Modern national security is no longer confined to physical borders.

On National Security Day 2026, India celebrates the men and women who guard its borders—from the glacial ridges of the Himalayas to the desert frontiers of Rajasthan. The spectacle of military readiness often reinforces a comforting narrative: that India’s principal security threats lie beyond its borders.

Yet beneath the triumph of improved border surveillance, satellite intelligence, and modernized defense systems lies a far more complex dilemma. The challenge today is not simply foreign aggression but the subtle paradox of internal ideological subversion—what might be described as the “internal security glitch.”

India’s defense establishment has, over the past decade, demonstrated increasing capability in conventional and hybrid warfare preparedness. According to the Ministry of Home Affairs Annual Report 2024–25, coordinated border management systems and technological upgrades have significantly strengthened India’s external security architecture.

But internal security threats—often intangible and ideological—operate on a different battlefield altogether: the realm of narrative, perception, and loyalty.

The Comfort of the “Subscription Model”

A striking contradiction has emerged within segments of public discourse. Individuals enjoy the economic and civic privileges that India’s democratic framework offers—education, legal protections, economic opportunity—while simultaneously amplifying narratives that undermine the state itself. It is, metaphorically, a subscription service with no loyalty clause.

The analogy is simple: a guest checks into a well-secured hotel, enjoys the food, safety, and infrastructure, yet spends the evening informing rivals about the building’s vulnerabilities. The contradiction lies not in dissent itself—after all, dissent is a democratic right—but in the selective romanticization of systems that would not reciprocate such freedoms.

Political theorist Partha Chatterjee once argued that democratic citizenship is built upon a “negotiated relationship between state and society” (Chatterjee, The Politics of the Governed, Columbia University Press, 2004). When that negotiation collapses into outright hostility toward the very structures that sustain it, the social contract begins to fray.

When Dissent Meets Contradiction

India’s constitutional architecture explicitly protects the right to protest and critique the state. Article 19 of the Constitution guarantees freedom of speech and expression, a principle reaffirmed repeatedly by the Supreme Court. However, the paradox arises when democratic liberties are used to glorify regimes that suppress similar freedoms.

This contradiction is not uniquely Indian. Political sociologists have long observed the phenomenon of “performative dissent,” where ideological signaling often outweighs substantive engagement with policy or governance. According to a 2023 study by the Observer Research Foundation, digital discourse around national security issues in India frequently amplifies external geopolitical narratives that do not necessarily reflect domestic realities.

The irony becomes evident when activists who freely criticize the Indian state simultaneously express admiration for governments where public dissent can lead to imprisonment or worse. In such cases, the debate shifts from legitimate criticism to a deeper question of civic responsibility.

The Cognitive Battlefield

Modern national security is no longer confined to physical borders. The battlefield increasingly lies within the information ecosystem—social media platforms, academic discourse, and digital propaganda networks. As the Global Risks Report 2025 by the World Economic Forum notes, misinformation and narrative manipulation have become critical geopolitical tools used to destabilize societies from within.

India, with its vast digital population of over 900 million internet users (Telecom Regulatory Authority of India, 2025), represents fertile ground for information warfare. Narratives—whether organically developed or externally influenced—can shape public perception in ways that traditional security frameworks struggle to address.

In this context, intellectual vigilance becomes as crucial as military readiness. Education systems, media institutions, and civil society must play a role in encouraging informed debate rather than reflexive ideological polarization. National pride, in this sense, should not be framed as blind nationalism but as an informed appreciation of democratic institutions and their fragility.

The Loyalty Question

The core issue is not dissent. Democracies thrive on disagreement. The real question is whether criticism strengthens institutions or seeks to delegitimize them entirely. Nations, after all, rely not only on armies and surveillance technologies but also on the intangible glue of collective belonging.

Political scientist Benedict Anderson famously described nations as “imagined communities” sustained by shared narratives and mutual trust (Anderson, Imagined Communities, Verso, 1983). When that trust erodes, the strongest defense systems cannot fully compensate.

As India celebrates National Security Day, the conversation must extend beyond the heroism of soldiers at the frontier. The most resilient shield a nation possesses is the civic commitment of its citizens. External enemies can be confronted with strategy and force. Internal contradictions, however, demand something far more difficult: clarity of thought, honesty in discourse, and a renewed understanding that the freedoms citizens enjoy are inseparable from the nation that sustains them.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Modi has consciously chosen an alternative model that privileges direct communication over mediated interpretation.

The criticism that India’s Prime Minister Narendra Modi has not followed the tradition of frequent press conferences is often framed as evidence of a democratic deficit. In international commentary, the press conference is treated as a near-sacred ritual of accountability, and its absence is read as avoidance.

Yet this argument overlooks political context, media evolution, and a revealing comparison with Modi’s predecessor, Manmohan Singh. To understand Modi’s communication style, one must first understand why press conferences became necessary for Singh—and why they functioned very differently from how they are remembered today.

Press Conferences as a Compulsion, Not a Virtue

During the United Progressive Alliance years in India, press conferences were frequent, but frequency should not be confused with openness. Indian media then, as now, operated through selective access, negotiated questioning, and editorial framing that often limited spontaneity. These interactions rarely produced unscripted accountability; instead, they reassured the political establishment that the Prime Minister was visible and institutionally present.

That reassurance was politically necessary. Manmohan Singh governed within a power structure in which authority was fragmented. At major public events—inaugurations, launches, and announcements—media coverage often foregrounded the Congress party leadership rather than the Prime Minister himself.

Singh’s public appearances were fewer, his mass rallies limited, and his personal political base constrained by coalition arithmetic. In such an environment, press conferences served a compensatory function. They were not primarily instruments of direct public engagement but mechanisms to assert that the Prime Minister remained central to governance.

International observers often misread this pattern as a norm of democratic virtue. In reality, it reflected a specific political necessity: visibility had to be manufactured because it was not organically produced through mass politics. The press conference became a proxy for presence.

Modi’s Presence Does Not Require Reinforcement

Narendra Modi operates from a fundamentally different political position. His visibility does not depend on press rooms or curated exchanges with editors. Since assuming office in 2014, Modi has cultivated a style of leadership defined by constant physical and symbolic presence.

Whether at large national inaugurations or small district-level programmes, his participation is extensive and highly publicised. From airport terminals to railway flag-offs, and from flagship infrastructure projects to modest local initiatives, Modi’s attendance is widely reported and directly associated with governance outcomes.

