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When Sri Lankan Tourism authorities endorsed a project by Equal Ground to promote LGBTQI+ tourism in September 2025, the predictable backlash was swift. The Archbishop of Colombo condemned the move for destroying culture and religious traditions, while the Chief Prelates of all three Buddhist Chapters wrote to President Anura Kumara Dissanayake warning that such initiatives could harm cultural values and lead to serious social consequences. Member of Parliament Namal Rajapaksa amplified the opposition, citing the rich heritage of Sri Lanka. A familiar cycle of moral panic had begun. Again.

But beneath this predictable theatre lies a deeper question that nobody wants to ask: is LGBTQ+ tourism actually linked to queer liberation? Or does it simply repackage exploitation in progressive language?

The Retreat of the State

The full extent of the government’s retreat became clear in early 2026. In February, Attorney General Parinda Ranasinghe informed the Court of Appeal that the letter endorsing LGBTQI+ tourism would be withdrawn. Then, on 4 March came the decisive blow: the Attorney General confirmed the Sri Lanka Tourism Development Authority had taken a formal policy decision to not promote LGBTQI+ tourism in Sri Lanka. The petitioners withdrew their challenge.

Ranasinghe remarked:

People in Sri Lanka are still uncomfortable speaking on this topic. It’s a cultural issue. It’s not Europe, it is still Asia.

Rosanna Flamer-Caldera of Equal Ground expressed ‘total disappointment’, noting the government had come to power promising decriminalisation. The message was unequivocal: when ‘homocapitalism’ (as coined by Rahul Rao 2020) meets organised homophobic opposition, queer inclusion is the first casualty.

The Fragility of Corporate Inclusion

Earlier, just weeks after the initial controversy, in early October 2025, Watawala Tea released a short film titled ‘Him, Her and Them’ — a story about a family accepting a child whose gender expression defies societal expectations. When public backlash followed, the company apologised and removed the film (on 15 October).

This withdrawal reveals a crucial fact about market-based queer inclusion in Sri Lanka. The film’s  target audience was the urban, Sinhala, English-speaking, middle-class — ‘respectable’ queer subjects palatable to consumer capitalism. When consumer discomfort emerged, inclusion evaporated. The logic of ‘homocapitalism’ was laid bare: inclusion is permitted only when it does not disrupt market stability.

What the film rendered unimaginable was the Malaiyaha Tamil queer subject, the plantation labourer whose community has powered Sri Lanka’s tea economy since colonial times while receiving some of the lowest wages. These workers, especially women, remain the invisible backbone of an industry now performing symbolic inclusion for urban queers. True liberation cannot be built on unacknowledged bodies.

The Tourism Paradox

The government’s response to the tourism controversy was telling. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Foreign Employment and Tourism initially stated that tourism promotion ‘remains rooted in unity, tradition, and the shared values’ that define Sri Lankan society, a compromise that preserves conservative social order while hinting at inclusivity. The March 2026 policy decision has now made that compromise absolute.

But LGBTQI+ tourism raises uncomfortable questions that remain relevant despite the policy retreat. The global LGBTQI+ travel industry is valued at over US$357 billion, making it a tempting market even for countries that criminalise homosexuality. Who benefits when tourism is structured this way?

Consider Israel’s ‘pinkwashing’ strategy, which Jasbir Puar has documented, promoting a progressive image on LGBTQI+ rights to distract attention from Palestine. Similar dynamics risk playing out elsewhere. The very visibility that tourism promotes can become a conduit for greater persecution, as local queers — particularly trans sex workers already facing unemployment, harassment and violence — become commodified for foreign consumption.

The NGO-isation Trap

At the heart of these contradictions lies the NGO-isation of queer politics in Sri Lanka. When organisations like Equal Ground partner with state authorities, queerness becomes a tool for national branding, promising modernity and progress while leaving structural inequalities intact.

This approach imagines queer inclusivity as a ‘business case’ because it makes ‘business sense’ but it forecloses any questioning of who truly controls the narrative and for whose benefit. Meanwhile, right-wing groups weaponise homophobia with equal cynicism. The newly mushrooming ‘Mothers Movement’, ideologically aligned with Trumpism globally and ‘Rajapaksa-ism’ locally, mobilises moral panic around motherhood and cultural purity, securitising sexuality as a matter of national integrity.

The current National People’s Power (NPP) government had an opportunity to break this cycle. The 2024 election manifesto pledged to revise Penal Code Sections 365 and 365A (the colonial-era laws criminalising same-sex relations) and to expand constitutional protections. Yet, when faced with amplified sex panics, they retreated. The opportunity to decouple economic arguments for extractive tourism from broader debates over queer liberation is yet to be seized by the government.

Towards a Transformative Politics

A critical question remains: can homocapitalism actually end homophobia? Events of the past six months have revealed that it cannot do so. Market-based inclusion collapses under pressure, and the state retreats when confronted by organised religious and nationalist opposition.

Decriminalisation efforts, while necessary, will remain incomplete as long as the entanglement of religion and state goes unchallenged. This nexus, not merely the Penal Codes, is the structural foundation upon which queer exclusion in Sri Lanka is built. The Archbishop of Colombo and the Chief Buddhist Prelates did not merely offer opinions from the margins; their opposition was treated by the government as a binding veto. Until the structural power of religious authority over state policy is dismantled, queer rights will remain hostage to whichever moral panic religious leaders choose to amplify together with the homophobic politics that invariably accompanies it. The government’s retreat was not a failure of communication; it was a failure to assert that a secular state must govern for all citizens, regardless of theological objections.

Thus, repealing Sections 365 and 365A (laws unchanged since 1883) will not make environments safer without simultaneous changes at political, social and institutional levels. What is needed is a radical, intersectional (queer) politics that:

• Challenges the religion–state nexus as a non-negotiable prerequisite for lasting change;
• Recognises Malaiyaha queers and other marginalised groups as political subjects, connecting sexual liberation to struggles for labour justice, caste equality and ethnic minority rights;
• Resists the neo-liberal commodification of queerness, understanding that market-based inclusion will always be withdrawn when profits or political capital are threatened;
• Builds solidarity across movements, linking queer struggle to workers’, feminist and anti-colonial movements.

Such a politics would question how ‘progressive’ tourism reproduces colonial frameworks where local queer lives become invisible or exotic. It would challenge the binary between ‘traditional’ and ‘modern’ that both liberals and conservatives deploy. It would build local and transnational community-based alternatives outside market logics that seek consumption rather than emancipation.

The cycle of moral panic in Sri Lanka is overfamiliar, a predictable theatre that leaves injustice intact. The Attorney General’s announcement  (March 2026) is not an ending but a clarification: any kind of inclusion within existing power structures was always conditional. Breaking this cycle requires not performative inclusion within capitalism and religious majoritarianism but a politics that challenges both simultaneously.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 1 June 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

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India is experiencing, at rapid pace, a mode of cultural production centred on wealth and politics, a departure of sorts in many respects. The embrace of private affluence and the cultural shift in favour of wealth is largely attributable to the Liberalisation–Privatisation–Globalisation (LPG) reforms that began in 1991. The ultra-wealthy are no longer seen as ‘damned and profit-sucker industrialists’ of the dirigisme period, nor do they symbolise the counter-culture archetypes portrayed in Bollywood films of yore. Movies, videos, podcasts, reels, leadership manuals, (auto)biographies, and fiction now increasingly depict wealth-creators and their habits, beliefs and work cultures as vital talismans behind India’s billionaire-boom.

However, this cultural (re)production is most remarkable and impactful in the form of what, following Gary Poole, I call ‘wealth porn’, a phenomena primarily manifest across digital platforms. Material norms are seamlessly injected into social spaces where symbols of status and luxury like cars, lifestyles, watches, and mansions are projected as ultimate measures of life, success, identity, and fulfilment.

What does the idea of ‘wealth porn’ entail in the Indian context, what kinds of contradictory public discourses does it generate, with what implications for unequal societies?

