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On 29 October 2025, in the small village of Mirzapur (Itail Union, Jamalpur Sadar) of Bangladesh, a farmer knelt in the muddy field, his hands trembling over the lifeless body of his cow.  Three more lay still around him, their breath taken by acid-poisoned water.  The pond and its surrounding grass, which had supported them for many years, had become poisonous due to heavy metals (lead in particular) and acid from discharge from a neighbouring battery recycling factory.

The farmer’s story is told in human terms: his livelihood is destroyed, his daughter’s education is now uncertain. His vulnerability is a stark human tragedy. However, if we shift our gaze from the owner’s financial loss, we feel a more profound, more silent tragedy. These cows were not mere assets but sentient beings who endured terror and agony before death — a suffering that calls for justice grounded in animal rights and the prevention of cruelty.

The Animal Welfare Act 2019

The Animal Welfare Act 2019 is the principal legislation in Bangladesh that aims to ensure animal care, prohibit cruelty, and foster compassion.  Wilful poisoning of cattle is a clear instance of deliberate cruelty and the imposition of needless suffering, covered in Section 11 of the Act.  However, the law does not address acts of negligence and fails to acknowledge animals as legal beings with rights.  Further, upon considering the severity of these acts, the prescribed penalty (per Section 16) for deliberate cruelty is simple imprisonment for up to two years, or a fine of BDT 50,000 (US$410 approx.), both unduly light punishments.

The  ‘Property’ Trap in the Penal Code

Section 429 of the Penal Code, 1860, deals with ‘mischief by killing or maiming cattle’. While it frames the crime as damage to property, the prescribed punishment — imprisonment of up to five years — reflects the serious economic and social value of these animals. For the farmer, this section is a path to ensuring the polluter is punished for its tangible loss. However, treating cows merely as property feels inadequate. It ignores their suffering. This is where the global evolution of animal law provides a more compelling framework.

Internationally, the conversation has moved beyond just preventing cruelty to actively upholding welfare. While no single international court prosecutes cases like this, powerful soft laws and principles set a global standard. The most important of these are the Five Freedoms, a globally accepted benchmark for animal welfare. The poisoned cows were brutally denied every single one:

• Freedom from Hunger and Thirst: Replaced by consuming a toxic, burning substance.
• Freedom from Discomfort: Replaced by the acute physical distress of poisoning.
• Freedom from Pain, Injury, and Disease: This was the direct cause of their death.
• Freedom to Express Normal Behaviour: Their natural behaviour of drinking water led to their death.
• Freedom from Fear and Distress: Their final moments were undoubtedly filled with both fear and distress.

Bangladesh, as a member of the World Organisation for Animal Health (WOAH), is committed to advancing these very standards. This tragedy is not just a violation of national law but a breach of a global ethical compact.

Bridging Environmental Justice and Human Rights

The case of the battery recycling plant highlights a critical gap in Bangladesh’s legal regime. Legal cases related to environmental pollution are often handled by the Environment Courts. Under the  ‘Polluter Pays Principle’, companies are held liable for ecological damage and human health impacts. However, the law rarely quantifies the  ‘sentient loss’ of non-human life. Industrial negligence that poisons an ecosystem harms both humans and animals. Justice, therefore, should not only compensate the farmer’s economic loss but also address the suffering of sentient creatures. By incorporating animal welfare standards into environmental lawsuits, Bangladesh can develop a holistic  ‘Ecological Justice’ framework that recognises the interdependence of all life.

Global Precedents and the Way Forward

Courts around the world are increasingly acknowledging that the law must see animals as more than property. Landmark judgments provide a powerful precedent for what justice could look like in Bangladesh; in Animal Welfare Board of India vs A. Nagaraja And Ors (2014), the Supreme Court of India declared that, like citizens of the country, animals too have ‘Right to Life’, one of five fundamental rights guaranteed in Article 21 of the Constitution of India. The court also stated that  ‘Every species has an inherent right to live’. A court in Argentina granted a writ of habeas corpus in the case of Cecilia the Chimpanzee — a tool used to free humans from unlawful detention — to a chimpanzee, declaring her a ‘non-human legal person’. These rulings establish animal welfare as a constitutional obligation of the state and its people, rather than merely a rule or ethical value.