This matters because visibility in democratic politics is not merely about being seen; it is about being recognised as the locus of decision-making. Modi’s presence is not symbolic in the abstract sense but personal and repetitive, reinforcing a direct association between leadership and delivery. For supporters and critics alike, there is little ambiguity about who represents the executive authority of the Indian state.

In this context, the press conference loses its earlier function. It no longer serves as proof of relevance or authority because those attributes are already established through constant engagement. To insist on the ritual without considering the altered political reality is to mistake form for substance.

Direct Democracy in a Mediated Age

Press conferences are, by design, exercises in mediated democracy. Questions pass through editorial filters, answers are compressed into headlines, and narratives are shaped by institutional priorities that may or may not align with public concerns.

Modi has consciously chosen an alternative model that privileges direct communication over mediated interpretation.

His monthly radio programme Mann Ki Baat, direct addresses to the nation, frequent public speeches across regions, and extensive use of digital platforms represent an attempt to bypass traditional gatekeepers. This strategy reaches audiences well beyond metropolitan newsrooms, particularly in rural and semi-urban areas where studio debates have limited penetration.

For international audiences accustomed to press briefings as the primary interface between leaders and the public, this approach can appear unconventional. Within India, however, it reflects a media ecosystem transformed by mobile connectivity and social platforms.

This shift unsettles established power centres precisely because it reduces their intermediary role. The discomfort expressed as concern for democratic norms often masks a deeper anxiety about diminishing influence. The question, then, is not whether communication occurs, but who controls its framing.

Accountability Beyond the Microphone

Democratic accountability cannot be measured solely by the frequency of appearances before cameras in a press hall. It is assessed through parliamentary scrutiny, electoral verdicts, judicial review, and policy outcomes visible on the ground.

By these measures, Modi’s governments have been continuously accountable. Parliamentary debates and committee processes remain active, elections at national and state levels have repeatedly tested popular support, and courts have exercised oversight on executive actions.

To reduce accountability to a single communicative format is to adopt a narrow and culturally specific definition of democracy. Manmohan Singh governed in an era when visibility had to be carefully constructed to compensate for political constraints. Modi governs in an era of constant connection, where leadership presence is ubiquitous and often overwhelming.

One required press conferences to assert presence; the other renders them largely redundant by occupying the public space so completely.

The question, therefore, is not why Narendra Modi does not hold traditional press conferences. The more revealing question is why critics insist on judging a mass-connected, hyper-visible leader by a ritual designed for a very different political reality.

Democracies evolve, leadership styles adapt, and communication technologies reshape expectations. To ignore this evolution is to freeze democratic practice in a form that may no longer serve its intended purpose.

Sometimes, the absence of a press conference does not signal evasion. It signals the declining relevance of an old format in a transformed political landscape.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Leadership in India is ultimately not about who you speak for, but about who listens to you.

India is not a country where leadership is inherited; it is earned. Seven decades of electoral history show that Indian voters consistently reward leaders who speak the language of national aspiration rather than narrow community protection.

From the previous leaders’ developmental nationalism to Narendra Modi’s emphasis on growth and national confidence, successful leaders have framed their politics around collective futures, not sectional anxieties. It is within this political reality that Muslim leadership in India has encountered its most enduring limitation.

The Arithmetic of Democracy

Indian Muslims constitute approximately 14.2 percent of the population, according to Census 2011 data. While this makes them the country’s largest religious minority, it also underlines a fundamental truth of Indian democracy: no national election can be won on the strength of a single community.

Parliamentary majorities are built through cross-community coalitions, broad ideological appeal, and narratives that transcend identity. Leadership, therefore, cannot afford to be sectional by design.

Any political vision perceived as speaking primarily for one community—regardless of how genuine or justified its concerns may be—inevitably encounters a ceiling. This is not a reflection of prejudice alone but of electoral mathematics.

The Indian voter, across caste, class, and religion, has historically gravitated toward leaders who articulate shared aspirations such as economic mobility, dignity, infrastructure, and national pride. Community-specific representation may protect interests, but it rarely generates mass leadership capable of shaping the national imagination.

Representation Versus Statesmanship

Post-independence Muslim political leadership has often positioned itself as the custodian of Muslim concerns rather than as an architect of India’s future. The distinction between representation and statesmanship is subtle but decisive. Representation negotiates safeguards; statesmanship defines direction. One speaks defensively, the other expansively.

Political history illustrates this divide clearly. Leaders who foregrounded poverty alleviation, education, industrial growth, and national self-confidence built constituencies that cut across social lines.

By contrast, leadership that focused primarily on identity, protection, and grievance tended to remain confined to predictable vote banks. This pattern has repeated itself across decades and regions. It is not discrimination; it is how democratic incentives operate.

This approach has also shaped narrative choices. Instead of projecting ambition and confidence, Muslim leadership has often highlighted marginalization and deprivation.

While socio-economic challenges are real—documented extensively by the Sachar Committee Report (2006)—politics that continually emphasizes backwardness can unintentionally lower expectations rather than raise confidence. No community in India has produced national leaders by centering weakness; they have done so by projecting strength.

Economic Contribution Without Political Narrative

One of the most underutilized facts in Indian political discourse is the economic role of Indian Muslims. Data from the National Sample Survey Office and various industry studies show disproportionate Muslim participation in small enterprises, handicrafts, transport, retail trade, and urban informal economies.

From leather and textiles to logistics and street-level commerce, Muslim entrepreneurship forms a vital, if under-recognized, component of India’s economic ecosystem.

Yet political leadership has rarely translated this entrepreneurial presence into a forward-looking economic narrative. Instead of framing Muslims as contributors to growth and innovation, leadership discourse has remained stuck in the language of welfare and compensation.

Welfare has its place, but welfare politics alone rarely produces transformational leaders. As survey data from the Centre for the Study of Developing Societies repeatedly indicates, Indian youth voters are increasingly driven by aspirations of mobility, skills, and opportunity rather than entitlement alone.

Silence and the Cost of Invisibility

Another uncomfortable reality is the relative absence of Muslim political voices from major national debates on economic reform, technological change, national security, climate policy, or India’s global role. When leadership intervenes only on identity-linked issues, it risks being perceived as reactive rather than visionary. In Indian politics, silence is not neutrality; it is invisibility.

The core truth is straightforward. India has never rejected a leader because of religion. It has rejected leaders who fail to expand their vision beyond religion.