A Double-edged Sword

Digital platforms are saturated with a particular kind of reels, videos and live-streams that glamourise symbols of affluence and the freshly minted wealth of India’s superrich. Luxury watches, shoes, gleaming cars, and curated lifestyles are paraded as emblems of aspiration. Some videos extol the ‘relentless’ work ethic of billionaires, others invite you to emulate their ‘special habits’ in the hope of becoming one yourself and yet others showcase the ‘benevolence’ of the wealthy. Wealth porn pictures the superrich as a discreet breed of ruthless, goal-oriented individuals, scrubbing their business endeavours clean of any trace of luck or political patronage. The pursuit of wealth and everything it returns are projected as the supreme ethic of life. This is world of wealth porn!

The logic of objectification here is not entirely unlike that of conventional pornography. The body in porn and luxury in wealth porn are both staged, curated and manipulated, with an incessant evocation of desire, admiration, fantasy, and perfection. Both conjure realities that are by and large unattainable, distort perceptions and arouse powerful emotions, sometimes awe, but many a time shame, discontent and resentment. In social parlance, wealth porn performs an important ideological function: it refashions our imagination of wealth and elevates wealth creation as the sovereign objective of life and the marker of fulfilment and success. So far it continually fixates our gaze with admiration for the wealth creators, it visualises them as nothing less than ‘builders of the nation’. Interestingly, they echo this norm, often declaring that each act of accumulation is made in the interest of the nation.

Wealth porn generates perpetual fascination with wealth and affluence, and it does so in a variety of forms. Some forms promote a simplistic hedonistic belief that being wealthy inherently represents a life of contentment, fulfilment and happiness. Others represent superrich wealth as a function of some extraneous ethic, hard work and sheer brilliance that few others possess. Still others promote habits, opinions and beliefs drawn from the lived life of billionaires as essential talismans to getting very rich. While wealth porn helps generate subtle popular narratives in favour of the superrich, it also renders poverty and destitution into existential conditions, the responsibility for which lies with individuals. It also generates envy, resentment and shame among those without wealth who do not succeed despite hard work, and who internalise the shame of failure.

In Search of India’s ‘Protestant Ethic’

Rapid economic transformations can unsettle and reconfigure the way wealth and its creation are perceived in collective imagination. Contemporary India’s superrich represent a bewildering rupture from its religio-cultural traditions which for centuries has frowned upon materialism, accumulation of wealth and display. The pursuit of wealth was once read as moral susceptibility, a pathway to corruption than a mark of achievement; social influence stemmed from one’s rank in socio-religious hierarchy rather than material possessions. The economic guilds and mercantile groups were largely preoccupied with rank order in religion and caste rather than economic interests, which perhaps explains why Max Weber argued that India lacked an equivalent of the ‘Protestant Ethic’ that propelled capitalist modernity in the West.

The dramatic spike in private wealth in India has led many to ‘reclaim’ the ‘suppressed’ material tradition believed to have existed in India’s distant past. For instance, the Economic Survey 2019–20 notes:

‘For more than three-fourths of known economic history, India has been the dominant economic power globally. During much of India’s economic dominance, the economy relied on the invisible hand of the market for wealth creation with the support of the hand of trust.’

These revisionist efforts seem almost compulsively determined to invent a coherent material tradition even if such a tradition did not fully exist. However, it would be a mistake to dismiss India’s material culture simply through the framework of Weber and Karl Marx. The meteoric rise of India’s billionaires points to a momentous transformation, one that some view as a rupture with the nation’s ‘spiritual history’ while others interpret as an emblematic rediscovery of India’s latent material spirit.

This tension requires serious reflection but what is undeniable is how wealth porn is increasingly reflecting and amplifying this rapidly evolving material culture by projecting it back into social imagination with all its dazzling allure and contradictions. 

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Wealth porn carries deep political undercurrents, particularly in unequal societies of South Asian countries where it can flare up existing social divides. The Gen Z protests in Nepal in 2025 are a case in point. For years, the children of Nepal’s political and economic élite flaunted their foreign education, luxury watches, flashy cars, and lavish parties online, providing a glaring visual testament to the country’s deep inequalities. This opulent display became a rallying point for a growing counter-movement targeting ‘nepo kids’ or ‘nepo babies’, widely perceived as beneficiaries of looted wealth and corrupt privilege. The simmering political anger suddenly erupted into a full-blown crisis in which young protesters stormed Nepal’s parliament (a symbol of the political élite) but their ire was most fiercely directed at the trappings of wealth itself — luxury hotels, upscale restaurants and other symbols of status and affluence. Wealth porn thus tore through façades and exposed deep-seated resentments even in a nation that officially outperforms India on income inequality measures like the Gini Coefficient.

India presents a more stark case if one looks at recent reports on wealth and income inequalities. World Inequality Report (2023) indicates that the top 1 per cent and the bottom 50 per cent of the population own 40.1 per cent and 6.4 per cent of total wealth respectively. This bottom-side deprivation paradoxically co-exists with opulence and grandeur at the top. The lavish wedding festivities for the son of business tycoon Mukesh Ambani’s son, much like his sprawling Antilia home, are definitive visual metaphors for understanding these paradoxes. As Pratap Bhanu Mehta points out, these festivities signify a fundamental shift in élite social expression in India: from traditional norms of functional distance from the public eye and reticence towards a paradigm of fusion and performative publicness. In other words, élites have come a long way to embody wealth, media and spectacle simultaneously.

Wealth porn is thus not merely a reflection of changing material culture in India but also a latent social process with sensationally dangerous implications, as it normalises inequality, legitimises superrich norms and holds the potential to trigger civil discord. It has brought the most advantaged and most disadvantaged in a single public epistemic frame perhaps for the first time in India. It incessantly seeks to secure cultural appropriation of affluence and luxury, shaping narratives that valourise the superrich, celebrate economic growth and sanctify philanthropy. Its potential to shape public perceptions about the distribution of economic growth, and the nexus between the political and economic élite, undermines democratic discourses and political equality.

Wealth porn is quietly shaping a new cultural production in India; it provides a glimpse into a popular fascination for affluence and communicates the magnitude of disparities to the public. While Mehta contends that such performative opulence rarely generates immediate resentment or envy among the public, the question of whether this fascination can sour into public resentment in India, as in the case of Nepal, warrants reflection. Scholarship on contentious politics suggests that public resentment does not escalate into violence automatically; it is a gradual process that feeds on a variety of factors, including state capacity, political opportunity, organisational resources, and economic shocks.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 27 May 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Jingming Pan, 2021, Unsplash.

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In February 2025, inside two of China’s largest shipyards — China State Shipbuilding Corporation (CSSC) Waigaoqiao in Shanghai (Photo 1) and China Merchants Heavy Industry (CMHI) Haimen near Nantong (Photo 2) — the contrast was hard to ignore. Highly automated production lines were delivering ever more sophisticated vessels, from ultra-large container ships to next-generation Liquid Natural Gas (LNG) carriers, with orders for more such vessels stretching years into the future. The question now is no longer what China can build, but what it is choosing not to build?

Photo 1: Large cruise ship construction, CSSC Waigaoqiao Shipyard, Shanghai © Author, 2026.

Photo 2: LNG vessel construction, CMHI Haimen Shipyard, near Nantong © Author, 2026.

The answer to the question started taking shape months earlier in Dhaka. In discussions with senior officials at the Bangladesh Inland Water Transport Corporation (BIWTC), a different pattern of demand emerged: more passenger routes, expanded coastal ferry capacity, the repair of ageing vessels, and long-delayed dockyard upgrades. These were not the segments East Asia’s leading shipyards were focusing on — but they were exactly what Bangladesh needed.

Between China’s industrial upgrading and Bangladesh’s unmet demand lies a widening gap. This gap is not accidental. It reflects a deeper shift in how global shipbuilding is organised: the gradual erosion of the ‘middle’.

The Hollowing Middle

The global shipbuilding industry is entering a period of clear divergence. On one end, leading producers — China, South Korea and Japan — are strengthening their dominance in high-value, technology-intensive vessels; on the other, demand for smaller, labour-intensive ships remains strong, driven by domestic transport needs, regional trade and fleet renewal in developing economies.

What is disappearing is the ‘middle’.