For the farmer in Jamalpur Sadar, compensation may be a form of justice. Real justice, however, necessitates holding authorities and the firm responsible to environmental and animal welfare standards.  It will not be accomplished until the legal system recognises not just the material loss but also the four sentient ‘persons’ who shared his struggle and hope, as well as their stolen lives and extreme pain.

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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 3 August 2026.’

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

Banner image © Jaman Asad, 2024, Unsplash.

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The Aravallis have long served as the geological foundation of the Indian subcontinent. For northern India it is an ecological lifeline, offering much-needed protection against the intense heat and rapidly spreading desertification in states like Delhi, Haryana and Rajasthan. The Constitution of India under Articles 48A (‘Protection and Improvement of Environment and Safeguarding of Forests and Wildlife’) and 51A(g) (‘Protection and Improvement of Natural Environment’) has imposed a duty on the state and citizens to safeguard the natural environment, including forests. However, the Aravalli range has long been the subject of legal discussion, with the central question being deceptively simple yet crucial: what exactly constitutes the Aravalli range?

The Aravallis

Maps show a lengthy but fractured mountain chain stretching 650 kms from western to northern India. It starts close to the Delhi Ridge, travels across the rocky plateaus of southern Haryana, crosses the expansive, scorching Rajasthani landscapes, and ends close to Ahmedabad in Gujarat. This mountain range is the Aravalli. In some places it is almost invisible while in others it is fragmented.  

Formed over centuries by tectonic movements, erosion, wind, and rain, its dust, ash and soil contain remnants of the planet’s early eras. It acts as a buffer against desertification and prevents the Thar Desert from expanding into eastern Rajasthan and the Gangetic plain. The Aravallis are abundant with sandstone, limestone, marble, granite, and minerals including lead, zinc, copper, gold, and tungsten. Additionally, by preserving watersheds that supply the Chambal, Luni and Sabarmati rivers, it helps alleviate water scarcity in drought-prone Rajasthan and Gujarat.

Disagreement over precise identification of the Aravalli range has come up over the years in the context of mining limitations and environmental regulations in judicial and policy discourse, with practical ramifications for the level of protection granted to the range.

Legal Boundaries of the Aravalli Range

The Supreme Court of India has been considering the issue of defining the Aravallis for nearly three decades. However, what started as a sincere attempt by the Court in the late 1990s to preserve and protect this unique habitat may now accelerate its degradation.

An earlier ruling (M.C. Mehta v. Union of India & Ors (2006)) prohibited mining in the Aravalli Hills; while the prohibition was clear in intent, the absence of a uniform definition meant that states interpreted the term ‘Aravalli Hills’ differently. Haryana, Delhi and Gujarat either followed different criteria or none at all, whereas Rajasthan adopted a formal definition in 2006 (based on a study from 2002 and previous geological classifications). This approach weakened enforcement mechanisms and created loopholes that have been consistently misused by mining mafias, arguing that certain hillocks did not legally qualify as ‘Aravallis’, even if they were linked to the ecological system.

In 2010, Rajasthan submitted the ‘deemed definition’ of the Aravallis to the Supreme Court according to which only peaks or parts of hills that are 100 metres above ground level (based on the Richard Murphy Classification) were to be considered as Aravalli hills, which would also make mining easier. However, this was not accepted by the Supreme Court.

In May 2024, the Supreme Court while deliberating over the mining issue in the Aravallis, observed that, ‘one of the major issues is with regard to the different definitions of the Aravalli hills/ranges, as adopted by different States.’ The Court requested a more precise, consistent and scientific definition of ‘Aravalli Hills’ and ‘Aravalli Range’, observing that conflicting descriptions had made land-use planning, environmental control and enforcement against illicit mining more difficult over time.

