Pakistan’s “Ummah message” is clear: solidarity is for wars and slogans, not for marriages, not for everyday equality.

The dream of Muslim unity—or Ummah solidarity—is often invoked in rhetorical, moral, and geopolitical terms. Yet for many Pasmanda and low-caste Muslims across South Asia, that narrative carries within it deep hypocrisy.

It asks suffering communities to rally, to protest, to pledge loyalty to a pan-Islamic identity, when in practice those same communities are neglected, excluded, or discriminated against by the very states and elites claiming to speak for all Muslims.

Caste, Discrimination, and Dissent within Pakistan

The critique of Pakistani “Ummah” rhetoric is not limited to India. Within Pakistan itself, low-caste Muslim communities—what some call “Pasmanda Muslims” there as well—face systemic discrimination rooted in caste-like hierarchies, structural exclusion, and social stigma.

Although Islam in its doctrine rejects caste, in practice the South Asian Muslim world has retained stratification. Scholars and activists have spoken openly of “Sayedism” or “Ashrafization” — the assertion by Sayeds or claimants to noble descent of superiority over lower-status Muslim groups.

In Pakistan, communities such as Mochi (traditional cobblers), Charhoa / Qassar (washer communities), and other artisan or “untouchable” lineage groups (sometimes Darzi, Dhobi, etc.) continue to experience social exclusion, discrimination in marriage, limited property rights, denial of equal respect, and denial of participation in religious authority circles.

An Al Jazeera commentary notes that literal violence, land grabbing, social ostracism, and the silencing of caste disputes in Pakistani media all serve to preserve an illusion that caste does not exist in Muslim society. The caste hierarchies are “publicly silenced but privately enforced”.

Thus, when Pakistani elites broadcast solidarity with distant Muslim struggles, but ignore or suppress demands from low-caste Muslims in their own society, the claim of universal Ummah becomes hollow.

It exposes a divide: those inside the circle of power receive moral voice, those outside it are silenced.

Elite Endogamy and the Hypocrisy of Solidarity

One of the most telling tests of true unity is marriage. In South Asian Muslim societies, marriage is a powerful vector of status, integration, and symbolic equality.

If the Ummah narrative were sincere, one might expect that Muslim elites—whether in Pakistan or India—would intermarry with deserving low-caste or Pasmanda Muslims, as evidence of transcending internal hierarchies. But that rarely happens.

In both Indian and Pakistani Muslim societies, Ashraf (so-called noble or high status) elites typically marry among their own lineages: Sayeds with Sayeds, Sheikhs with Sheikhs, Mirzas with Mirzas. Marriages across caste lines—especially downward—are extremely rare and usually stigmatized.

Anecdotally and observationally, it is almost unheard of for Ashraf elites to openly marry women from Pasmanda communities, or to give wives’ daughters to men from marginalized Muslim castes. Why? Because endogamy is both a social ritual and a power mechanism: it maintains status boundaries, control over lineage, and cultural prestige.

When those elites then preach Ummah solidarity, insisting that Muslims everywhere must unite under one banner, they are demanding emotional allegiance from those whose own status they refuse to cross. It is a double standard: unity in rhetoric, exclusion in practice.

That hypocrisy is especially stark when these elites use Pakistan’s foreign policy or missionary zeal to rally Muslims in India, Afghanistan, Palestine or elsewhere, while shunning egalitarian social relations even within their own societies.

Pakistan’s “Ummah message” is clear: solidarity is for wars and slogans, not for marriages, not for everyday equality.

The Indian Muslim Exclusion from OIC & the One-Sided Cry for Ummah

Consider first the status of Indian Muslims in the broader Muslim world. India is home to perhaps the world’s largest minority Muslim population—over 150-200 million by many estimates.

Yet curiously, Indian Muslims have never enjoyed institutional voice in the Organization of Islamic Cooperation (OIC). The OIC, which claims to represent the collective interests of Muslim nations, has never granted India—even as a non-member Muslim country—a meaningful seat, even consultative status, or real influence in its policymaking.