In 2025, China alone delivered over half of global shipbuilding output, capturing a dominant share of new green vessel orders. Yet, this dominance masks an important shift. Rising labour costs, tighter environmental standards and policy-driven upgrading have pushed major shipyards towards increasingly complex vessels. Lower-margin, mid-sized ships are not beyond their capabilities — they are simply no longer a priority.

This is not a short-term adjustment. It points to a deeper reorganisation in which production concentrates at the technological frontier while lower-end capacity becomes more dispersed. The result is not a complete disappearance of the ‘middle’, but a ‘missing middle’ in relative terms: a segment under increasing pressure, unevenly served and subject to intensifying competition. In some niches (like smaller feeder vessels) established producers have adapted rather than withdrawn. But across much of the mid-sized segment, gaps in cost, capability and strategic focus are becoming more visible.

Bangladesh as Systemic Outcome

Bangladesh is often described as an emerging shipbuilding nation. Perhaps a more accurate way to understand it is that this is a result of shifts in global pririties.

The advantages are not accidental. With labour costs around US$ 1.00 per hour, it remains one of the last large-scale reservoirs of cost-competitive industrial labour. More importantly, its ship-recycling industry at Sitakunda has created a self-reinforcing ecosystem: recycled steel reduces input costs while decades of dismantling complex vessels have generated a workforce with practical skills in welding, plating and outfitting. This combination — low costs, recycled inputs and accumulated skills — positions Bangladesh precisely within the space that advanced shipbuilding economies are vacating.

Domestic demand reinforces this trend. With over 5,000 kilometres of navigable waterways, Bangladesh depends heavily on inland and coastal shipping. Plans outlined by BIWTC — including new passenger vessels, expanded ferry capacity and dockyard modernisation — are not isolated projects. They point to a steady pipeline of mid-sized demand that could support long-term industrial growth.

Private shipyards have already shown export potential, delivering vessels to Europe, the Middle East, and South Asia at competitive prices and with internationally recognised classification standards.

Bangladesh is not just filling a gap — it is taking up a position created by changes in the global system. But the emergence of this ‘missing middle’ does not guarantee success. It creates opportunity — but within tightening constraints.

A Competitive but Constrained Niche

The global regulatory environment is shifting rapidly. New efficiency and emissions standards, driven by the International Maritime Organization and reinforced by regional measures such as the European Union’s carbon regime, are raising the technological threshold even for mid-sized vessels. Compliance increasingly depends on advanced engines, specialised coatings, digital design capabilities, and close integration with global classification systems — areas where Bangladesh remains heavily dependent on external suppliers.

In such a context, labour cost advantages alone are no longer sufficient. The central challenge is not just building ships more cheaply but building ships that meet evolving technical and environmental requirements. This raises a more fundamental question: whether Bangladesh can translate cost competitiveness into capability upgrading before regulatory and technological barriers become prohibitive.

Regional competitors face their own pressures. Vietnam is moving up the value chain but losing some cost advantages. India’s ambitions are tempered by bureaucratic frictions and higher input costs. The Philippines remains focused on repair and seafaring rather than new building, while Turkey competes successfully in specialised segments but not in large-volume, cost-sensitive production.

In this landscape, Bangladesh’s advantage is narrow but real: a cost-driven, ecosystem-supported niche in labour-intensive vessels. The key question is not whether it can compete with advanced shipbuilding powers — it cannot — but whether it can secure this niche before conditions change.

From Gap to Structure

What is unfolding in Bangladesh is not unique to shipbuilding. It reflects a broader transformation in how global production is organised.

As leading economies upgrade, they do not simply move up the value chain — they leave behind segments of production that must be taken up elsewhere. But this process is rarely smooth. It creates gaps and transitional spaces where new entrants can emerge.

The ‘missing middle’ in shipbuilding is one such space.

Whether it persists depends on two forces. The first is technological diffusion: if emerging producers can move into more complex segments, the ‘middle’ may be rebuilt. The second is structural concentration: if high-value production remains clustered while lower-end activities disperse, the ‘middle’ may continue to erode.

Navigating the Critical Juncture

Bangladesh’s trajectory will depend on how it navigates this moment.

If it can use its cost advantages to build capabilities — moving gradually from assembly to design, and from labour intensity to higher productivity — it may turn a temporary opportunity into a lasting position within global shipbuilding. If not, it risks remaining confined to a narrow segment of the value chain, exposed to rising costs and technological change.

The stakes extend beyond a single country. They raise a broader question: can global production systems sustain a meaningful ‘middle’, or will they remain divided between high-end concentration and dispersed low-cost manufacturing?

In shipbuilding, as in many industries, the ‘middle’ is no longer guaranteed. It must be rebuilt — but doing so will depend not only on cost but on whether emerging producers can meet the rising technological and regulatory demands of a decarbonising industry.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 18 May 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Refat Ul Islam, 2023, Unsplash.

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With intra-regional trade estimated at a dismal 5 per cent, South Asia is one of the least economically and institutionally integrated regions. The fragmentation remains entrenched despite the region’s natural predisposition towards integration — its geographic proximity, historical connections, cultural and ethnic similarities that cut across borders, and an increasing appetite for trade and investment. Ironically, the rigid territorial boundaries that now define South Asia are a notion that is historically alien to the region’s geographical and civilisational landscape, a construct that emerged with the advent of the Westphalian state system.

The region has, in fact, witnessed a series of connectivity initiatives, particularly since the beginning of this century. Among these are the rationalisation of tariffs within the South Asian Free Trade Area (SAFTA) framework, operation of several integrated check posts, modernisation of maritime infrastructure, and institutionalisation of sub-regional connectivity frameworks such as the Bangladesh, Bhutan, India, Nepal (BBIN) network and the Bay of Bengal Initiative for Multi-Sectoral Technical and Economic Cooperation (BIMSTEC). Yet, translation of these initiatives into meaningful integration remains elusive as regional connectivity is frequently held hostage to political rivalries and conflicts. Unlike regions where economic imperatives act as catalysts in softening political conflicts, recurrent conflicts disrupt or even reverse bi- and multi-lateral progress in South Asia. India’s indefinite suspension of rail connectivity and closing of six major land ports with Bangladesh following the student protests in Bangladesh in 2024 is the latest example of how connectivity in the region is vulnerable to political volatility.

Securitisation of Border Infrastructure

Connectivity often becomes the first casualty of political unrest in South Asia because countries in the region view their overland borders from a lens of national security. As such, the imperatives of security often shape the conception, management and implementation of border connectivity and infrastructure.

India  occupies the pivotal position in the regional connectivity landscape due to its geographic centrality, economic scale and military capacity. Two of India’s key institutions responsible for border connectivity, the Land Ports Authority of India (LPAI) and the Border Roads Organisation, are part of the government’s Ministry of Home Affairs and the Ministry of Defence respectively. This inclusion illustrates how India’s border infrastructure governance is embedded within the security paradigm.

India is not an exception in this regard; the responsibility for constructing and maintaining border infrastructure largely rests with paramilitary and military agencies across South Asia. In Pakistan, for instance, major frontier infrastructure is developed and maintained by the Frontier Works Organisation which is part of Pakistan’s Army. In Bangladesh, management of border and infrastructure is entrusted with Border Guard Bangladesh which not only safeguards territorial integrity but also addresses transnational crimes such as (human and drug) trafficking and smuggling of goods. In sum, development of border infrastructure in South Asia is often driven by concerns of national and territorial security, and includes complex infrastructure constructed by defence and paramilitary institutions.

Ethnic Spillovers and the Fragility of Regional Connectivity

Apart from this security-centric approach, another critical aspect undermining regional connectivity is the cross-border ethnic dynamics of the region. Ethnic linkages, which should be the glue connecting people across borders, often act as a conduit for cross-border spillage of violence in South Asia. For instance, the ethnic kinship between Tamils of Sri Lanka and Tamils in south India has historically influenced cross-border relations; this connectivity became embroiled in the protracted civil conflict in Sri Lanka. For example, the intensification of civil war in the 1970s rendered many air routes, particularly those connecting Jaffna in northern Sri Lanka with the Indian state of Tamil Nadu untenable; Palaly Airport at Jaffna became a military airfield, suspending civil and commercial flights. The fact that flight service between Jaffna and Tamil Nadu was renewed only after 50 years (in 2019) demonstrates the enduring impact of conflicts on connectivity in South Asia.

