The Emotional Landscape of Eviction
While the state's bulldozers attract media attention, it is the silence of Assam's indigenous people that profoundly shapes the eviction debate. For decades, they have witnessed government neglect, illegal migration, and organized encroachment alter the demographics of their ancestral lands. Now, as the state finally takes action, their support stems not from animosity but from a deep sense of loss.
Voices of the Dispossessed
I aim to present the voices of these indigenous people, not merely as footnotes to policy but as the original stakeholders whose existence is intimately linked to the land.
On the outskirts of Sipajhar, where a widely reported eviction drive occurred in 2021, lies a nearly vanished Bodo hamlet. Of the 37 families that lived there in the 1980s, only 8 remain.
Eighty-year-old Bhaben Basumatary recalls walking barefoot through mustard fields to school, reminiscing about a river that now barely exists. "The others left," he states. "Not because they sold the land, but because they were threatened, outnumbered, and made to feel like strangers."
When asked if the eviction drive brought him relief, he replies, "Relief? No. But justice, yes. For years, they built mosques, markets, and madrassas on grazing grounds. They even renamed our river paths. Now at least someone is listening."
A Return to Roots
This sentiment resonates with the youth in his village, many of whom have moved to Mangaldoi or Guwahati. However, a few, like 24-year-old Kamesh, have returned post-eviction. "We're clearing the old fields," he says. "I want to try farming again."
In Batadrava, the birthplace of Srimanta Sankardev and a sacred site for Assamese Vaishnavites, the erosion of land is both a physical and cultural reality. Over the past 30 years, indigenous Assamese families have lost farmland and cultural sites to systematic encroachment.
Cultural Erosion and Resistance
"I'm not against any community," asserts Mrigen Goswami, an Assamese teacher who has witnessed rampant encroachment by Bengali-speaking Muslims. "But when they came, they didn't just build homes. They changed everything: language, festivals, even the names of birds."
Goswami explains that many in his village were afraid to speak out. "Political leaders came for votes. Local Congress MLAs provided benefits to Muslims. If we protested, we were branded anti-minority." Now, with the government's intervention, he senses a shift. "For the first time, I feel the state is on our side. It's late, but better than never."
He gestures toward a cluster of bulldozed structures at the edge of a paddy field. "They will build again if we are not vigilant. But for now, the land breathes again."
The Struggle for Identity in Dhubri
In the chars (riverine islands) of Dhubri, communities like the Koch-Rajbongshis, Deshis (indigenous Muslims), and other native fisherfolk have faced growing ethnic marginalization due to demographic changes.
Fisherman Ramesh Koch expresses his bitterness. "My grandfather fished here when this was all forest. He had a boat, three cows, and six acres. Today, I have half a boat, no cows, and I pay a 'tax' to illegal settlers to access my own river."
When asked about this tax, he shrugs. "They call it a 'donation' for the madrassa. If we don't pay, our nets are cut. Who do we complain to? The gaonburah (village headman) is one of them."
Ramesh's story is not unique. Across multiple chars, a pattern emerges: illegal settlers, backed by political networks, enforce shadow governance in areas long abandoned by the state. He views the eviction drives as a necessary form of civilizational correction. "We're not against anyone living peacefully. But this is not peaceful. This is demographic conquest."
The Role of Tiwa Tribal Women
In Morigaon, particularly near the wetlands (beels), Tiwa tribal women have taken a central role in resisting encroachment. For them, wetlands are not just water bodies; they are vital ritual spaces and ecological habitats.
Purnima Lalung, part of a local cooperative, recalls the day a madrassa was built on the edge of their community fishing pond. "We protested. They claimed they had permission. But we checked—there was no land record, no clearance. They just built it and waited for a politician to arrive."
After the 2023 eviction drive in her area, Purnima led a group of women to clean the beel and replant aquatic vegetables. "We've witnessed our culture die in slow motion. The beels were filled with debris, and our fish were killed. Now we are reclaiming not just land but our rights to it."
The Fear of Speaking Out
Despite their quiet support for the eviction drives, many indigenous Assamese remain reluctant to speak on record. The fear of being labeled "xenophobic," "RSS stooges," or "Hindutva agents" is palpable. Several tribal elders and Assamese Hindu leaders requested anonymity even when recounting personal trauma.
One Dimasa elder in Hojai, who lost a temple pond to encroachers, states bluntly, "The NGO wallahs will call you fascist. The Delhi press will call you genocidal. We just want our fields back."