A Muslim leader who champions education over appeasement, growth over dependency, constitutional values over communal rhetoric, and confidence over victimhood will not be seen merely as a Muslim leader. They will be seen as an Indian leader.

Leadership in India is ultimately not about who you speak for, but about who listens to you. When Muslim political leadership begins to speak in a language in which every Indian can locate their future, the question will no longer be why such leaders have not emerged—but why it took so long.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

My religion does not define terror. It defines peace, compassion, and humanity. And millions like me are living proof.

Growing up, I often noticed a painful pattern — whenever something goes wrong in the country, a section of society immediately looks at Muslims with suspicion. A bomb blast happens, a conflict rises across the borders, or a headline flashes — and suddenly every ordinary Indian Muslim becomes answerable for something they never did and never supported.

We proudly call India an independent nation, and yes, independence is beautiful. But true independence is not just about flags and borders — it is about dignity. India will be fully free the day every hand, every face, and every identity is treated with equal respect, opportunity, and recognition in society.

People rarely talk about this: many Muslims in India still experience subtle and silent forms of discrimination. Not everywhere, not by everyone — but enough for a young girl like me to feel it deeply.

I am not generalising. I am not blaming. I am simply sharing what I lived.

I grew up in Mumbra, one of Mumbai’s largest Muslim-dominated neighbourhoods. So, I never felt a religious distinction before. I had many non-Muslim friends, but I never behaved or felt any different. However, after my parents’ divorce, I moved to Ulhasnagar to live with my maternal grandparents — and that shift introduced me to something new.

In school, there was a different gaze on me and on many other Muslim students — a gaze shaped by media headlines, not by who we truly were.

For the first time, I realised stereotypes are not always loud. Sometimes they are quiet. Sometimes they come in a casual comment, a question asked out of ignorance, or an assumption made without understanding.

Questions like:
“Sab Muslims Pakistan kyu nahi chale jaate?”,
“Pakistan ko kuch bolo toh tum log bura maan jaate ho na? You guys support Pakistan?”,
“Muslims itne bachche kyu karte hain?”,
“Tum logon ko forcefully hijab pehnaya jaata hai na?”,
“Aap log jaldi shaadi kara dete ho na? Tum log zyada padhte nahi hona?”,
“Tum log jaise jaanwaron ko maar kar kha lete ho, bura nahi lagta kya?”

There was always a separation between “they” and “us” in their conversations. And those moments stayed with me.

Today, when the idea of banning hijab trends in discussions, or when Muslims get targeted online for things beyond their control, I ask a simple question: Is this the secular India our Constitution promised?

A country where every religion, every culture, and every citizen has equal space? My intention is not to create division. My intention is to create understanding.

I am Umme Hanee Ibrahim — an Indian Muslim girl, a student, a writer, a daughter, a dreamer.

When injustice was done to Dalits, Babasaheb Dr. B.R. Ambedkar raised his voice for them and gave them their rightful place in the Constitution.

Now, I wonder who will raise their voice against the discrimination faced by Muslims today.

My religion does not define terror. It defines peace, compassion, and humanity. And millions like me are living proof.

I am not a terrorist.
I am a citizen.
I am a human being.
I am someone who wants this country to grow, not break.

India is my home. And homes thrive on equality.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

This is where the debate truly failed to meet. Nadvi spoke at the level of personal belief and moral philosophy. Akhtar spoke at the level of society, history, and institutions.

The debate between Javed Akhtar and Mufti Shamail Abdullah Nadvi, held on 20 December 2025 at Delhi’s Constitutional Club and moderated by  Saurabh Dwivedi of Lallantop, was important simply because it took place. In India today, public disagreements on religion rarely reach the stage of an open, face-to-face discussion. They usually collapse long before any discussion into outrage, boycott calls, or cancellation. This debate broke that pattern.

The event also had a long and bitter history. Months earlier, Javed Akhtar had been invited by the Urdu Academy of West Bengal to preside over a mushaira. Mufti Nadvi publicly opposed the invitation and appealed to Muslims to reject the event. The controversy grew, the mushaira was cancelled, and the matter ended without closure.

Later, Nadvi announced that a debate with Akhtar would take place on December 20. That history gave the debate added weight. It was not just about God; it was also about how disagreement should  be handled openly.

On the surface, the topic was simple: does God exist? But the debate quickly showed that the two speakers were not addressing the same question.

Mufti Nadvi came prepared. He spoke clearly, calmly, and with structure. His arguments were rooted in classical Islamic theology and philosophy. He used familiar lines of reasoning about contingency, infinite rigorous,moral order, dependence, and meaning. He stayed focused on the question as he understood it and kept returning to it. For many viewers including myself, and a large section of Muslims, this clarity made him appear the stronger participant. 

Javed Akhtar, by contrast, relied on arguments he has repeated for years in public forums. These arguments were not necessarily weak, but they were not tailored to the debate at hand. He did not directly engage with the theological framework Nadvi was using. At times, the exchange felt less like a debate and more like a loose conversation. The difference in preparation and argument was visible.

This is why many concluded that Nadvi emerged the clear winner (I believe he had won the debate thumpingly). But the deeper problem -was not performance. It was a conceptual confusion.

Javed Akhtar’s criticism has never really been about God as a metaphysical idea. His target has always been organised religion. He opposes religion as a system of power—one that controls behaviour, enforces conformity, claims moral superiority, and often causes harm. When Akhtar speaks against God, he is usually speaking against this system, not against spirituality or inner belief.

Mufti Nadvi, however, defended a very different idea of God. He spoke of God as personal, inward, and experiential. His God was about conscience, comfort, moral grounding, and meaning. This God was not tied tightly to institutions, laws, or clerical authority. In a sense, Nadvi tried to separate God from religion itself.

Because of this, the two were talking past each other from the beginning.

Akhtar criticised a God that comes with rules, punishment, and social control. Nadvi defended a God that exists beyond institutions. Akhtar challenged religion as it functions in society. Nadvi spoke of faith as it exists in the individual heart.

This mismatch weakened Akhtar’s position in the debate. He never fully clarified whether he was rejecting God altogether, rejecting religious institutions, or rejecting the social use of religion. That lack of clarity made his arguments seem scattered.

At the same time, Nadvi’s position also has limits.

The idea of a religion-free God may work philosophically, but socially it is fragile. In real life, belief does not exist in isolation. Most people do not arrive at God through abstract thinking. They encounter God through family, community, rituals, language, and tradition. For the majority, God exists because religion exists. Remove institutions, and for most people the very idea of God becomes unclear.