A similar dynamic unfolded with the promulgation of a new Constitution in Nepal in 2016. The Madhesi community in Nepal, which shares close familial and cultural ties with people in various parts of northern India, staged widespread protests against their perceived political marginalisation. This resulted in a blockade of the Indo-Nepal border in 2019 (re-opened in 2021), which led to an acute shortage of essential goods like medicines and fuel in Nepal. Sectors like energy and healthcare also witnessed severe disruptions; it also impeded much-needed humanitarian relief for earthquake-affected population in Nepal, and the lack of fertilisers and seeds impacted agricultural productivity.

Such examples illustrate how regional connectivity frameworks are easy hostages of political disputes in South Asia.

Recurring Conflicts and Connectivity Disruptions

South Asia is often viewed through the lens of conflict between India and Pakistan. Military escalations and terrorism have led to repeated suspensions of connectivity projects between the two countries. The much-talked-about Samjhauta Express train (samjhauta = understanding) and Delhi–Lahore bus service, which were supposed to boost people-to-people connectivity, have been affected by repeated flare-ups in bilateral relations. The terrorist attack in Pahalgam on 25 April 2025, which killed several Indian civilians, has for now sealed all hopes on any improvement in border connectivity between the two countries. India has stopped issuing visas for Pakistani nationals, closed integrated check posts, the Attari-Wagah crossing and the much hyped Kartarpur Corridor. 

Not just bilateral disputes, domestic conflicts also take a toll on connectivity. The student protests in Bangladesh (mentioned earlier) led to major logistical disruptions at key border points with India, leading to freight delays. Similarly, following the Gen Z protests in Nepal in 2025, trade routes to India were blocked, and the borders witnessed long queues of vehicles carrying goods.

Way Forward

The untapped potential for integration that exists in South Asia is immense. The latest testimony for this is the emerging interdependence in energy connectivity facilitated by grid integration between India, Nepal and Bangladesh. In a landmark initiative, Nepal has commenced the export of electricity to Bangladesh via India’s power transmission network from 15 June 2025. This advances Nepal’s aspiration to be a regional energy exporter and India’s role as a facilitator of regional energy exchange; India plans to extend this framework to include Sri Lanka, thereby signaling the vision for an energy corridor in the region.

However, the introduction of new initiatives alone cannot set things right in a region where mutual distrust is deeply entrenched and intermittent conflicts are the norm. For any initiatives to yield fruitful outcomes, the region should first cultivate a habit of trust and cooperation, institutionalise mechanisms to continue dialogue, and not compromise long-term foreign policy objectives for short-term political issues or gains. 

To make connectivity resilient to conflict, a mixture of political, institutional and practical measures are required. First, the region has to embed its connectivity initiatives in frameworks that are harder to suspend at the whim of political flare-ups. A useful example is the connectivity initiatives of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN), where commitments are tied to a regional identity and mutual benefits. Second, South Asian countries should make use of initiatives supported by multilateral or external institutions to secure some degree of insulation. Third-party monitoring, financing and dispute resolution mechanisms offer some respite against bilateral disputes that completely derail any projects. Last, and importantly, given the conflict-ridden nature of South Asian politics, connectivity projects should have a conflict-sensitive design. This should involve stakeholders from all sides, emergency protocols and alternative routes so that any domestic unrest in one country does not paralyse the entire corridor. The incorporation of these measures holds the promise of puttng the region on the path of collective growth and prosperity.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 11 May 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Abhinav Sharma, Wagah Border between India and Pakistan, 2022, Unsplash.

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Ladakh is a cold, arid region with terrain especially sensitive to changes in climate. With rapidly receding glacial water, some villages have already been abandoned and many more will be forced to move in search of water. For at least a century, people have practiced farming here, and crops like wheat, peas and barley are cultivated extensively. But untimely, and increasing less, snowfall — both results of global warming — has adversely affected the region.

The Eastern Himalayan region receives heavy rainfall but Ladakh (in the west) receives less than 80 mm (about 3 inches) rain annually, as it falls under the rain shadow zone of the Himalayas. Arid Ladakh has no rain-fed harvest, and agriculture depends completely on glacial water.

Chewang Norphel is known as the ‘Iceman of Ladakh’, responsible for several artificial glaciers in numerous villages in this region to help the farmers; he believes that since ‘we can’t make water, so our only option is to use the source available to us’. Climate activist Sonam Wangchuk invented the unique idea of making ice stupas to address water shortage, freezing water in the winter when there is a surplus (which is wasted) for use in drier times. Both Norphel and Wangchuk are pioneers in raising awareness of rapidly melting glacial water and its impact on Ladakh. Wangchuk’s ‘Climate Fast’, inspired by Gandhi, aimed to mobilise citizens about climate change and its impact on the high Himalayas.

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According to Vladimiro Pelliciardi (2010) has described Ladakh as a ‘constellation of villages’ at the ‘crossroads of Asia’. Historically, the region’s needs had been fulfilled through subsistence agriculture and pastoralist and caravan trade. However, Zanskar valley (in Ladakh) always had agriculture as the main occupation but due to scarcity of water in recent times, people have begun to abandon villages in the region. For example, residents of Kumik village migrated to lower areas in search of water for farming, where access to rivers is easier. More recently, Stok, Kan Yaste and Durung-Drung have witnessed rapid melting of glaciers due to increase in trekking tourists.  

This, in turn, raises an important question: how long can people who are relocating to access river water continue to rely on rivers? It is a pertinent question because upstream, it is glaciers that are the prime source of water for the river, being fed by smaller streams flowing from glacial points. When these channels dry up, the river too will run dry.

Another village is Shun, which was abandoned more than a decade ago due to scarcity of water in the village; residents migrated with their livestock to plain areas alongside Leh district, where water is available at the moment. This new ‘village’, called Chumik Chan, can be seen from the Leh–Manali highway. It is important to remember that the abandonment of Shun village did not arise from modern needs of proper roads and electricity but solely due to the irreversible crisis of water in the village.

A popular argument between the Global North and Global South is on emissions (carbon and gas), where the latter argues that the ‘developed’ North has historically produced, and is still producing, more than the ‘developing’ South, and should, as such, share the burden of reparation, and cost of becoming ‘green’ — the climate ‘Loss and Damage Fund’, as argued by Pakistan’s Climate Minister Sherry Rehman at COP27 in Sharm al-Shaikh (Egypt). If this argument of ‘historical responsibility’ is applied to the trans-Himalayan context, then big cities of India must take greater responsibility, and provide support, to mitigate the impact of climate change in the Himalayas.

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Ladakh has two hill councils, and neither of them has any specific policy to save the receding glaciers. There has been a demand that these councils should have some powers to enact laws to protect and conserve this ecosystem, especially with an increase in natural calamities.  In 2010, Ladakh was devastated by flash floods due to cloud burst, which was an indication of the threat of impending environmental catastrophes. Scholars like Ramchandra Guha (1989) have argued in The Unquiet Woods (1989) that timber extraction led to an ecological crisis in the Himalayas; eco-feminist scholar Vandana Shiva (1988) has criticised the prevailing ‘progress model’, questioning a development paradigm that views nature merely as an object for human profit; and Shekhar Pathak (2021) has shown how infrastructure projects (like dams and roads) represent a ‘plain-centric’ approach to development, arguing that these projects fail to respect the fragile Himalayan ecology, ultimately resulting in man-made catastrophes.

To understand the environmental crisis in the Indian Himalayas, there is a need to contextualise two important modern environmental theories: ‘shallow ecology’ and ‘deep ecology’. Coined by Norwegian philosopher Arne Naess against the background of growing anthropocentrism which (he argues) has led to environmental degradation, the two have differences in approach, nature and interpretation.

‘Shallow ecology’ talks about the preservation and protection of the environment as far as it benefits humans, and that the environment should be preserved to the extent that meets human necessities; this is what  is happening in the Himalayan region in the pursuit of human interest, neglecting nature and ecology.