Critics point out that at the 1969 Rabat Islamic Summit, India was invited, but under pressure from Pakistan was made to withdraw. Pakistani diplomacy and influence have long insisted that India’s Muslim question be mediated through Islamabad’s narratives.

As Middle-east expert Zahack Tanvir puts it, “in five decades … Indian Muslims have never had a seat at the table of the OIC”, leaving India’s vast Muslim population institutionally invisible.

This exclusion is not a mere oversight. It is a structural marker: Indian Muslims are asked repeatedly to “stand for Ummah” in speeches, protests, diplomatic gestures, yet in the actual halls of power they are never granted membership or say. As Zahack aptly asked: “why do Indian Muslims continue to sacrifice … for a ‘brotherhood’ that has consistently ignored and sidelined them?”

The pattern is obvious: Pakistan claims to champion Muslim causes abroad—Kashmir, Palestine, Rohingya—but excludes the very Muslims living inside India from its leadership of that narrative. How can Muslims be united under a banner that denies agency and representation to hundreds of millions at home?

Toward a Sincere, Inclusive Ummah

This critique does not deny the spiritual or moral appeal of Muslim unity. Many Pasmanda Muslims, Indian or Pakistani, do believe in a compassionate Ummah—one of mutual responsibility, equitable rights, and shared dignity.

But they reject the version of Ummah unity that is selective, hypocritical, and exclusionary.

What is demanded instead is an Ummah that begins by correcting the wrongs within: by recognizing the agency of excluded Muslims, by ensuring representation (for example, including Indian Muslims in OIC deliberations), by dismantling caste‐style hierarchies, by encouraging cross-caste marriages as a lived symbol of equality, and by ensuring that solidarity is not just turned outward but applied inward.

Until then, the rejection of Pakistan’s narrative by Pasmanda and low-caste Muslims—whether in India or Pakistan—is not a rejection of faith, but a rejection of being asked to wear unity as a hollow mask.

Real unity must include the oppressed, not merely summon their voices while denying them power.

If you like, I can prepare a version of this for Pakistani audiences, or include more incisive case studies or interviews.

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

As Telangana heads toward local elections, a caste-blind political consensus continues to marginalize the Muslim majority within its own minority.

In India’s southern state of Telangana, a political drama is quietly unfolding — one that exposes the complex and often uncomfortable intersections of religion, caste, and electoral opportunism. As the state prepares for its local body elections expected in late summer 2025, a critical segment of the Muslim population — the Pasmanda community — is once again confronting political invisibility.

Comprising 81% of Telangana’s Muslim population, Pasmanda Muslims represent a mosaic of historically marginalized occupational groups — from butchers and barbers to weavers and tanners. Yet, despite their demographic dominance and backward caste status, they remain conspicuously absent from political leadership and policy-making. Their plight offers a telling glimpse into how electoral democracies can fail the very majorities they claim to represent.

A Demographic Power with Political Silence

India is often celebrated as the world’s largest democracy. But democracy, in form, doesn’t always guarantee inclusivity in substance. In Telangana, Muslims make up roughly 12.56% of the population, and within them, Pasmanda groups are the overwhelming majority. However, representation in political parties, legislative bodies, and even local governance structures remains disproportionately skewed in favor of elite Ashraf Muslims — a minority within the minority.

This disconnect is not merely symbolic; it has tangible socio-economic consequences. Pasmanda communities are consistently ranked among the poorest, least educated, and most job-insecure segments in Indian society. But when it comes to political alliances and candidate selections, their voice is rarely heard.

Congress and the Illusion of Social Justice

The ruling Congress Party, which reclaimed power in Telangana in 2023, has made significant overtures toward caste equity. It recently released long-demanded caste census data and expanded reservations for Backward Classes (BC) in local body elections to 42%. On paper, these are progressive steps.