Believing in God while rejecting religion entirely is possible for a small, educated, and secure section of society. It is not how belief functions for most people. Akhtar understands this reality. His skepticism comes not from metaphysics, but from observing how religion actually operates in the world.

This is where the debate truly failed to meet. Nadvi spoke at the level of personal belief and moral philosophy. Akhtar spoke at the level of society, history, and institutions. One was asking how faith should be understood. The other was describing how belief actually works.

Both positions are internally consistent. But they operate at different levels. Because this difference was never resolved, the debate became a series of parallel arguments rather than a direct engagement.

Still, the debate mattered.

It showed that disagreement does not have to lead to exclusion. It showed that difficult questions can be discussed publicly without fear. In a time when religion is often used to silence criticism and atheism is often dismissed as arrogance, this conversation—however flawed—was necessary.

More such debates are not the compulsion of the hour. A society that cannot argue openly will eventually stop thinking altogether. Disagreement, when expressed honestly and faced directly, strengthens public life far more than silence ever can.

This is a question that Muslims themselves must confront honestly and internally, rather than deflecting scrutiny by labelling all inquiry as Islamophobia.

Once again, terror has struck Australia’s Jewish community. In the aftermath, a familiar argument has surfaced in the media: that only a handful of individuals, three people out of hundreds of millions of Muslims worldwide, carried out this act of extreme violence, and that the wider Muslim community has nothing to do with it. This assertion is repeatedly offered as a moral and religious defense and, on the surface, appears valid.

However, what is conveniently overlooked is that celebrations and open approval of this massacre are visible across sections of the Muslim world, particularly on social media and in private conversations. Alongside this, there has also been what can only be described as cosmetic condemnation and performative solidarity, expressed through slogans such as “Islam is against violence” and “Islam condemns this.”

In this process, the victims cease to be those who lost their lives. Instead, Islam, the religion itself is positioned as the primary victim, and the public energy shifts toward defending the religion rather than mourning the dead.

This raises a more uncomfortable but necessary question. Why does this phenomenon recur? Why does violence against Jewish civilians provoke not only silence but, in some quarters, open approval? Unless this question is confronted honestly, beyond politically correct language and defensive posturing, the cycle of denial, hypocrisy, and repetition will continue, costing more lives and deepening hatred across communities.

In the aftermath of this horrific attack on civilians, another familiar narrative has been foregrounded. Considerable emphasis has been placed on the fact that a Muslim saved people during the attack and that another Muslim stood up against the Islamist terrorists. The issue, however, is not whether a Muslim acted humanely in the face of inhuman violence. That is an expectation of any human being.

The more fundamental question is why the first individual was driven to carry out the attack in the first place. Until this question is addressed honestly, there is little meaning in celebrating the second act of resistance against jihadist violence. Acts of courage during terror attacks deserve recognition, but they cannot substitute for a serious examination of the ideological and religious conditioning that produces such violence. Without confronting these roots, such narratives risk becoming distractions rather than pathways to solutions.

Each time such an attack occurs, a familiar defence is invoked: that this is not true Islam, that this is not the Islam followed by the vast majority of Muslims. While this may be factually correct, it leaves a deeper and more unsettling question unanswered.

Why are these acts of terror repeatedly carried out in the name of Islam? This is a question that Muslims themselves must confront honestly and internally, rather than deflecting scrutiny by labelling all inquiry as Islamophobia. Genuine introspection is not an attack on faith. It is a necessary condition for preventing its distortion into an instrument of violence.

Until this question is faced squarely, moral disclaimers will continue to ring hollow and fail to address the root of the problem.

Arfa Khanum Sherwani, described the Bondi Beach attack as Islamist terrorist violence targeting a peaceful gathering. In response, she was subjected to sharp criticism from sections of the Muslim intelligentsia. She was accused of liberal hypocrisy, of playing into the hands of the West, and of immaturity, among other charges.

This reaction is revealing. It shows how even naming and condemning violence carried out in the name of Islam provokes hostility rather than introspection. The focus shifts away from the crime itself and toward discrediting the individual who dares to call it out.

If thirteen or fifteen people are killed in the name of any ideology, that ideology must be subjected to scrutiny. The problem lies not with those who identify and condemn ideological violence, but with the refusal to examine the ideas that legitimize it. The instinct to silence criticism rather than engage with it reflects a deeper discomfort with accountability.

Many argue that such attacks are a consequence of the war in Gaza and Israel’s military actions. However, this particular attack targeted Jews in Australia, was carried out by a man of Pakistani origin, and occurred on Australian soil. It had no direct connection to the conflict in Gaza.

Until recently, some of our left-liberal circles argued that the attack of 7 October was justified, claiming it was inevitable because seventy-five years of history lay behind it. Even if one were to accept the relevance of historical context, a basic question remains unanswered. What had Jews celebrating Hanukkah in Australia done to people living far away in Pakistan to provoke such violence?

Yet the attack exposes something more troubling. The Gaza conflict is increasingly being conflated and weaponised to justify hostility toward Jewish communities across the world. Political anger over a distant war is redirected into hatred against civilians who have no role in that conflict.

This is deeply concerning. Slogans such as “from the river to the sea” can easily be stripped of political context and transformed into rhetoric that legitimises indiscriminate violence. What begins as a political position risks mutating into a justification for collective punishment and terror.

This slippage between protest and violence must be recognized and confronted before it becomes normalized, and the texts that give moral justification to Muslims to carry out such attacks such as Sahih Bukhari’s Hadees in which Prophet Mohammed reported to have said that ‘The Hour will not be established until you fight with the Jews, and the stone behind which a Jew will be hiding will say. “O Muslim! There is a Jew hiding behind me, so kill him.”

What it does require is a responsible, contextual explanation of such texts—how they emerged in specific historical circumstances, how classical scholars understood their limits, and why they cannot be mechanically or morally applied to contemporary civilian life.

Islamic history itself offers clear counterpoints to extremist readings. Jewish–Muslim collaboration was not an anomaly but a lived reality: the Jewish physician who served Sultan Salahuddin Ayyubi, or the Jewish neighbour of the great scholar Abdullah bin Mubarak, are reminders that coexistence, trust, and shared civic life were integral to Muslim societies. These realities stand in direct contradiction to modern attempts to universalise selective texts into timeless mandates of violence.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

This is why rhetoric like Madani’s troubles me personally! it erases achievements like mine.