‘Deep ecology’ prioritises nature, species and ecology over humans, arguing that everyone has a right to live, including non-human living things; it seems inspired by Buddhist philosophy, emphasising  a radical shift in our lifestyle. Deep ecology stresses the eco-centric and bio-centric idea that promotes the coexistence of nature, organisms and humans, highlighting their interdependence and interconnectedness.

Residents of Ladakh used to say that the glacier and snow are the ornaments of a mountain, discharging fresh water for the millions of people living in the foothills of mountains and surrounding hamlets. If these ornaments melt rapidly because of climate change, then society and economy in the mountains, specifically in desert areas like Ladakh, will be in trouble, and living in this region will become difficult in the future. Climate change has already knocked at the doors of the Himalayas; the Himalayan glaciers are melting rapidly due to global warming. If at this juncture we do not think about the crisis, then many villages in Ladakh may have to be abandoned, and their residents will need to relocate to other places in search of water. 

Destroying the fragile ecology of Ladakh, which will be irreversible, will also, eventually, affect other sectors: development, tourism, industry, and commerce — those very sectors that stand to gain from this region’s protection.

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The views expressed here are those of the authors and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 4 May 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Aman Gupta, Thang (Ladakh), 2022, Unsplash.

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The post Climate Change in Hamlets in the Trans-Himalayas first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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The likelihood of a major accident is abnormally high in mountains higher than 8,000m, and most climbers die from frigid conditions, low oxygen and bad weather with fierce gales often setting off an avalanche. Despite the high death rate and perils, Sherpas continue to work in high-altitude mountains, frequently putting their lives at risk. Originally an ethnic community that migrated from the Kham region of Tibet in the 16th century to escape savage internal group rivalries, ethnic Sherpas eventually settled in Nepal around the Everest massif and inhabited Solukhumbu, (northeast) Okhaldunga, (northeast and far east) Sankhuwasabha and (central) Rolwaling, below massive mountain peaks including Everest, Lhotse, Ama Dablam, Cho Oyu, and Makalu.

Having lived at altitudes of up to 5,000 metres for over 500 years, the physiological adaptation of Sherpas to hypobaric hypoxia at high-altitude environments makes them less susceptible to altitude-related sickness, and more suited for high-altitude work. From carrying loads as porters on the mountain to being recognised as an integral part of Summit teams, ethnic Sherpas are considered prestigious and indispensable labour in high-altitude mountaineering, transforming their physiological adaptation and skills into professional guiding, training, performing high-altitude search-cum-rescue operations, and removal of garbage.

The Two Sherpas

Sherpas are recognised as janjati [indigenous] of the mountains in Nepal who have historically been a part of Himalayan reconnaissance and expeditions as porters, sardars and climbing partners. Since majority of local high-altitude work was done by Sherpas, their ethnic affiliation got a professionalised connotation, and different ethnic groups started to situationally pass themselves off as ‘Sherpas’ to secure employment in Nepal’s mountaineering industry. The term ‘sherpa’ continues to be used in local parlance as an occupational referent to assistant guides in expedition teams.

Shifting Power Dynamics

Sherpa participation in mountaineering began in the first decade of 1900s when erstwhile mountaineers, explorers and army officers including Alexander Kellas, Francis Younghusband, Frank Smythe, and John West recognised the ability of ethnic Sherpas to outperform others at higher altitudes. Living in the upper reaches of the Himalayas, Sherpas traditionally relied on herding yak, agro-pastoralism and trade across the Nangpa La with Tibet for salt to feed their livestock. Amoment inthe British-led Great Trigonometrical Survey of India (1802–71) extending into the Himalayan region played a pivotal role in the fame and glory associated with Mount Everest and Sherpas.

The 1953 Everest ascent was a game-changer for high-altitude mountaineering; hereafter, almost everyone in the climbing fraternity wanted to reach the summit of the tallest peak in the world. To ensure regular and timely transportation of essential medicines and goods into Khumbu, the Tenzing–Hillary Airport known commonly as the Lukla airstrip (in Khumbu) was undertaken in 1964 by Edmund Hillary of The Himalayan Trust, the idea of which was conceived by him and James F. Fisher. However, the airstrip came to serve as a major conduit for thousands of tourists to the region each year.

The 1990s triggered commercial expeditions to Mount Everest. Foreign expedition companies sold the idea of reaching the top of Everest and coming back down safely with guaranteed success. The 1996 Everest disaster which culminated in several books and accounts — each offering contested realities instead ended up attracting more tourist traffic to Everest. The very thought of scaling the tallest peak surrounded by glory and renown was an adrenaline rush. Thus came a whole new generation of adventure enthusiasts forming a beeline for the summit of Mount Everest, before scattering over to other 8,000m high peaks. What is more interesting is that this decade saw Makalu, Sankhuwasabha and Okhaldunga Sherpas actively participating in high-altitude climbing on Everest and other 8,000m high mountains as high-altitude porters, kitchen boys, cooks, assistant guides, and sardar (lead guide).

However, it was mainly in the aftermath of the 2013 Everest brawl when the rope-fixing team was insulted and humiliated by European alpinists for preventing them from using the ropes that high-altitude workers were fixing for their clients that resentment deepened. It spilled over into 2014, when 16 climbing Sherpas perished in an avalanche on Everest, further amplifying the unequal power dynamics between local and foreign expedition companies into sharper focus. The climbing season was cancelled following a collective call from the labouring bodies who pushed the government of Nepal and foreign teams to recognise their labour with greater respect, and institutionalise financial security. Even though the 13-point list of demands eventually afforded them increased insurance compensation, local workers decided to invest heavily in their own expedition/trekking companies. The hitherto subaltern labouring bodies who worked for their Western counterparts decided to emerge out of their shadows and compete with the foreign companies by offering cheaper prices for Everest and other 8,000m peaks without compromising the safety of mountain tourists or their local high-altitude staff.

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In the post-2010 era, mountaineering has emerged not only as a profitable commercial venture employing thousands of Nepalis as Base Camp staff, kitchen crew, managers, outfitters, world record-holders, and brand ambassadors but also as an indigenous sport embodying national pride that has helped Nepali mountain workers reclaim Himalayan mountaineering. Today, most commercial Himalayan expeditions are organised and led by locally owned Nepali companies which have also taken the lead in garbage clean-up efforts, search-and-rescue operations — using their own longline rescue systems and helicopters that employ ‘white masculine bodies’, and in continued success in setting new world records in high-altitude mountaineering, further establishing their credibility as expert mountain guides.

As ‘subaltern’ labouring bodies become acutely aware of their indispensability and positionality in Himalayan mountaineering, a strong resistance to condescension and obscurity is seen in multiple narratives of the local HAWs who now demand equal respect, equal pay and equal opportunities as they reclaim Himalayan mountaineering.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here  for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 27 April 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk  for queries.

Banner image © Peter Thomas, The Himalayas, 2019, Unsplash.

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The post Sherpas, High-Altitude Mountaineering and Recognition in Nepal first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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As orange flames atop Gul Plaza in Karachi (Pakistan) licked the dark sky, neighbours and bystanders once again stepped up to coordinate rescue efforts as the state, unsurprisingly, lagged behind. Shopkeepers and volunteers broke open shutters and formed human chains to ensure the safety of those trapped inside, while charities showed up with food and water. Social media filled the vacuum left by official media channels. The state leisurely strolled in later to survey the damage and promise monetary compensation to the victims.

Such apathy and mismanagement from the state is nothing new to Pakistanis, and underlines the reason why common people and non-state actors jump to action instead of waiting for authorities to manage critical situations; in times of crises, Pakistanis have normalised the shift of responsibility from state to society.

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The Gul Plaza fire on 17 January 2026 is one of numerous tragedies that exposes the state’s absence and society’s resolution, often mistaken for resilience. From floods to fires, charities entirely dependent on private donations such as Edhi Foundation, Akhuwat Foundation, Alkhidmat Foundation and Shaukat Khanum Memorial Hospital, to name just a few, are expected to coordinate with civilian volunteers to ensure quick and efficient action, unintendedly providing the state with a socially acceptable and globally celebrated escape route from its responsibilities and accountability. Hence, although there was outrage against the state’s inefficiency and admiration for the heroism of civilians in the aftermath of the Gul Plaza tragedy, there was absolutely no surprise, as Pakistan operates a unique type of welfare system, where the guarantor of welfare is not the state but the society.