The Emergence of a New Narrative
This silence, however, is beginning to crack. The new narrative led by Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma frames eviction not as an act of hatred but as a necessary historical correction and ecological justice, emboldening more people to speak out.
It is crucial to acknowledge the demographic shifts that have occurred. The H.S. Brahma Committee and Upamanyu Hazarika Commission indicate that districts like Dhubri, Goalpara, Barpeta, and South Salmara have experienced a dramatic rise in Bengali-speaking Muslim populations, often at the expense of indigenous tribes and Hindu peasants.
Civilisational Anxiety and Identity
This situation has resulted in a unique civilizational anxiety—not solely about territory but concerning identity, language, and continuity. A young Assamese activist from the All Assam Students' Union (AASU) in Dhekiajuli summarizes the sentiment: "Our people were displaced without war. Now the state is finally doing what it should have done decades ago. If that makes us bulldozer nationalists, so be it."
For Assam's indigenous communities, eviction represents not vengeance but a form of mourning—a mourning for rivers renamed, hills razed, temples defaced, festivals mocked, and children raised without any memory of land ownership. It also offers a glimpse of closure.
The Himanta Doctrine: A Civilizational Approach
In India, bulldozers often symbolize brute force. Yet in Assam, under Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma, the bulldozer has taken on a civilizational significance. It serves not just as a tool for demolition but as a message of justice and reclamation.
Sarma has repeatedly stated, "Encroachment is not poverty; it is politics." This political agenda aims to reverse years of neglect. At its core lies a doctrine that merges governance with cultural memory, law with identity, and administration with civilizational assertion.
Legacy Over Numbers
For many observers, evicting a few thousand settlers may seem severe. However, Sarma's narrative focuses not on numbers but on stories. "Where is Batadrava in the public memory?" he asked in early 2021. "Why did we allow the birthplace of Sankardev to be surrounded by illegal settlements? Why did we wait 40 years?"
From Batadrava to Lumding, each cleared site is not merely land reclaimed; it is civilization reasserted. The bulldozers traverse not only illegal structures but also the layers of state apathy and elite cowardice that allowed Assam's frontiers to become fluid.
A Proactive State
Sarma has discarded the language of "neutrality" that restrained previous administrations. "The Assamese state will protect its land, forests, rivers, and civilization. We are not here to pretend," he declared. This shift from passive governance to proactive guardianship has unsettled many.
The eviction drives are not random; they form part of a larger cultural reorientation. It is why madrassas with foreign ties have been demolished and why government schools are now required to raise the national flag.
Rejecting Selective Sympathy
A key aspect of the Himanta Doctrine is the refusal to bow to the media's guilt narrative. Most governments would falter at the first viral image of a crying child or a demolished home. However, Sarma's government opts to highlight the stories of displaced indigenous farmers and the environmental degradation caused by encroachment.
During press conferences, the Chief Minister cites forest records, court orders, and satellite images, emphasizing cultural pride over political correctness.
Addressing 'Land Jihad'
Within government circles, the term "land jihad" is increasingly used to describe the systematic encroachment of public lands by Islamist groups supported by political and transnational interests. Reports identify patterns of expansion near temples, sattras, and sensitive borders.
Sarma's strategy is legal and precise. Unlike the emotive rhetoric of the past, his approach emphasizes law, documentation, and administrative resolve. Yet, the bulldozers are not merely clearing land; they are redefining the boundaries of belonging.
A Sustainable Civilizational Governance
The Himanta Doctrine is not a passing trend; it represents a new model of governance in India that unapologetically protects its civilization. This approach merges state legitimacy with national identity, asserting priorities without waiting for approval from Delhi.
Critics may label it communal, but the evidence is compelling: wetlands are reviving, sattras are being secured, forests are regaining their boundaries, and indigenous voices, once silenced, are finally being heard.
The Challenges Ahead
Despite the determination of the Himanta administration, the road ahead remains fraught with challenges. While bulldozers clear structures, the battle for land extends beyond the physical; it's waged in courtrooms, media outlets, and international forums. Behind each eviction lies a network of resistance that is legal, political, and ideological.
One significant barrier to eviction drives is the legal framework that allows well-funded groups to impede state action. Public Interest Litigations (PILs), stay orders, and humanitarian appeals—often coordinated by activist NGOs and political fronts—are beginning to stifle the pace of clearances.