India’s prominent Islamic scholar Arshad Madani’s recent claim that Muslims “cannot become Vice-Chancellors in India” and that even if they do, “they will be put in jail,” has triggered substantial debate. His remarks, framed in response to the Al-Falah University investigation, were intended to foreground discrimination faced by Muslims in higher education.

Yet, instead of sparking constructive discussion, his statement amplified communal anxieties and reinforced a narrative of permanent marginalization.

For many, it revived a familiar political tactic — invoking collective helplessness to mobilize community sentiment, while eclipsing real issues such as internal inequalities, socio-economic deprivation, and the lack of investment in education.

What stirred the public reaction was not merely the content of Madani’s statement, but the sweeping finality with which he made it. Instead of critiquing specific institutional failures, he suggested that Indian Muslims, by virtue of their identity, are categorically barred from academic leadership. This framing, as argued in the recent ThePrint column critiquing his rhetoric manufactures a sense of fatalism, almost instructing young Muslims to believe that aspiration itself is futile!

It transforms a complex structural issue into a communal indictment, and in doing so, shifts blame externally while ignoring the reforms needed internally.

Contradictions Between Rhetoric and Reality

Madani’s statement, when examined against historical and contemporary facts, quickly becomes contradictory. India’s educational landscape has not been uniformly inclusive, there is undeniable under-representation of Muslims, especially from marginalized sub-groups like Pasmanda Muslims. But the claim that “no Muslim can become a Vice-Chancellor” is factually untrue.

Muslim scholars have held VC positions across Indian universities. From early examples like Ross Masood of AMU, to contemporary appointments such as Mazhar Asif at Jamia Millia Islamia (2024), the record clearly contradicts Madani’s absolutes. Recent data compiled across central and state universities shows that over the decades, more than 280 Muslims have held Vice-Chancellorships. This number is small in proportion to population share, but it proves possibility, not impossibility.

By ignoring these facts, Madani’s narrative has collapsed into contradiction: on one side, he claims Muslims are entirely excluded; on the other, the evidence shows that despite structural limitations, Muslims have risen within academic leadership.

This contradiction matters because it exposes the underlying flaw in his rhetoric. Instead of highlighting systemic barriers, he paints the system in itself as permanently closed. Instead of empowering young Muslims to aim for academic leadership, he inadvertently discourages them. Instead of demanding reforms, he encourages resignation. A rhetoric meant to defend the community ends up weakening it.

Communal Divisions Are Real, But They Cannot Be the Only Lens

No one can deny that communal divisions persist in India. Biases, sometimes subtle, sometimes overt do influence public perception. Yet, to treat communal identity as the only motive or determinant of success risks flattening the story of Indian Muslims into a permanent victimhood model.

Such a model erases internal diversity within the community, overlooks socio-economic inequalities that often matter more than religion, ignores class privilege among the elites who often deploy the language of victimhood, discourages women and young Muslims from pursuing leadership roles, prevents collaboration and bridge-building with other communities.

Critiques of Madani’s statement emphasize this point precisely: when leaders repeatedly recycle narratives of helplessness, they “kill aspiration before discrimination even gets a chance to operate.” The voice of the ordinary Muslim who wants opportunity, dignity, and progress is overshadowed by a rhetoric that prioritizes grievance over growth.

Muslim Vice-Chancellors: A Factual Rebuttal

To provide clarity, several notable Muslim scholars have served as Vice-Chancellors across major Indian universities. Early figures include Ross Masood, who led Aligarh Muslim University (AMU), followed by Abdul Aleem, who served as AMU’s Vice-Chancellor from 1968 to 1974.

More recent appointments further illustrate this legacy: Mazhar Asif was appointed Vice-Chancellor of Jamia Millia Islamia in 2024, while Mohammad Miyan previously headed Maulana Azad National Urdu University (MANUU). The list also includes distinguished leaders such as Zakir Hussain, who not only served as Vice-Chancellor of Jamia Millia Islamia but went on to become the President of India; Talat Ahmad, who held Vice-Chancellorships at both Jamia Millia Islamia and the University of Kashmir; A.R. Kidwai, another former AMU Vice-Chancellor; and Saqib Raza Khan, who served as Vice-Chancellor of Ranchi University.

This is not an exhaustive list,  it simply illustrates that Madani’s categorical claim is false. Structural under-representation needs reform, but erasing Muslim academic leadership altogether is misleading and harmful.

Despite structural challenges and undeniable gender disparities, Muslim women have also risen to top academic leadership positions, a fact that directly contradicts the narrative that Muslims, or Muslim women in particular, are entirely excluded from India’s higher education leadership.

The most historic example came in 2024, when Prof. Naima Khatoon became the first woman Vice-Chancellor of Aligarh Muslim University (AMU) in its 100-year history. Her appointment was not gestural, rather it reflected long academic experience, administrative capability, and scholarly merit. AMU, an institution often portrayed as conservative or resistant to women’s leadership unanimously endorsed her, signalling a substantive shift in institutional imagination.

Another important name is Prof. Najma Akhtar, who served as the first woman Vice-Chancellor of Jamia Millia Islamia (2019-2024). Under her tenure, Jamia rose among top-ranked Indian universities and secured major research and accreditation milestones. Her leadership demonstrated that Muslim women can shape academic institutions at the highest level, steering them through public scrutiny, political pressure, and administrative complexity.

Though few in number, these Muslim women Vice-Chancellors represent real, powerful precedents. Their achievements stand as evidence that the barriers are not absolute and that Muslim women, given space and opportunity, can lead some of India’s most influential universities.

My Journey as a Muslim Woman in Public Institutions

My own experience stands as quiet proof that institutional spaces in India are not permanently closed to Muslims, nor to Muslim women. Working in the South-India’s Karnataka Legislative Assembly, I witnessed firsthand that entry into governance and public service is possible, attainable, and often shaped more by merit, initiative, and opportunity than by identity.

I was not limited by my hijab, my name, or my background. Instead, I was entrusted with responsibility, seriousness, and professional respect. My experience disrupts the narrative that Muslims, especially Muslim women, cannot enter corridors of power or influence. It demonstrates that while biases exist, they do not define every institution or individual. More importantly, it shows that portraying Muslims exclusively as victims denies the lived realities of those who are breaking barriers every day.

This is why rhetoric like Madani’s troubles me personally! it erases achievements like mine. It tells young Muslim girls that no matter how hard they try, the system will reject them.