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Since Pakistan has never had a welfare state system but has always had a population in desperate need of welfare, the moral economy of care has become deeply embedded in society, further driven by Islamic notions of charity in the form of zakat and sadaqah. This also transfers into the legal governance of Pakistan and the role of taxation, as Pakistan has one of the narrowest tax bases in the world, with the majority of the population, especially the élite, not filing tax returns. Conversely, Pakistanis remain among the world’s top donors to charitable and philanthropic causes, highlighting how most Pakistanis choose to bypass the state and prefer to take matters into their own hands because repeated incidents of mismanagement and corruption by the state has eroded the trust of the public.

The élite’s resistance to taxation is further sustained by the philanthropy of Pakistanis to charitable organisations, as NGOs and welfare trusts are believed to deliver more efficiently than the state. As such, little need is perceived to increase public spending of an inefficient and corrupt state. Thus, the moral economy of care has not taken root as a supplement to the state’s efforts; instead, it has emerged from the flames of charred buildings as a means of survival. It also carries out a double function: apart from simply exchanging moral capital, it serves as a shock absorber of state failure by relieving the pressure from the state to rebuild and reform, and instead transfer that responsibility onto the citizens.

Such a profound substitution effect has in turn recalibrated public expectations, where survival is framed as a collaborative effort instead of a political right. People no longer demand from the state, they simply improvise, and view governance and accountability as a favour from the state instead of an obligation.

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While philanthropy can be viewed as a visible and efficient substitution of state responsibility, it can never replace the state primarily because it should not have to do so. Philanthropy cannot build institutions, nor can it enforce regulation or prevent recurrence; it can simply respond after the volcano erupts. If society races to rebuild every time something breaks down, the underlying causes of the crises remain unresolved, as philanthropy does not have the reach, the resources, and the legitimacy that the state does. Nor should society have to shoulder the responsibilities of the state, which promises basic provisions and apt governance in the Constitution.

Also, the state is expected to distribute care equally throughout the country, while philanthropic organisations are governed by donor priorities and conditionalities, media visibility, public perception, and personal judgement. When welfare is perceived as charity instead of right, inequalities within society may become morally embedded as prejudices and limited resources may govern the distribution of care. Hence, the quiet acceptance by Pakistanis that the state will not protect and society needs to quietly fill the void leads to a wholly unsustainable and unfair model of a ‘welfare state’ entirely dependent on citizens’ morality, philanthropy, initiative, ability, and skill.

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Pakistan’s response to the Gul Plaza tragedy was, yet again, a tale of resolution instead of resilience. Once again celebrating society’s undeniably admirable efforts without questioning the absence of the state paints an adverse picture, as the underlining question remains: why does society always have to step up instead of the state?

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 20 April 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Samar Ahmad, Money Stack, Pakistan, 2021, Unsplash.

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The post Resilience or Resolution? How Pakistan Has Learnt to Live Without the State first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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In the mid-twentieth century, intellectuals and political thinkers in India were not just striving for liberation from colonial rule but also engaging with fundamental questions of state, citizenship, governance, and human dignity. M. N. Roy (1887–1954), a global revolutionary, advanced the philosophy of Radical Humanism, emphasising the moral sovereignty and autonomy of the individual; Hansa Mehta (1897–1995)made a pioneering contribution to the global human rights discourse, while Rajkumari Amrit Kaur (1887–1964) offered an emancipatory vision of constructive citizenship. Kaur advocated for an expansive understanding of citizenship in which women actively participated in nation-building through social service. This post explores Kaur’s idea of constructive citizenship.

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Rajkumari Amrit Kaur was a prominent figure in India’s freedom movement and a key member of the Constituent Assembly (for debating and drafting the Constitution of India),  contributing significantly to the Minorities and Fundamental Rights sub-committees. Before India’s independence (1947), she led influential organisations like the All-India Women’s Conference (AIWC), Young Women’s Christian Association (YWCA) of India, and served as a liaison with international women’s bodies, including the International Council of Women.

As independent India’s first Health Minister, Kaur championed maternal and child welfare, and played a pioneering role in founding the All-India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) in New Delhi, a flagship public hospital of excellence in India even today. She also helped establish the Indian Council for Child Welfare, and led national organisations focused on leprosy and tuberculosis. Internationally, she represented India at the World Health Organisation (WHO), International Red Cross (IRC) and the United Nations Economic and Social Council (UNESCO), advocating for health, equity and social justice.

Kaur aimed to establish the AIWC as a political force advocating for women’s rights. Through her international diplomacy, she challenged the imperialist assumptions embedded in Western feminism, and encouraged women’s participation in solving global issues. Kaur envisioned India as a guiding force for global peace highlighting cosmopolitan ideals, and proposed an alternative citizenship model that  prioritised civic  engagement,  extending its meaning beyond traditional global or state frameworks, linking it with everyday acts of care and community work. She envisioned citizenship not as a set of rights, but as an active, relational concept, rooted in service.

While working at both domestic and international levels, Kaur emphasised the importance of recognising multiple dimensions of women’s citizenship, particularly constructive, cultural and maternal (or caring) forms. Her feminist approach stressed not just rights but also duties, focusing on individual agency and participation in public life, contributing locally and globally.

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Kaur’s vision of constructive citizenship was shaped by her deep involvement in the colonial women’s movement, where feminist politics intersected with national planning and social reform. A landmark moment came with the 1939 Report of the Sub-Committee on Woman’s Role in Planned Economy, authored by women’s collectives participating in nation-building debates. The Report reimagined women as autonomous, rights-bearing citizens and called for structural reforms, demanding

• financial independence
• recognising unpaid domestic labour
• dismantling patriarchal norms across the household, economy and society
• rejecting the notion that marriage should condition a woman’s civic or economic rights
• urging the state to treat the individual, not the family, as the fundamental unit of society

thus laying the groundwork for a rights-based approach to gender justice.

Building on this foundation, the Indian Woman’s Charter of Rights and Duties was drafted in 1945 by Kaur, Mehta and Lakshmi Menon under the aegis of the AIWC. It redefined women not  as wives or mothers but as equal citizens, calling  them to pursue education, combat social evils such as child marriage and purdah, and promote peace. It was presented at the United Nations, redefining international feminism. Both the 1939 Report and the 1945 Charter were rooted in a shared  framework: a focus on the individual as the fundamental unit of citizenship, the belief that rights and duties are interdependent, and that the state has an obligation to create enabling conditions for women’s civic participation through access to education, work and political life.

Kaur’s idea of constructive citizenship emerged from this nationalist and feminist context. She argued that true citizenship involves active ethical engagement, not just legal status. Despite domestic responsibilities, women could participate meaningfully in public life through social service. Her vision extended beyond state-centric models to include community-based, caring forms of engagement rooted in feminist and maternal ethics. By addressing issues like child marriage, age of consent and maternal care, women activists challenged colonial patriarchy, the masculine model of citizenship propagated by orthodox nationalists and Western, individualist notions of citizenship.

Constructive Citizenship

While Western feminists have critiqued social contract theory and the  inherently masculine concept of citizenship, for Kaur, citizenship was connected to the nation as an emotional and affective ideal. It was a creative, participatory practice rooted in everyday interactions. When orthodox nationalists were discrediting feminism, Kaur envisioned women’s constructive citizenship as a transformative force capable of influencing local, national and global realms, each shaped in distinct but interconnected ways. Citizenship, here, was an evolving process  involving active participation and continuous struggle. Importantly, she viewed the pursuit of citizenship as inseparable from the effort to secure women’s rightful place in society;  and an ongoing work of building a just and participatory civic life.

The Civic Partnership

Kaur advocated for a  citizenship defined through active social service, emphasising its role in fostering  connections across local, national and global spheres. It was  to be earned through meaningful contribution and community engagement. She saw the ‘local’ as a broad, inclusive space, stretching from the home to the wider world. As she succinctly stated

To demand rights is not nearly so satisfying as to show in my work that one is worthy of having them.

