosystems that have existed for decades. Scores of British citizens have travelled to fight for ISIS; Hizb-ut-Tahrir maintains a long-standing organisational presence; and radical preachers have inspired attacks on British soil. None of this, apparently, warrants space in MEE’s article. Instead, the publication conjures a novel “Hindutva threat” to dilute attention from the ideologies Britain actually confronts.

By misunderstanding Hindutva, the article also fundamentally misrepresents Hindu civilisational philosophy. Hinduism’s core is pluralism: a non-dogmatic worldview, a refusal to monopolise truth, and a historical record of coexistence unmatched by many civilisations. Hindutva, shaped by this civilisational ethos, is not an exclusivist doctrine. It is a cultural-national articulation rooted in shared heritage, not in religious supremacy. It cannot be meaningfully compared to the rigid, absolutist ideologies that define modern extremist movements.

The danger in MEE’s framing lies not in identifying a genuine threat but in manufacturing one. By presenting British Hindus as potential extremists, the article risks creating the very hostility it claims to warn against. Hindus have become targets of online harassment, misrepresentation, and prejudice precisely because narratives like this one feed public suspicion without offering evidence. It is not “Hindutva extremism” that threatens Britain—it is the growing willingness to mischaracterise a peaceful minority for political convenience.

Britain does not need moral panic about a fictitious Hindu threat. It needs intellectual honesty, empirical grounding, and a multicultural ecosystem capable of distinguishing between real extremism and manufactured narratives. Until then, British Hindus will continue to bear the burden of others’ political imagination.