The Community Deserves Better Than Recycled Helplessness

Arshad Madani’s statement may hold concerns, but by presenting it as discrimination in absolute, fatalistic terms, it harms rather than helps. It narrows Muslim identity to a single narrative of exclusion, discourages young achievers, and obstructs the introspective reforms the community urgently needs.

The future of Indian Muslims cannot be shaped by grievance alone. It must be shaped by educational upliftment, internal social reform, women’s empowerment, merit-based achievement, and cooperative engagement with the wider society.

We deserve leaders who inspire aspiration, not those who extinguish it.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Indian Muslim women are beginning to shape South Asia’s diplomatic landscape through regional collaborations, cultural exchanges, and academic partnerships.

India’s Muslim women are increasingly becoming central figures in shaping South Asia’s emerging framework of gender diplomacy. Their influence is rooted in constitutional literacy, legal engagement, political participation, and regional cooperation — all of which together create a multidimensional presence that extends far beyond national borders.

As South Asia navigates shared challenges such as climate vulnerability, regional economic disparities, digital transitions, and institutional reforms, the leadership of Indian Muslim women offers a model of stable, inclusive, and reform-oriented diplomacy. Their rise is defined not by confrontation but by strengthening democratic values and the rule of law, making their role exceptionally significant in contemporary regional discourse.

Constitutional Democracy and the Legal Foundations of Diplomacy

A distinctive aspect of their growing influence lies in their engagement with India’s constitutional order and legal system. Muslim women across universities, civic forums, and professional spaces have become consistent advocates for constitutional guarantees under Articles 14, 15, 19, and 21 — rights ensuring equality, freedom, and dignity.

This constitutional awareness enables them to articulate domestic challenges in a language that aligns seamlessly with international legal norms, including CEDAW, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and the UN Sustainable Development Goals.

Their familiarity with major national laws further elevates their presence in public discourse. They actively engage with key legislation such as the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act, the Muslim Women (Protection of Rights on Marriage) Act, the Juvenile Justice Act, and the Right to Education Act.

Through legal-awareness programs, community dispute-resolution initiatives, and university research forums, they demonstrate how national laws can be implemented effectively to strengthen community well-being and institutional accountability. In a region where legal reform and gender justice are pressing issues, their rights-based approach offers South Asia a stable and non-controversial model for progress.

Political Representation and Strengthening Democratic Institutions

Indian Muslim women are also gradually reshaping political participation in India. Their increasing presence in panchayats, municipal bodies, state development boards, legislative research institutions, and administrative services underscores a growing acceptance of inclusive governance. Through these roles, they contribute to policymaking on public health, digital governance, education reforms, women’s safety, and welfare delivery — all crucial components of modern governance.

Their participation reinforces democratic decentralization and demonstrates how diverse perspectives can strengthen institutional decision-making. By contributing to legislative reviews, policy consultations, governance audits, and development monitoring, they support India’s broader commitment to pluralism and democratic continuity. For international observers, their political engagement signals a strengthening of India’s institutional credibility and reflects a governance culture rooted in transparency, procedural fairness, and rule of law. This enhances India’s diplomatic standing in regional and global forums concerned with governance, gender equality, and institutional resilience.

Cross-Border Collaboration and Rights-Based Regional Engagement

Beyond national boundaries, Indian Muslim women are beginning to shape South Asia’s diplomatic landscape through regional collaborations, cultural exchanges, and academic partnerships. Their participation in international conferences on public policy, gender rights, climate adaptation, peacebuilding, and sustainable development enables them to contribute perspectives that resonate with shared South Asian priorities.

They also engage in civil-society partnerships that focus on humanitarian cooperation, youth leadership, and interfaith dialogue — spaces that play an increasingly important role in long-term regional diplomacy. Their involvement in research initiatives related to comparative constitutional studies, migration policy, health equity, and education access allows them to connect India’s domestic experiences with regional development frameworks.

This rights-based regional engagement supports people-to-people diplomacy, creating a foundation for trust and cooperation that complements formal state-level diplomatic efforts.

Education, Economic Leadership, and Expanding Global Influence

Education remains one of the strongest pillars of their diplomatic influence. With growing access to higher education, global scholarships, exchange programs, and leadership training, Indian Muslim women are participating in global intellectual networks that shape governance and development debates.

Their academic work in law, political science, economics, sociology, and public administration contributes to regional knowledge systems and strengthens South Asia’s presence in global policy spaces.

Economically, they play an increasingly significant role as entrepreneurs, legal professionals, technologists, healthcare specialists, and educators. Their involvement in microenterprise initiatives, financial inclusion programs, digital-skills training, and innovation ecosystems adds an economic dimension to their diplomatic footprint.

These contributions support regional economic cooperation, especially in areas such as women’s workforce participation, digital access, and community development. Their work aligns with South Asia’s broader goals of economic connectivity and sustainable development, making them key contributors to regional diplomatic progress.

India’s Muslim women are thus crafting an impactful and sophisticated model of gender diplomacy — one that integrates constitutional values, legal reasoning, political participation, educational advancement, and cross-border collaboration. Their leadership reinforces India’s democratic commitments while helping create a more stable, inclusive, and cooperative South Asian region.

For international audiences, their role offers an insightful example of how law-grounded, people-centered, and non-controversial leadership can reshape diplomatic discourse in a diverse and rapidly evolving region. By transforming constitutional ideals into regional cooperation frameworks, India’s Muslim women are redefining the future of South Asian diplomacy and contributing to a vision of shared progress, institutional stability, and gender-responsive governance.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

When asked what finally broke the camel’s back, he explained that tensions within SIMI had been simmering…

The interviewee is a senior jailed leader of the Students Islamic Movement of India (SIMI), imprisoned for over 15 years across various district and central prisons, with several trials still pending. This reporter met him during a court hearing. SIMI, banned in 2001, was a student organization accused of extremist activities. 

His name appears in Indian Mujahideen: The Enemy Within by Shishir Gupta as an attendee of the 2006 Ujjain meeting, and in multiple intelligence and media reports linking him closely to Safdar Nagori and other top SIMI leaders. And at the time of his arrest undoubtedly top 10 leaders of the organization. He spoke on strict conditions of anonymity.

The interview has been edited and condensed.

He says his journey into SIMI began rather innocuously — through a study centre in his locality operated by the organization. “I used to go there simply to study. They had good study material,” recalls the senior leader, now in his mid forties. But, he admits, that space gradually became his entry point into a world of ideas that would go on to take him to the path of Political Islam.