But the devil lies in the details — or rather, in their absence. While Pasmanda Muslims are classified under BC, no sub-quota or reserved seat allocations have been announced. The risk? That dominant caste groups — both Hindu and Muslim — will continue to monopolize the benefits, leaving Pasmandas with little more than symbolic inclusion.

For a party that brands itself as the custodian of social justice, the refusal to institutionalize representation for the numerically largest Muslim group reeks of electoral calculus, not ideological conviction.

AIMIM: A Partner or a Gatekeeper?

Further complicating matters is Congress’s increasing alignment with the All India Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen (AIMIM), a Hyderabad-based Muslim party led by the influential Owaisi family. While AIMIM positions itself as the voice of Indian Muslims, critics argue that its leadership — drawn from Ashraf elites — has shown little appetite for addressing internal caste disparities within the Muslim community.

To many Pasmanda activists, the Congress-AIMIM partnership is not a bridge but a barrier. It effectively outsources Muslim political representation to a party that has historically sidelined backward caste Muslims. The result? A political paradox in which the Muslim majority within Telangana’s Muslims is structurally locked out of power, even in elections meant to empower the grassroots.

BJP’s Pasmanda Rhetoric: Inclusion in the North, Exclusion in the South

At the national level, India’s ruling Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) has launched an aggressive campaign to court Pasmanda Muslims, particularly in northern states like Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. Prime Minister Narendra Modi has invoked their historical marginalization in multiple speeches, presenting the BJP as a party that transcends religious lines in its fight against caste inequality.

Yet in Telangana, the BJP sings a different tune. Its state unit has vehemently opposed the inclusion of Pasmanda Muslims in the BC list, citing religious objections. This double standard not only undermines the central leadership’s narrative but also exposes a deeper contradiction — one where caste equality is conditional upon geography and political expedience.

Pasmanda Voices: Demanding Justice, Not Charity

From within the community, frustration is mounting. Mohammed Shabbeer, working president of a Pasmanda advocacy group, puts it plainly: “Numbers mean nothing without representation. Congress hides behind broad quotas, and BJP hides behind religious lines. Neither wants to genuinely empower us.”

Shukuroddin, who leads an association representing backward Muslim groups like the Dudekulas and Noorbash, echoes this sentiment: “We are always good enough to vote, but never good enough to lead. This isn’t inclusion — it’s electoral exploitation.”

These voices don’t demand charity. They demand justice — a fair share of political space in accordance with their demographic reality.

The Global Lens: Why This Story Matters

For an international audience watching India’s democratic evolution, the Pasmanda issue is more than a local or sectarian squabble. It’s a case study in how caste hierarchies can fracture even ostensibly unified religious identities. It is also a reminder that marginalization operates in layers — and that the language of rights must reach beyond majoritarian binaries of Hindu and Muslim.

In a world grappling with the politics of inclusion — from African-Americans in the U.S. to migrant communities in Europe — the Pasmanda struggle adds a uniquely South Asian dimension to a global conversation.

Will the Cycle Finally Break?

As Telangana moves toward local elections, the answer to whether Pasmanda Muslims will finally gain real representation is far from clear. What is clear, however, is that continued silence — both institutional and electoral — will only deepen existing fissures.

Democracy thrives not merely on votes, but on voice. Unless Telangana’s political parties are willing to recognize the latter, the largest segment of its Muslim population will remain politically invisible — again.

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

Only then will Muslims cease to be ruled in the name of fear—and start living as full citizens of a republic they help build every day.

Since 2014, Indian Muslims have been caught in a spiral of fear and political confusion. The Bharatiya Janata Party’s ascent to power was, for many, a moment of rupture—a decisive break from the past. The party that had once taken responsibility for the demolition of the 16th-century Babri Masjid was now ruling from the centre. The wound of 1992, which forever communalized India’s political terrain, had now translated into a permanent sense of existential siege for Muslims.