The New Definition

The MoEFCC-led expert committee, constituted pursuant to the Supreme Court’s order of May 2024, submitted a Report on the Uniform Definition of the Aravalli Hills and Ranges, stating that ‘a uniform definition of the Aravalli hills and ranges could not be arrived at based on hardcoded slope and elevation criteria.’ Even as deliberations were ongoing, the Supreme Court bench led by Justice Gavai heard the T. N. Godavarman Thirumulpad vs Union of India & Ors (2025) case on 12 August, and emphasised the need for a ‘policy decision with respect to the definition of Aravalli hills and ranges’.

Pursuant to this, the Committee, without providing any justification for departing from its initial view that a ‘uniform definition’ is not possible, abruptly came to the conclusion that in order to ensure sustainable mining, ‘any landform in the Aravalli districts having an elevation of 100 metres or more from the local relief shall be termed as Aravalli Hills’.

Controversy began as soon as the Supreme Court accepted this definition in November 2025 because a seemingly small change in fact represented a fundamental shift. Per the logic of the definition, any landform in the Aravallis that was less than 100 metres of elevation or located more than 500 metres from adjacent peaks would not be considered a mountain or part of a mountain range.

It should be noted here that lower slopes, foothills and transition zones, frequently lying much below these arbitrarily determined heights, are where biodiversity is concentrated, heat is controlled, moisture is stored and recycled, and hydrological processes are most active. Peaks may be considered mountains on paper, but the lower and mid-elevation landscapes are what allow mountains to serve as climate systems.

Further, at least 90 per cent of the Aravallis would no longer have legal protection under this revised definition. According to a report in The Indian Express, internal documents of the Forest Survey of India (FSI) showed that only 1,048 of 12,081 Aravalli Hills, spread across 15 districts in Rajasthan, are 100 metres or more in height. This indicates that only 8.7 per cent of Rajasthan’s Aravallis would be protected under this criteria.

The Aravalli Notification (1992) and the National Capital Region (NCR) Planning Board’s Natural Conservation Zone declarations (2021) had protected the entire range based on its ecological value, not merely by its height. This was undermined by the new definition, a fundamental shift in India’s environmental governance, giving technical definitions precedence over ecological importance.

The 0.19% Clarification and Subsequent Abeyance

The judgement triggered widespread protests from Rajasthan to Haryana; politicians, environmentalists, social media influencers, and citizens cautioned that this would have a detrimental effect on the environment and the economy. Activists demanded that the entire Range be declared an Ecologically Critical Area, and called for an end to the quarrying of raw stone from the hills.

Following this backlash, the Central Government issued a clarification denying allegations that the definition had been altered to permit large-scale mining. Additionally, it was said that no relaxation had been granted for mining activities and that more than 90 per cent of the ecologically delicate mountain system would remain protected. In a press conference on 22 December 2025, Union Minister Bhupendra Yadav stated that,

‘In the total area of 1.44 lakh sq. kms of the Aravalli, mining eligibility can only be in 0.19 per cent of the area. The rest of the entire Aravalli is preserved and protected […] people have created confusion that you can mine below the 100-metre elevation in a hill, but it is not so […] areas lying within 500 metres between two hills would also be treated as part of the same range. After this definition, more than 90 per cent of the area will be protected.’

General Secretary of the Opposition Indian National Congress, Jairam Ramesh asserted that the 0.19 per cent figure equated to a sizable area of 68,000 acres, and that the 1.44 lakh sq. kms figure was misleading because it covered the whole area of the 34 Aravalli districts in four states that the Ministry had specified. This denominator was incorrect since the area within these districts, which is under the Aravallis, should have been used instead. ‘If the area under the Aravallis is used as a base, then 0.19 per cent will turn out to be a very huge under-estimate’, he stated, asserting that the Aravallis make up almost 33 per cent of the total landmass in 15 of the 34 districts where statistics can be verified. Further, and as mentioned earlier, according to FSI documents, just 8–9 per cent of the Aravallis in Rajasthan qualified for protection as per the new definition, leaving over 90 per cent of the forests unprotected. On being asked, the Minister failed to provide a definitive response on how many hills would be protected and how many affected.

Environmental activists remained unconvinced by official assurances. They contended that hills, woods and watershed areas serve as interconnected landscapes, and that ecological systems cannot be reduced to mathematical criteria. A number of organisations called on the government to take a preventive stance and treat the Aravalli ecosystem as a whole, regardless of its height or slope.