“Before the ban, I was not very active, I came into contact with them only eight months before the Ban” he says candidly. But the government’s ban on SIMI in 2001, he says, was a turning point. “It made me rethink my ideas, and the larger question of how Islam is being attacked in India. I began to ask myself — if an organization or an ideology is so vehemently targeted by the state, then perhaps there’s something in it that unsettles the powers that be.”

It was this line of thought that pushed him deeper into the Underground Islamist movement. “I began reading more, and became more active after the Ban,” he says. 

By Mid 2004, he found himself drawn into the organization’s inner circles. He recalls being part of several meetings that would later culminate in the eventual split within SIMI.

When asked what finally broke the camel’s back, he explained that tensions within SIMI had been simmering since Shahid Badr Falahi, SIMI President’s release from prison. By then, Falahi had already developed ideological differences with Safdar Nagori’s faction. 

Yet, the breaking point came with a meeting in Bengaluru, where a committee was formed to promote and campaign for an international Caliphate ( Khilafat) and explore possible approaches for jihad in India. When Falahi returned to Azamgarh, he and his supporters denounced these resolutions as reckless and suicidal.

Within twenty days, another meeting was convened in Azamgarh to revoke the Bengaluru decisions—an episode that coincided with Falahi’s formal retirement. “The revocation unsettled me no end, I realized then that they lacked the conviction to carry the struggle forward. The split that followed was inevitable—they were cowardly and hypocritical, willing to sacrifice Islam and the so-called radicals, to preserve SIMI’s image.”

When Falahi retired, he directed his supporters to withdraw completely from all forms of organizational work and activism. He instructed them to suspend any plans for agitation or mobilization and instead focus their entire effort on challenging the government’s proscription of SIMI before the Tribunal. 

This marked a decisive shift in SIMI’s internal orientation, signaling Falahi’s preference for a legal and defensive strategy over the confrontational path advocated by Nagori’s faction.

When asked about the approach of Falahi to go to the Tribunal to lift the ban, he scoffed: “How long have they been running to the Tribunal?” After this reporter answered “about 24 years,” he said, “There’s your answer. The Tribunal won’t solve this. We’ve wasted lakhs on that foolish body — seeking justice from the court of Batil (False Hood) will never restore the forces of Allah and His Messenger. 

When Justice Gita Mittal’s tribunal lifted the SIMI ban on 5 August 2008, the Union government immediately ran to the Supreme Court and obtained a stay the very next day. Even if the Tribunal decides in our favour it is of no use to us.

“The so-called moderate SIMI was filled with corrupt people,” he remarked sharply. 

“Let me tell you an incident—you know X , right?” he asked this reporter, I nodded in recognition. “He was suspended because he embezzled one lakh rupees from SIMI’s funds for his personal use. That’s your ‘moderate’ SIMI—the one celebrated by Muslim activists and sections of the left-leaning media as the real, legitimate organization.” 

He paused before adding, “They were morally compromised. That’s precisely why they were accepted by the mainstream.”

“This was not a one-off incident,” he emphasized. “It kept happening. The so-called Islamist activists, the self-styled mujahids, were involved in such acts repeatedly—even as they projected piety and hurled moral questions at others. We at the lower ranks had no idea. 

Only after rising within the organization did I begin to see how deep it ran. It was rampant, pervasive, and never made public, there was widespread corruption at the upper echelons of SIMI.”

He also accused Falahi faction of siding with the state and framing the Nagori Group, while projecting that a “hardline group” within SIMI pushed for militancy, and had hijacked the organization and he was fighting the same people that the state was fighting. 

By March 2006, the movement had practically become defunct, he says. Those who came to be labelled by the media as the Nagori group, he adds, were trying to revive the movement and continue its work.

Reflecting on his own activism and ideas , he says many of those later branded as the Nagori group were influenced by the Taliban’s regime in Afghanistan, which he saw as the only “true” example of social justice and Islam. 

“I read that a bag of money lay untouched for three days in Kabul,” he said. “That is Islam’s justice.” If we seek to implement the same in India, what is wrong?

If Hindutva forces can openly demand a Hindu Rashtra with the ruling party’s and its parent organizations blessing, why should Muslims be ashamed to assert their own religious aspirations? 

In a democracy, we have the same right to state our convictions — not a version concocted by mullahs or madrasas, but one grounded in the teachings of Allah and His Prophet. We are not inventing Islam; we are reclaiming the faith’s principles and asking for the muslims to follow what they claim to follow.

“Modi and Yogi have made our work easier—the rage is already there. The Muslim masses are crying out for a movement like SIMI. But the cowards and hypocrites who call themselves leaders of the Muslim community, this spineless leadership, cannot channelize that anger. They have betrayed the very people they claim to represent.”

On being asked about his thoughts of SIMI being involved in Terrorist acts? He said, “At the 2006 Ujjain meeting we resolved to carry out targeted attacks on Hindutva leaders and state agents we held responsible for crimes against Muslims — but we explicitly rejected suicide bombings and indiscriminate terror”.

Although the state has blamed SIMI for many attacks, he insisted, “We have never killed an Indian civilian” and categorically denied involvement in terrorist attacks.

He conceded the organisation discussed and even shortlisted targets — naming Pravin Togadia and L.K. Advani — arguing such killings would “send a strong message” to those who, in his view, violated the sanctity of their faith.

Apart from that admission, he told the reporter that much of what is already in the public record about the group’s activities is broadly accurate except the aspect mentioned above, that “SIMI was involved in terrorist activities”.

As the interview neared its end, he was asked about his thoughts on Safdar Nagori. His response was firm, “Safdar Nagori is a hero. He has never bowed before batil (falsehood), and he never will. We are proud of him and confident in his resolve. We expect nothing but our eventual release or martyrdom, Inshallah.”

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

The most powerful sections of Son of Hamas describe Yousef’s encounters with ordinary Israelis and Palestinians who refuse to kill….

Since the announcement of the ceasefire in Palestine, my thoughts have instinctively turned toward Son of Hamas by Mosab Hassan Yousef. I’d been meaning to read it ever since a friend recommended it to me in late August. I finally sat down to read it four days ago — and it’s one of those rare books that leaves you troubled and thinking long after you’ve put it down.