A forest officer in Barpeta candidly states, "We follow the rules, issue notices, conduct surveys, and just when we act, someone appears in court claiming their 'fundamental rights' are violated."
The Media's Role in Shaping Perception
Following each eviction, national and international media quickly disseminate emotionally charged visuals: crying children, distressed families, and smoke rising from demolished homes. Rarely are land documents presented, or the perspectives of forest guards and displaced Assamese tribals featured. The narrative often overlooks the long history of encroachment and violence against officials.
This manipulation of public perception poses a significant challenge to Assam's governance. Even when the law supports the state's actions, optics are engineered to frame civilizational corrections as acts of communal cruelty.
Political and Ideological Resistance
The eviction drives in Assam do not occur in isolation; they are intertwined with broader geopolitical currents, especially as many illegal settlers are believed to have origins in Bangladesh, with connections to radical transnational Islamic networks.
Activists linked to global Islamic organizations and international human rights bodies have begun to voice concerns, sometimes quietly and at times through platforms like the UN Human Rights Council.
Domestically, Islamist political groups, including the AIUDF, Congress, and regionalists, are fanning communal anxieties, portraying every eviction as an anti-Muslim conspiracy, even when the land involved is clearly forest, wetland, or government property.
The Risks for Enforcers
Eviction drives are physically demanding, emotionally charged, and politically risky. Forest staff and magistrates work under minimal protection, limited budgets, and intense scrutiny. One young magistrate from Barpeta admits, "After the third drive, I began to fear for my family. My phone number was leaked, and my mother stopped going to the market."
Unless the state continues to protect and support its enforcers, bureaucratic resolve may begin to waver. The memories of earlier administrations, where eviction notices were ignored and politically inconvenient actions shelved, linger in many departments.
The Future of Assam's Reclamation
The most pressing long-term concern is political: what happens if a future government chooses to reverse course? Will encroachers return, armed with new ration cards, voter lists, and promises of amnesty?
This fear is palpable among many indigenous Assamese. "It took Himanta to undo what Tarun Gogoi and Congress did for thirty years," says a retired teacher in Darrang. "But what if tomorrow another Gogoi comes? Will we lose everything again?"
Institutionalizing Change
The only safeguard against such a scenario is institutionalization. Eviction should become policy, not a campaign tactic. Legal reforms, clear mapping, protected zones, and community vigilance are essential. Remember, nearly 2.1 million acres still remain under encroachment.
Despite the challenges, something irreversible has begun. The state is no longer neutral, and citizens are no longer afraid to speak out. The idea of Assam is transforming from mere cultural memory into a living, assertive political force.
A Just Bulldozer: Reclaiming the Future
In the midst of a chaotic eviction drive in Dhalpur a few years ago, a senior police officer reportedly remarked, "We are not just removing houses. We are reclaiming the future."
This offhand comment encapsulates the ethos of Assam's eviction drives today. They represent not merely law enforcement but a civilizational act of rebalancing. In this context, the bulldozer transcends its mechanical function; it symbolizes state will, historical correction, and, at times, karmic necessity.
The Moral Imperative
This framing makes many uncomfortable. Critics argue that it is dangerous to spiritualize state force. Yet, such objections overlook that India's moral vocabulary has always drawn from a civilizational sense of justice rather than Western abstractions. The Bhagavad Gita teaches that action is necessary, even painful, to fulfill dharma.
Assam today is that battlefield, where delayed action has resulted in prolonged suffering. Encroachments did not occur overnight; they were enabled by appeasement politics, bureaucratic paralysis, and demographic aggression. The bulldozer enters only when all other state mechanisms have failed.
Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma embraces this moral clarity unapologetically. He avoids bureaucratic jargon, speaking in a civilizational idiom that resonates with the people's sense of culture, identity, and history. His emphasis on a "civilizational fight" is not mere rhetoric but a clear policy direction.
Conclusion: The Silent Frontline
As eviction notices are prepared for another drive, somewhere in Nagaon, Dhubri, or Barak Valley, a young forest officer readies to face resistance. Somewhere, an Assamese widow hopes to reclaim her father's paddy field. Somewhere, an imam preaches that "land is Allah's, and those who resist are kafirs."
This is Assam's silent frontline. They may not speak on panels or write op-eds, but they carry lathis, GIS maps, and old land records. With every eviction, they recover more than just land; they reclaim memory, sovereignty, and the sacred promise of justice.
In this reclamation lies not just the future of Assam but a testament to the resilience of its people