In response to mounting pressure, the Ministry of Environment ordered the states to enlarge the protected zones and completely prohibit new mining licenses in the Aravalli range, aiming to safeguard the Aravallis as a continuous geological crest and prevent unregulated mining across the region. However, Ramesh (on X) criticised the measure as inadequate, arguing that the core issue (of redefinition based on height) remained unaddressed.

The controversy eventually reached the Court itself. On 29^th December 2025, the Supreme Court stayed its own judgement in a suo motu proceeding, keeping the 100-metre definition in abeyance pending review by a High-Powered Expert Committee of domain experts yet to be constituted. The Court acknowledged that the Report of the Committee and its own judgement had failed to clarify certain critical issues, and that the definition had the risk of narrowing rather than securing the range’s protection.

The Way Forward

This controversy demonstrates how a legal definition can shape ecological features. A height-and-distance classification may be suitable for mapping and mining purposes but it fails to capture how mountains actually function as climate systems, where different parts work together rather than in isolation. At a deeper level, the debate highlights a larger problem in India’s environmental governance: how to balance development demands with the preservation of natural systems that do not fit neatly within administrative borders or numerical thresholds.  

Environmentalists have noted that decades of legal and illegal mining have already damaged the Aravallis severely. Any dilution in protection, they contend, might hasten the extinction of wildlife, deteriorate Delhi–NCR’s air quality further, and exacerbate the region’s already severe water shortage. Articles 48A and 51A(g) of the Constitution impose a clear duty on the state and citizens to protect the environment, which has been consistently reinforced by the Supreme Court through Article 21 (‘Right to Life’), making environmental protection an integral part of it. By excluding a substantial portion of the range from legal protection, the current approach risked diluting the safeguards established under the Indian environmental jurisprudence. While the Supreme Court has temporarily restored the previous framework, the underlying risk of definitional dilution remains unresolved pending the Expert Committee’s assessment.

Ultimately, whether the Aravallis endure as a living climate shield or fade into fragmented quarries will depend on how seriously the judiciary and the bureaucracy choose to prioritise ecological reality over administrative convenience.

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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 July 2026.’

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

Banner image © Aditi Gupta, ‘Leopard Trail (Aravalli Hills)’, Haryana, 2024, Unsplash.

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Mahr (dower) occupies a central place in Muslim personal law across South Asia, functioning simultaneously as a religious obligation, a contractual entitlement and a legally enforceable claim. Far from being a symbolic payment, mahr is conceived as a mandatory right of the wife arising from the marriage contract itself. Courts across Afghanistan, Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka have long affirmed that mahr is enforceable through law.

Yet contemporary litigation reveals a significant shift. Mahr is increasingly tested against broader constitutional norms of equality, maintenance and effective access to justice. Across South Asia, courts are reassessing whether mahr can continue to function as a sufficient mechanism of women’s financial protection or whether it must be understood as one element within a wider bundle of post-marital remedies. This layered understanding of mahr reflects broader debates in comparative family law on how religious legal institutions are accommodated within plural legal orders.

This post argues that South Asian courts are not abandoning mahr but reworking it — embedding it within constitutional, economic and procedural frameworks that reshape how women’s financial rights are protected in practice.

Nature and Timing of Mahr

In classical Islamic law, mahr consists of a sum of money or, in some cases, property rights owed by the husband to the wife. South Asian courts have consistently rejected the idea that mahr constitutes consideration for marriage; instead, it is treated as an essential incident of the marital relationship. Its validity does not depend on the husband’s financial capacity at the time of marriage.

Mahr may be either prompt (mu‘ajjal), payable immediately upon marriage or on demand by the wife, or deferred (mu’akhkhar), payable upon dissolution of marriage by divorce or death. Where deferred mahr is stipulated without a specific time for payment, courts have generally presumed it to be payable at the termination of the marriage. This presumption reflects a protective interpretive approach designed to prevent deferral from becoming de facto non-payment.