In Son of Hamas, Mosab Hassan Yousef narrates one of the most morally fraught journeys of our time—the story of the son of a founding leader of Hamas who becomes an informant for Israel’s internal security service, the Shin Bet. The book is a profound and an insider’s reflection on one of the most complex human conflicts in modern history.

What stands out in Yousef’s account is not merely his personal reflections, but the human complexity he brings to the political tragedy of Palestine as the protagonist of his memoirs. He writes neither as a Palestinian nor as a sympathizer of Israel, but as a man shaped by ceaseless violence—prisons, bombings, raids, and death.

His politicization, unlike what is often imagined in Western commentary, does not stem from religious indoctrination but from lived experience: from watching his father, Sheikh Hassan Yousef, repeatedly arrested, imprisoned, and brutalized by Israeli forces. Politics, as Yousef’s story reminds us, does not grow out of ideology alone and primarily ; it takes root in suffering and in the injustices people endure in their daily lives.

Portrayal of his father might be deeply unsettling for Israeli readers. Far from the caricature of a fanatic and bloodthirsty cleric that dominates Israeli and Western discourse, Sheikh Hassan appears as a compassionate, devout, and humane man—a moral role model for a community often portrayed as barbaric and violent.

The dissonance between this portrayal and the over-demonized image of Hamas in mainstream narratives exposes the intellectual dishonesty that drives much of Western discourse. Israel, as experts point out, has inflated the image of Hamas to justify its militarization and continued occupation. The refusal to see humanity in the adversary is the first act of moral failure that sustains the cycle of violence.

Hamas’s ideology presents a profound obstacle to negotiated peace: its charter and public rhetoric leave little conceptual space for a permanent political settlement that recognises a Jewish national presence in historic Palestine.

That is not merely a tactical or strategic problem; it is a moral problem with no easy answers. If a movement’s stated aim is the elimination or delegitimization of ownership of land of a whole people, then conventional diplomatic tools — ceasefires, confidence-building measures, or even a two-state framework negotiated at elite levels — cannot by themselves resolve the underlying moral impasse.

Any political solution that ignores or paper-over these existential claims will be unstable at best and fraudulent at worst, because it fails to subject foundational ideas to the scrutiny they urgently require.

When Hamas consistently takes refuge in the Hadees of Prophet Mohammed in Sahih Muslim: “The last hour would not come unless the Muslims will fight against the Jews and the Muslims would kill them until the Jews would hide themselves behind a stone or a tree and a stone or a tree would say: Muslim, or the servant of Allah, there is a Jew behind me; come and kill him”.

Is any viable, durable political solution possible without directly confronting the religious texts and beliefs that many cite as justification for violence? If a scripture — widely read and accepted by a large community — is interpreted to endorse the destruction of another people, can we realistically expect those who are referenced to be killed to simply sit back and await their own predicted annihilation? This isn’t a fringe citation; it is drawn from material many Sunni Muslims regard as authoritative and prophetic.

If political strategy proceeds while ignoring such claims, can we honestly expect peaceful coexistence —Public debate must therefore address not only borders and security arrangements, but also the ideational premises that have been used to justify the killing and dispossession and continues to do so of so many innocent people.

The book offers no comfort to either side. Yousef’s critique of Hamas is scathing; he does not romanticize its militancy and calls it for what it is. Yet he insists that such movements do not arise in a vacuum. They emerge from genuine political grievances, collective despair, and the absence of any viable political solution.

To dismiss every act of violence as “terrorism,” without engaging meaningfully with the structural causes that produce it, is to perpetuate a conflict that has already consumed generations.

At one point, Yousef recalls how his friend Saleh was killed by the Shin Bet and the IDF, and how his Israeli handler, Loai, broke down, lamenting: “He really believed he was doing something good for his people.” That admission—from within the Israeli intelligence establishment—captures the absurdity of the conflict. When both sides believe they are doing good, ridiculous and genocidal slogans begin to masquerade as viable solutions, solution is the most difficult thing to come to.

Yousef’s reflections on the futility of the so-called “peace process” are particularly poignant. The Oslo Accords, and the idea of peace imposed from above, were always bound to fail because the masses on both sides had not reconciled to peace itself. When mainstream political space is suffocated, it inevitably gives rise to the fringes. 

The most powerful sections of Son of Hamas describe Yousef’s encounters with ordinary Israelis and Palestinians who refuse to kill—not out of weakness, but out of conviction that every human life is sacred. He tells the story of a Jewish man who converted to Christianity and refused to serve in the Israeli army, enduring imprisonment for his belief that killing an unarmed human being violates the essence of his faith.

Yousef recognizes in this man a mirror of himself: someone who seeks to end violence, not perpetuate it. If such individuals multiplied on both sides, peace could one day become a reality.

Yousef’s honesty is also his tragedy. He is deeply naïve at times, believing that moral clarity can transcend the politics of power. His condemnation of suicide bombings, while morally correct, risks ignoring their political context. The bombers of the al-Qassam Brigades and other factions, however horrifying their acts, acted out of conviction that they were striking back against decades of occupation and humiliation. To understand such acts is not to condone them, but to recognize that they are not born of madness, but of genuine grievances that remain unaddressed to this idea and Israel has only worsened this crisis .

The Israeli and Western refusal to engage with that reality—the insistence on treating all Palestinian violence as irrational evil—has only deepened the wounds.

Israel’s strategy of assassination, collective punishment, and mass incarceration has not destroyed Hamas; it has made it stronger. The assassinations of leaders such as Sheikh Ahmed Yassin, Yahya Sinwar, and Mohammed Deif have not ended the movement, because Hamas is not reducible to its leaders. It is an organization rooted in the lived experience of occupation and the genuine concerns of the Palestinian people.

As Yousef notes, to think Hamas can be eliminated militarily is a dangerous delusion.

Son of Hamas ultimately reveals that both Israel and Hamas are trapped in a moral stalemate. Israel’s power is absolute, but its legitimacy is eroding. Hamas’s resistance is enduring, but its methods remain morally corrosive. Between these poles, the ordinary people—the ones who refuse to kill, betray, or dehumanize—remain invisible.

Yousef’s story, then, is not one of a Spy, as both Israelis and Palestinians have claimed. It is a story of impossible choices and moral courage, of a man who tried to humanize both sides and found himself alienated from each.

In the end,  Son of Hamas forces us to confront a painful truth: no ideology, whether Zionism or Islamism, can contain the full humanity of those caught in its machinery. The challenge is not to destroy the other, but to recover the human within ourselves and try to work out a solution that could restore our humanity.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.