Kaur saw social service as a powerful tool to promote unity, harmony and fellowship, offering women a means to shape their identities, form support networks and develop a deeper sense of civic responsibility. In her words, ‘Good citizenship connotes social service.’

Envisioning Decentralised Governance

During the freedom struggle, several leaders advocated for decentralised governance. In his idea of Radical Democracy, M. N. Roy proposed the formation of People’s Committees to empower citizens; similarly, Kaur envisioned dedicated women’s committees and sub-committees in every mohalla (neighbourhood). These local bodies were tasked with collecting vital statistics — numbers of sick individuals, widows, working women, availability of clean drinking water, medical aid, etc. The aim was to identify womens’ specific needs and raise awareness on issues like hygiene, discipline, untouchability, child marriage, and wasteful expenditure.

Kaur emphasised the importance of vocational training in combating illiteracy and promoting  self-reliance. She encouraged women to learn income-generating skills like spinning, weaving, toy-making, and handicrafts, thereby linking local governance with social reform and economic empowerment. Central to this was promoting comprehensive education that included ethical instructions, citizenship principles and the tools necessary for women to dismantle social and cultural bondage.

Advancing Feminist Solidarity

Kaur criticised the indifference of élite women, urging them to channel their resources, energy and talents toward ending women’s marginalisation. She called upon upper-class and educated women to take active responsibility in uplifting their less privileged sisters, advancing  feminist solidarity rooted in action and empathy.

‘Well-to-do women are seen in hundreds at parties, in cinemas, in clubs, in shops, on the main roads, but never or seldom in the haunts of those who constitute the large majority of our sisters and with whose welfare and redemption from ignorance and superstition lies the only hope of our own salvation. This apathy on the part of most of us must go ….’

Kaur emphasised the need to awaken poor women to their latent strength and moral stamina as a pathway to resist male domination. She advocated for the expansion of programmes focused on health  and education to break the ‘tyranny of custom’ and  eradicate practices such as child marriage, polygamy and purdah. She also supported creating an optional, universal civil code to promote fairness in marriage, inheritance, guardianship, and divorce, emphasising equality between men and women. Her vision for women’s agency, empowerment and emancipation remains highly relevant today,  especially in situations of the ongoing backlash against women’s rights.

Strengthening Global Human Relations

Rooted in her experiences during the inter-war period, Kaur believed that in a world increasingly interconnected through scientific and technological advancements, women must look beyond national borders. She urged women to transcend the narrow confines of nationalism and  communism, and  unite in the pursuit of peace.

In her speeches on global cooperation, Kaur strongly conveyed a citizenship vision  guided by moral imperatives which relied on a distinct strength of women. Her  contributions shattered barriers and brought new depths to multilateralism.

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In contrast to Western notions of citizenship and the masculine frameworks upheld by orthodox nationalists, Kaur envisioned citizenship as rooted in local engagement. Her perspective emphasised community, social service, maternal values, and religious commitment — principles that enabled her to articulate a  global citizenship model distinct from traditional, state-centred political definitions. By validating alternative forms of belonging rooted in service and care, she offered a citizenship model  based on pro-active citizenship and community-driven action.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 13 April 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Rajkumari Amrit Kaur. Used under the Creative Commons License for non-commercial, academic purposes only.

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The post The Constructive Citizenship of Rajkumari Amrit Kaur first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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It happened again. A woman named Swarnamoyee Biswas allegedly committed suicide in Bangladesh; her body was found on 19 October 2025. Before Swarnamoyee becomes a number like other women who have taken their lives, and get lost in the justice system, I want to keep her memory alive.

In English, ‘Swarnamoyee’ translates as ‘golden’. Without reading about her suicide, I saw her photo flooding social media, her name reminding me of autumn in England, a time when nature is adorned with golden, orange and red leaves before a grey Winter. Through my feminist lens, I kept thinking that she was forced to be dead by the all-consuming, pervasive patriarchy of Bangladeshi society where sexual abusers enjoy political immunity, and incidents like this are rationalised and narrated as ‘suicide’. According to data from Bangladesh Mahila Parishad, 786 women and girls were victims of rape and gang rape in 2025; seven victims committed suicide following rape.

Swarnamoyee had been bullied and sexually harassed by one of her co-workers, according to an online news portal. Her alleged abuser, Altaf Shahnewaz, is a ‘poet’. Some months earlier, along with 26 other colleagues, Swarnamoyee officially complained about Shahnewaz’s ‘inappropriate behaviour’ and ‘sexual harassment’ to authorities at her workplace, which was also a male-dominated unit. No action was taken and she had to continue working alongside her abuser for months. While poetry often brings a sense of spirituality, empathy, sorrow, and romanticism, a vernacular narrative popular in Bangladeshi society suggests that male poets and writers can occasionally be perverts and that women should be careful when interacting with them. In my opinion, such narratives discursively normalise gender-based violence against women committed by men. There are no scientific positive or negative correlations between being a poet and being a pervert (as yet)!

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Highlighting Shahnewaz’s identity as a poet and writer draws attention to something else, rather than to where it should be: how can we prevent such crimes? Shahnewaz had a bizarre and somewhat ‘interdisciplinary’ politically privileged background: a mysterious early student life tied to the Jamaat-e-Islami; collaborative monetary engagement with the Bangladesh Awami League; and, very interestingly, according to an open source information, a rather blissful and mysterious rendezvous with one of the advisors and the press secretary of the Interim Government (which came into being following the August 2024 student uprising).

Although poetry is not important in determining whether a person is capable of committing crimes or of perversion, exploring political affiliations is crucial as politics provides individuals with endless power and impunity in Bangladesh. Through empowering sexual abusers like Shahnewaz, the system nurtures a patriarchal ecosystem that keeps women and girls trapped in a continuum of sexual- and gender-based violence (SGBV). Such a culture also challenges women’s autonomy and their ability to claim everyday security and human rights.

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For Bangladeshi society, it is vital to understand the definition of sexual harassment and violence against women since such acts are considered ‘normal’ in the wider population. According to the UN Human Rights Council,

‘Sexual harassment is any unwelcome conduct of a sexual nature that might reasonably be expected or be perceived to cause offence or humiliation. Sexual harassment may involve any conduct of a verbal, nonverbal or physical nature, including written and electronic communications, and may occur between persons of the same or different genders.’

If someone wonders whether sexual harassment is SGBV, the answer is — yes, it is! As someone with eight years of professional experience in four different countries (including three UN agencies), I had to take multiple online training courses as part of my formal induction (see, for example, here) on sexual misconduct, sexual harassment and preventing sexual exploitation and abuse in organisations I worked.

Beyond my emotive response to Swarnamoyee’s death, beyond my vernacular security analysis where I question why no one asked and addressed her insecurities, I wonder when someone is psychologically coerced (we still do not know if there was any physical force by anyone in this case) to commit suicide by their abuser(s), what can be the legal response in a country like Bangaldesh — a country still battling for a functioning democracy.

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In 2009, drawing on the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women and its Optional Protocol, the Bangladesh High Court issued a landmark directive to prevent sexual harassment in educational institutions and at workplaces. Despite that, and decades of advocacy from different women’s rights platforms, no legislation has been enacted to date. It is time for Bangladesh to introduce legislation to prevent sexual harassment anywhere in society; it is also time for all workplaces and higher academic institutions to introduce mandatory online induction modules on sexual harassment and misconduct for all students and staff.

According to the 2023–24 Report by the Georgetown Institute of Women, Peace and Security (WPS), classified under three categories — inclusion (economic, social, political); justice (formal and informal discrimination); and security (at the individual, community and societal levels) —  Bangladesh ranks 131 out of 177 countries (see Figure 1). I look at these dimensions and see embedded patriarchy in Bangladesh, where women are still not equally included and respected anywhere, and their security is not prioritised.

Figure 1: The WPS Index captures 13 indicators of women’s status classified under three dimensions © WPS index.