Courts across South Asia have long rejected the idea that mahr is consideration for marriage, instead treating it as a mandatory proprietary entitlement. Where it is deferred without a clear payment date, courts generally presume it becomes payable upon divorce or death — a principle established as early as Abdul Kadir vs Salima And Anr (1886) and still applied today.

Mahr as a Legal Debt

South Asian courts have gone further by consistently treating unpaid mahr as a legal debt, enforceable against the husband or his estate. In Kapore Chand vs Kadar Unnissa Begum And Ors (1950), the Supreme Court of India confirmed that mahr ranks as a lawful debt, while earlier Privy Council jurisprudence recognised a widow’s right to retain possession of property as security until payment. This judicial framing allows mahr to operate not only within personal law but across inheritance, property, and creditor regimes.

Possession as Security for Mahr

South Asian courts have also recognised a distinctive remedial mechanism in the form of a wife’s right to retain possession of the husband’s property after his death or upon divorce until her mahr is fully satisfied. This right does not confer ownership but operates as a form of lawful security for the unpaid debt.

Courts have consistently upheld this possessory right even against heirs, provided that the possession was peaceful, lawful and referable to the marital relationship. The doctrine illustrates how mahr has been judicially operationalised as an enforceable economic safeguard rather than a merely symbolic entitlement. This principle, firmly articulated in (Syed) Sabir Husain vs S. Farzand Hasan (1937) has been repeatedly applied in subsequent Indian High Court decisions, reinforcing the treatment of mahr as a debt secured by possession where necessary.

From Doctrine to Reform: Constitutional and Economic Pressures

Across South Asia, mahr is no longer treated as a standalone or self-sufficient form of protection. Instead, it is increasingly litigated alongside maintenance claims, post-divorce financial provision and inheritance disputes. This shift reflects broader constitutional and socio-economic pressures that expose the limits of mahr as a sole safeguard.

Two distinct but overlapping reform trajectories are visible: Constitutionalisation through rights discourse, particularly in India; and Constitutionalisation through procedure and enforcement, most clearly in Pakistan.

At the same time, economic realities, especially inflation and currency devaluation, have prompted courts in Bangladesh and elsewhere to question whether historical mahr amounts retain real protective value.

Afghanistan

Afghanistan highlights the most acute version of a South Asian dilemma: a legal right without access is not a right. While statutory frameworks regulating marriage and mahr continue to be cited internationally, post-2021 restrictions on women’s mobility and court access have fundamentally altered enforcement conditions. In this context, mahr remains a doctrinal entitlement but is often difficult to claim, value or enforce. Its fragility under such conditions makes mahr a diagnostic tool for assessing whether personal-status guarantees have any practical bite.

Bangladesh

In Bangladesh, mahr is widely recognised as a binding legal obligation, with litigation focusing less on doctrinal recognition than on effective recovery. Family court cases increasingly expose the gap between nominal entitlement and real economic value. Inflation and currency devaluation have become explicit legal concerns. Courts have begun to reason in more economically realistic terms, asking whether mahr operates as genuine financial security or merely as a historical figure emptied of practical meaning.

India

In India, mahr is enforceable as a debt or contractual entitlement under Muslim personal law, with procedural enforcement through civil or family courts. In practice, women increasingly pursue multiple, parallel monetary pathways: recovery of mahr, matrimonial financial claims and maintenance under general law. Recent Supreme Court jurisprudence has repositioned maintenance as a constitutional floor, grounded in equality and non-discrimination. This has significant implications for mahr. Courts are increasingly careful to ensure that it is not treated as a token substitute for ongoing support, while also preventing unjust double recovery. In this way, mahr is indirectly constitutionalised through equality-based reasoning rather than challenged head-on.

Pakistan

In Pakistan, dower is a legally enforceable right typically recorded in the nikahnama (marriage contract). Enforcement is primarily routed through Family Courts, but constitutional petitions under Article 199 are frequently used to challenge or defend family court decrees. This procedural pathway constitutionalises mahr by embedding it within public law frameworks of due process, jurisdiction and judicial review. Reform debates therefore focus less on identity-based constitutional conflict and more on administrability: documentation, valuation (particularly where dower is specified in gold or property) and effective enforcement.