In this atmosphere, Muslim anxieties have increasingly turned toward one phrase: “leadership”. A leadership that would represent them, defend their interests, articulate their pain, and resist the Hindutva offensive. But what exactly is “Muslim leadership”? Who defines it, and on what grounds? What are its aims? These questions remain unanswered.

Muslim Leadership: A Floating Signifier

Today, to speak of Muslim leadership is to walk into a semantic maze. Does it mean clerical authority? Electoral representation? Civil society mobilisation? Each comes with its own contradictions.

Groups like the Jamaat-e-Islami Hind (JIH), Indian Union Muslim League (IUML), and All India Masjlid Ittehad-ul-Muslieen (AIMIM) represent sharply divergent visions of Muslim politics—religiously, regionally, and ideologically. The aspirations of an AIMIM voter in Hyderabad may carry no resonance in Kerala’s IUML strongholds or in the doctrinally distinct spaces of Jamaat. There is no singular “Muslim aspiration”. The imagined unity of the ummah dissolves the moment it is brought into contact with India’s vast regional, sectarian, and linguistic diversities.

Since the demolition of Babri Masjid, a deep sense of alienation and hyper politicisation has festered among Indian Muslims. Meanwhile, the state has since encouraged a version of “Muslim politics” that is either wholly apolitical (clergy-centric), tokenistic (electing a few symbolic figures), or hyper-nationalist (Muslims defending the Constitution louder than anyone else)  leaving virtually no space for any other form of articulation.

Crisis of Representation 

India’s secular-liberal intelligentsia has also contributed to the crisis. They have internalised the logic that Muslims must only be represented by Muslims—an echo of the very communal logic that partitioned the subcontinent. This view romanticises identity but ignores class, ideology, and material politics. It reduces Muslims to religious subjects rather than complex social actors.

This has led to a strange tolerance for performative religiosity among Muslim representatives. A Muslim Member of Legislative Assembly (MLA) can openly celebrate Hindu festivals or avoid raising Muslim concerns altogether, and yet face no criticism—because their mere presence is deemed sufficient. As long as someone with a Muslim name occupies a post, the job is assumed done. This is not representation—it is throwing some crumbs so one of the them could sit amongst one of them.

Moreover, if Muslims demand their own leadership, can Hindus not do the same? Can the majority not claim the same right to religious self-organisation? This contradiction is rarely acknowledged. The logic of communal representation, if applied consistently, would end secular democracy altogether. It would lead us back to the very framework that justified Partition: that Hindus and Muslims are two separate nations.

Leadership or Reaction? The Crisis of Political Imagination

Muslim leadership today is primarily reactive. It is shaped by Hindutva offensives and often exists only as their mirror image. If a bill is passed against Waqf properties, the one who tears it up in the legislature is seen as a leader. If a mosque is threatened, the one who files a PIL becomes the saviour. This reactionary instinct lacks a long-term political programme. It can mobilise anger, but rarely build anything substantive .

The truth is stark: there is no democratic, transparent, pan-Indian Muslim body that can claim to represent Indian Muslims. The All India Muslim Personal Law Board is neither elected nor accountable. Political parties like AIMIM can only claim to represent a section of the Indian Muslims .

The Danger of Aspiration Without Direction

If the current trajectory continues, Muslim political energies will either be absorbed into Hindutva’s reactive machinery or dissipate into nostalgia and despair. The call for “our own leader” will remain an emotional impulse, not a strategic position. Worse, it will obscure the actual sites of Muslim suffering—education, housing, employment, incarceration.

There is no short cut. Muslims in India must participate not as a community but as citizens—in all their class, gender, and ideological diversity. They must build secular and democratic movements for justice, not reactive fronts for identity defence. The alternative is not another “Muslim party,” but an alternative from amongst the Muslims asserting themselves as the citizens of the largest democracy—shaping the future alongside others.

Conclusion: Representation is Not Redemption

The First-Past-the-Post system has no room for religious representation, and perhaps it should not. The solution to Muslim exclusion as citizens lies not in symbolic figures, nor in communally carved parties, but in becoming masters of their own fate and self introspection themselves as citizens.