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As an ordinary woman and feminist scholar, I believe we can change toxic masculine ecosystems by changing ourselves. When we find someone in distress, someone who has been abused and is showing signs of trauma or depression, someone who has been silenced by the authorities, at our home, workplace or any social setting, it is our moral duty to act. Accessing legal rights and justice is difficult in Bangladesh; nevertheless, we have to act within our capacity in the first instance to challenge embedded patriarchy, masculine power and political impunity. We failed Swarnamoyee, as we did hundreds of other victims of SGBV, as a society and as fellow humans.

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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent the views of the ‘South Asia @ LSE’ blog, the LSE South Asia Centre or the London School of Economics and Political Science. Please click here for our Comments Policy.

This blog is published under the Creative Commons License and may be reposted by anyone with the following Acknowledgement (including hyperlinks): ‘Originally published in ‘South Asia @ LSE’, the official blog of South Asia Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science on 6 April 2026.’

Please e-mail southasia@lse.ac.uk for queries.

Banner image © Stormseeker, 2017, Unsplash.

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The post Losing our Women: Poetry, Politics and Patriarchy in Bangladesh first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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Recently, an unprecedented event unfolded in the prosecutorial history of Bangladesh and South Asia as a former head of the state was given the death penalty. The International Crimes Tribunal (ICT) – a special domestic war crimes tribunal in Dhaka, established in 2009 by former Bangladesh Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina to try war crimes committed during Bangladesh’s Liberation War (1971) — tried, convicted, and sentenced her to death in absentia for Crimes against Humanity (CaH).

This has (further) complicated diplomatic relations between  Bangladesh and India on one hand, and internationally about rule of law, international criminal law (ICL) and international criminal justice (ICJ) on the other. Hasina is only the second Prime Minister in South Asian post-colonial history to be sentenced to death (after former Pakistan Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, who was sentenced to death and executed in 1979 – though not in absentia). It must also be noted that since Hannah Arendt reported on Adolf Eichmann’s trial (1961) as ‘the banality of evil’, arguing that Eichmann simply made peace with his role in the Holocaust as someone doing his job in a bureaucratic set up, the global normative landscape has changed significantly with several international criminal trials. However, inner contradictions of individual versus state or societal guilt and criminal responsibility remain the same.

Background and ICT’s decision

In July 2024, anti-government protests started in Dhaka as discontent against the reinstatement of government quota for descendants of freedom fighters, aggravated by the alarming rate of youth unemployment. To quell the protest, Hasina used disproportionate force due to which up to 1,400 people were killed and thousands were injured and/or detained, as stated in a Report of the United Nations. Finally, on 5 August 2024, protestors marched to Hasina’s official residence, forcing her to flee to India.

Thereafter, with an Interim government led by Nobel Laureate Dr Muhammad Younus in place, a quest began to bring Hasina back to Bangladesh and seek justice for those whose rights, and lives, were lost. Eventually, Bangladesh started prosecuting culprits by lodging First Information Reports (FIRs). An arrest warrant was issued for Hasina, and subsequently an official request for extradition was made to the Government of India.

The ICT in Bangladesh (drawing on Bangladesh’s International Crimes (Tribunals) Act, 1973) was established by Sheikh Mujibur Rahman after the Liberation War to prosecute perpetrators of international war crimes (loosely identified as those who had sided with Pakistan against the creation of an independent Bangladesh), namely, genocide, war crimes and CaH during the War. This was cemented further by her daughter Hasina to try Jamaat-e-Islami (JeI) members. The ICT was endorsed by the UN with financial support for its formation and operation.

The 453-page judgment in Chief Prosecutor vs. Shiekh Hasina and Others (2025), delivered by the three-judge ICT convicted Hasina, former Home Minister Asaduzzaman Khan Kamal (also believed to be in India), and former Police Chief Chowdhury Abdullah Al-Mamun with CaH. Both Hasina and Khan Kamal, who were tried in absentia, were sentenced to death on 17 November 2025 per Section 5 of the Act that says that an official position not to free an accused from responsibility for any crime. Al-Mamun was also found guilty but received a five-year prison term after turning into a state witness per Section 15 of the Act. ICT also ordered confiscation of their properties. Section 21 restricts Hasina’s Right to Appeal unless she turns herself in voluntarily, and appeals within 30 days from the conviction and date of sentence, which has now passed.

ICL and question of Host State Responsibility

India continues to host Hasina, leading to several options with different yet plausible answers. First, the crime for which Hasina is convicted is CaH. Article 7 of the Rome Statute sets out CaH in detail; there is no independent treaty on CaH. This is significantly intertwined with India’s state practice with ICL; as in international law, state practice becomes a legal precedent and obligation for future decisions.

The Preamble of Draft Articles on Prevention and Punishment of Crimes against Humanity (2019) emphasises (Para 4) that the prevention of CaH is a peremptory norm of international law. Further, Para 8 mentions the duty of the state to initiate criminal jurisdiction to punish perpetrators of crimes. This Draft Convention creates a framework in which a state must pursue shared goals of the international community. Article 7(2) outlines the establishment of national jurisdiction where an alleged offender’s extradition has been refused. Article 10 states that if the host state does not initiate extradition or surrender proceedings of the alleged offender, then it has an obligation to initiate punitive action against them as either extradition or punishment. This draft Convention — moving towards a concrete convention — envisages the fundamental rules to make states accountable for their failure of state responsibility before international adjudicatory bodies.

Up until now, this matter has been taken by India as a personal decision rather than a sophisticated application of international law. This requires to be dealt by the cognition of ICL as Article 51 of the Constitution of India makes international law the basis of international relations, which is also one element of the doctrine of the Rule of Law. A sophisticated and rule-based decision making is awaited from India’s end to diffuse this moral and legal dilemma for its commitment towards rule based international order.

India’s Options

First, India might argue that the trial happened in absentia, with significant presumptions and evidence of bias, including the possibility of the ICT lacking neutrality. This, however, has happened in the past, when this same ICT tried JeI leader Abul Kalam Azad in absentia and sentenced him to death in 2013. In Common Law jurisdictions, trial cannot be conducted in absentia, but Section 10A makes trial in absentia possible in some cases, in which case a state- appointed counsel must represent and defend the interests and concerns of the accused.

Second, the judgment violates the obligations of Bangladesh with respect to the Rome Statute. Article 26 of the Vienna Convention on Law of Treaties 1969(VCLT) states that a state party must perform a treaty in good faith; Article 27 notes that internal law cannot be the basis of non-observance of a treaty. For Bangladesh — which, with its history and long engagement with ICL both at the domestic and international levels, had become party to the ICC — such an omission is not incidental but shows vindictiveness. Article 77 of the Rome Statute provides a maximum punishment of 30 years, negating the death penalty. Therefore, by imposing death penalty Bangladesh has violated its treaty obligation. On the other hand, India has an obligation to extradite Hasina to Bangladesh but, in view of the political situation in Bangladesh (including the clampdown on Awami League members and supporters), and concerns about impartiality of the ICT, her extradition may lead to further miscarriage of justice.

Way Forward

The ICL has been accused of being selective – in what, who and how it criminalises. While the UN said the decision is an ‘important moment’ for the victims but regretted the death penalty, commentators and reporters looked at it differently — ranging from praising it as the win for the rule of law, to declaring the death sentence as illegal, unimplementable, untenable.

Nevertheless, both Bangladesh and India need to engage with the legal questions surrounding Sheikh Hasina’s continuing residence in India in a constructive manner. The Westphalian approach to this situation will be counterproductive, creating contradictions that will be hard to reconcile in future. There are limits to prosecutorial models of justice as they lead to deep cracks in society that remain unhealed. Perhaps India could propose the application of transitional and restorative justice to diffuse the politico-legal impasse such that it would recalibrate the restoration of relationship between these neighbours and pave the path for future alliances. It would also help Bangladesh move forward with reparation and justice as the pathway to national reconciliation and healing. The purpose of the ICJ is the humanisation of victims’ pain but only with all accountability proceedings unquestionably meeting international standards of due process and fair trial. This is particularly vital in instances when trials have been conducted in absentia with serious accusations of unfairness.

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Banner image © Elena Mozhvilo, 2020, Unsplash.

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