Sri Lanka

Sri Lanka presents a distinct but revealing case. Muslim personal law operates within a plural legal system shaped by statutory intervention and constitutional oversight. Mahr is recognised as a core incident of Muslim marriage, enforceable through Quazi (Islamic) courts. However, Sri Lankan debates around Muslim personal law reform — particularly concerning women’s rights, procedural fairness and judicial accountability — have increasingly foregrounded the institutional context in which mahr is enforced. Questions about access to justice, delay and appellate oversight often determine whether mahr functions as effective protection in practice. As in Pakistan, the constitutional dimension emerges less through substantive equality claims and more through concerns about procedure, forum and legal accountability.

Mahr in European Jurisdictions

European courts approach mahr differently. Rather than embedding it within family law, they tend to enforce it, if at all, through contract or private international law. In Shahnaz v. Rizwan (1965), English courts treated deferred mahr as a contractual obligation, while later cases show caution where it overlaps with statutory matrimonial finance. This contrasts with South Asia, where mahr is integrated into inheritance, maintenance and post-divorce frameworks.

In the United Kingdom, courts have tended to analyse mahr through the lens of contract or trust law, enforcing it where intention, certainty and voluntariness can be established. In Shahnaz v. Rizwan, the English High Court enforced a deferred mahr as a contractual obligation, while later cases such as Uddin v. Choudhury and Ors (2009) demonstrate judicial caution where mahr intersects with statutory matrimonial finance and financial relief on divorce.

In France, courts have recognised mahr as a civil obligation where it functions as a contractual financial commitment rather than as an institution incompatible with French family law. The leading authority is the Cour de cassation, Première chambre civile, 22 November 2005 (No. 03-14.961), which held that a mahr agreement was not contrary to French international public policy (ordre public international) because it constituted an agreement accompanying the spouses’ consent to marriage rather than the sale of the wife. The Cour de cassation, Première chambre civile, 28 March 2012 (No. 11-12.940) observed that mahr formed part of the marriage contract and conditioned the spouses’ consent, while holding that the marriage contract did not constitute a matrimonial property agreement.

German courts have similarly treated mahr as a private law commitment that may be enforceable if compatible with domestic family law. The Bundesgerichtshof (BGH, 6 October 2010, XII ZR 141/08) recognised mahr as a contractual obligation under private international law, while stressing that enforcement remains subject to constitutional principles of equality and proportionality.

Across Europe, therefore, mahr is neither ignored nor fully assimilated into family law: it is selectively accommodated through contractual reasoning, private international law and human rights considerations. This cautious but pragmatic approach contrasts with South Asian jurisdictions, where mahr is embedded within personal law and routinely integrated into inheritance, maintenance and post-divorce frameworks, highlighting different models of pluralism and legal integration of Muslim family law institutions.

Conclusion

Across South Asia, mahr continues to demonstrate a remarkable capacity for legal adaptation. Far from remaining a static or purely symbolic institution, it has been progressively reinterpreted by courts as a legally enforceable entitlement, a recoverable debt and, in some contexts, a secured financial claim. Through sustained judicial reasoning, mahr has been integrated into wider legal frameworks governing inheritance, maintenance and post-marital support, allowing Muslim personal law to engage meaningfully with evolving understandings of women’s economic rights. The cumulative effect of landmark decisions — from Hamira Bibi, Amina Bibi And Ors vs Zubaida Bibi And Ors (1916) and Kapore Chand vs Kidar Nissa Begum (1953) in South Asia to Shahnaz v. Rizwan (1965) and BGH jurisprudence in Europe — demonstrates that mahr has become a site of sustained judicial engagement rather than doctrinal inertia.

What emerges from the comparative South Asian picture is not a narrative of doctrinal exhaustion but one of adaptive pluralism. Courts and institutions have shown a consistent ability to reconcile religious legal concepts with constitutional principles, economic realities and procedural safeguards. In Bangladesh, this reconciliation is most visible through economically responsive approaches to valuation and enforcement; in India, it is most visible through equality — and maintenance — based reasoning; and in Pakistan and Sri Lanka, through procedural constitutionalisation and institutional oversight. Even in more constrained contexts, such as Afghanistan, the persistence of mahr as a recognised entitlement underscores the enduring normative force of women’s financial rights within personal-status law, notwithstanding severe barriers to enforcement.