To demand Muslim leadership is not wrong—but to mistake visibility for power, or identity for programme, is dangerous. Muslim leadership must cease to be a mythological hope projected onto charismatic individuals, and become a rigorous, grassroots, multi-class democratic project rooted in the struggle for dignity.

Only then will Muslims cease to be ruled in the name of fear—and start living as full citizens of a republic they help build every day.

Recognizing caste within the Muslim population isn’t a threat to unity; it’s a path toward justice.

In a landmark shift, India’s central government has decided to include caste data in the upcoming national census—the first time such a detailed caste count will take place since 1931. On paper, it’s a technical change. But for millions of India’s most invisible citizens, it’s potentially transformative.

Among those who stand to gain the most are Pasmanda Muslims—a broad umbrella term that includes Dalit, Adivasi, and other backward-class Muslim communities. Despite being the numerical majority among India’s Muslims, Pasmandas have long lived in the shadows of policy, politics, and even community representation.

A recent caste survey in Telangana revealed something telling: nearly 80% of the state’s Muslims belong to Pasmanda backgrounds. It was a statistic that didn’t surprise social scientists or grassroots activists—but it was a rare moment of clarity in a country where Muslim identity is often painted with one broad brushstroke.

That simplification has done real harm. The Indian Muslim is frequently seen as a singular, undivided bloc—one minority, one vote bank, one voice. But that narrative erases the deep social hierarchies and caste divisions within the community itself. And Pasmandas, who bear the brunt of poverty, discrimination, and social exclusion, are the ones who disappear from view.

Within the community, elite Muslim groups—those traditionally seen as Ashraf or upper caste—have dominated platforms of power: political parties, religious boards, cultural institutions, and media narratives. Meanwhile, Pasmandas have remained underrepresented, often struggling with lower literacy rates, poorer healthcare, and fewer job opportunities.

The last significant spotlight on Muslim marginalization came nearly two decades ago, through the Sachar Committee Report in 2006. Its findings were damning: many Muslim groups, especially those from Pasmanda backgrounds, fared worse than Scheduled Castes in key development indicators. Yet the lack of caste-disaggregated data meant that policies based on these findings were broad and ineffective. Everyone got lumped together. And as usual, those at the bottom lost out.

That’s why this new caste census matters. It could offer, for the first time in independent India, a full picture of caste realities within the Muslim community. It could provide a foundation for smarter, more targeted policies—ones that don’t just benefit “Muslims” in general, but specifically uplift those most in need.

It also corrects a historical oversight. During British rule, caste among Muslims was acknowledged and documented. The 1901 and 1931 censuses classified Muslims into categories like Ashraf (nobles), Ajlaf (backward), and Arzal (Dalit or “untouchable”). These categories were crude, but they at least reflected a social truth. After independence, however, India adopted a more homogenized view of its minorities—particularly Muslims—and quietly dropped caste from the conversation.

This erasure wasn’t just bureaucratic. It had real consequences. In 1950, Dalit Muslims lost their eligibility for Scheduled Caste (SC) reservations. To this day, they are denied affirmative action on the basis of caste, despite experiencing the same structural discrimination as their Hindu Dalit counterparts.

Welfare schemes and affirmative policies, designed without acknowledging these internal hierarchies, have repeatedly missed their mark. Upper-caste Muslims—though a minority within the minority—have often been the primary beneficiaries. Pasmandas remain at the margins.

For the upcoming census to make a difference, it must be handled transparently and without political interference. The data should be released in full. No filters. No spin. Only then can it serve as a blueprint for real change.

This isn’t about dividing communities—it’s about understanding them. Recognizing caste within the Muslim population isn’t a threat to unity; it’s a path toward justice. It gives voice to those who have long been ignored and lays the groundwork for more inclusive policies.

For Pasmanda Muslims, this census isn’t just a count. It’s a chance to be seen.

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