A comparison with European jurisdictions further sharpens this insight. In countries such as the United Kingdom, France and Germany, mahr is usually not embedded within family law as such but is selectively accommodated through contract law, private international law or proprietary reasoning, subject to public policy and gender equality constraints. European courts tend to approach mahr cautiously, enforcing it where it can be framed as a voluntary civil obligation compatible with domestic legal principles while keeping it at arm’s length from statutory matrimonial finance regimes. This contrasts with South Asia, where mahr is treated as an internal component of family law and routinely integrated into inheritance, maintenance and post-divorce frameworks. The comparison reveals different models of legal pluralism: one based on cautious accommodation at the margins, the other on internal doctrinal evolution.

The caveat, across both regions is not conceptual but practical. The effectiveness of mahr depends less on its formal recognition than on the surrounding legal infrastructure: access to courts, institutional capacity, procedural fairness, and socio-political conditions that enable women to assert their rights. Where these conditions are present, mahr operates as a meaningful site of integration between personal law and contemporary rights-based norms. Where they are absent, its protective potential is correspondingly weakened, regardless of doctrinal sophistication.

Rather than treating mahr as an obstacle to women’s rights, South Asian courts have increasingly used it as a site of legal adaptation — embedding it within constitutional norms, economic realities and procedural safeguards. The lesson is not that personal law resists reform but that meaningful change often occurs through judicial practice rather than wholesale replacement. Whether mahr protects women in practice ultimately depends less on doctrine than on access to courts, enforceability and the broader conditions that allow legal rights to be claimed.

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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 July 2026.

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

Banner image © Khadija Yousaf, 2018, Unsplash.

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Last year’s Pakistan–India conflict has calcified into an uneasy peace. What has not calcified is the ambition of (then) General (now Field Marshal) Asim Munir, who rode the conflict to a Field Marshal’s baton within days of the guns falling silent. General Munir was promoted little more than a week after the brief conflict with India; it was as much a political signal as a military honour. This post explores the weaponisation of external conflict to suppress internal dissent through manufactured narratives, pageantry and patriotism in Pakistan.

History offers many examples of rulers who converted military spectacle into political authority. One of the most revealing is Field Marshal Idi Amin of Uganda. Starting as a cook in the British colonial army, Amin clawed his way up to becoming the President (1971–79) of the country, bestowing titles like Field Marshal and Conqueror of the British Empire upon himself. But times and circumstances change: from Presidency to an unmarked grave in exile, the rise and fall of Idi Amin reminds us of the pitfalls of such ambition.

Institutions outlast those who temporarily command them. The Pakistan Army is no exception. The argument here concerns the political choices of those in command. It is in that light that General Asim Munir’s promotion to Field Marshal should be analysed.

War Within, War Without

Pakistan–India rivalry offers valuable insights into the external and internal dynamics of inter-state conflict. In the aftermath of what could easily have escalated into a nuclear Armageddon, how do we make sense of the merriment and self-congratulatory vibes coming from the twin cities of Islamabad and Rawalpindi , the seats of political and military power respectively? Should battle honours be dished out at the end of a war or immediately after the first skirmish? Does the haste signify a certainty about victory or an utter lack of it?

A year later, the self-congratulation has not faded; rather, it has been institutionalised. The state has retrospectively named the conflict ‘Marka-e Haq’ (lit., ‘Battle of Truth’), given it an annual commemoration and woven it into the military’s ceremonial calendar, rituals usually reserved for decisive national victories. But Pakistan’s military establishment is no stranger to cultivating a notion of victory contrary to ground realities. Both Field Marshal Mohammed Ayub Khan (after the Pakistan–India War in 1965) and General Pervez Musharraf (after the Kargil War with India in 1999) claimed victories that remain contested to this day.

Inconsistencies between the scale of last year’s conflict and the magnitude of the celebrations point toward a much deeper reality: the true conflict is not external but internal. The external threat subsided as soon a ceasefire came into effect; theatrics and manoeuvres post ceasefire are exclusively aimed at what the regime perceives to be the real threat — the domestic population.

Checkmating Internal Dissent

War has differing meanings for the ruled and their rulers. This is even more so in an era of nuclear deterrents where conquest is not an option. For the people, war brings existential threats, economic disruption, suppression of dissent, and a false sense of unity. For hybrid regimes (electoral democracy overseen by military establishment) like that of Pakistan, war and its aftermath become a ritual of self-preservation. Like saviours descending from a moral high ground, the rulers make full use of the distracting effects of war by brushing aside the failures of governance and indulging in pageantries. 

Opportunity often follows on the heels of adversity. The military establishment showed an uncanny presence of mind to capitalise on the gains of Pakistan Air Force. The shooting down of several Indian fighter jets came as a godsend to wrest back control of the national narrative from former Prime Minister Imran Khan, who remains the most popular leader of the country but is in prison on politically motivated charges. Khan fell out of favour with the military establishment after defiantly challenging his ouster, and has since become a symbol of resistance against the hybrid regime that came to power as a result of allegedly rigged elections.

In retrospect, the political utility of Munir’s promotion has become increasingly apparent. State pageantry has reshaped the political terrain on which dissent now has to operate. Political dissent has been recast as treason, while criticism of the military’s political role has become easier to dismiss as sympathy for the enemy. The language of war has steadily migrated into domestic politics. And the conflict’s official commemoration reinforces the military establishment’s claim to political primacy.

Munir’s promotion has become more than a military distinction, a part of the state’s architecture of legitimacy, securing a tactical advantage for the establishment. Whether it amounts to a lasting strategic victory remains far less certain. Across the border, the Indian government has likewise folded the conflict into an expanding narrative of national resolve and military preparedness, using its political afterlife to reinforce domestic authority. The war lasted just some days. Its political afterlife endures.

Long Shadows at Dusk

Munir is only the second Field Marshal in Pakistan Army’s lacklustre history. Luckily for him though, he need not worry about either filling big boots or the weight of history. His predecessor, Field Marshal Ayub Khan was also hero conveniently minted in the hazy corridors of political intrigue. And both signify similar notes in the long symphony of military overreach in Pakistan’s unfortunate constitutional history.

But ground realities have changed in the intervening years. In an era characterised by the machinations of the Cold War and black-and-white television, Ayub’s meteoric rise in the 1960s marked the beginning of an era of seemingly unopposed military dominance. Pakistan today is a country teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, burdened by a restless youth bulge and awash with the unforgiving glare of social media. Against this backdrop, Munir cuts a tragic figure: part preacher, part Praetorian, part statesman, and hardly recognisable as a soldier.

If Ayub signified reveille, ushering the army to Pakistan’s political stage, Munir marks its retreat. At dusk, even shrinking figures cast long shadows. Over the last year, Munir has acquired an unusually prominent international profile, emerging as an intermediary during the crisis involving Israel, Iran and the United States. Donald Trump praised him, referring to him as his favourite Field Marshal. Whether these gestures reflect genuine strategic influence or Pakistan’s continuing utility to Washington is beside the point because international visibility has done little to arrest the erosion of credibility at home.

The stage, however, is larger than its leading actor. Most of the institution continues to perform the ordinary work of soldiering. The political drama belongs to a small cast at the top. Constitutional innovation, diplomatic prominence and ceremonial honours project an image of expanding authority, yet each also betrays the growing need to manufacture it. The shadow lingers. The figure casting it has not grown. Foreign applause rarely repairs domestic legitimacy.

Fools’ Hegemony and the Global South

In the long-drawn history of inflated egos and unchecked ambitions, the likes of Idi Amin have unsuccessfully attempted to mask their lack of achievements behind high-sounding titles. When institutions falter and legitimacy runs thin, pageantry steps in to fill the void. Marshals are cast for stagecraft rather than strategy.

The Marshal may command the stage but seldom performs alone. Every political theatre requires its fools, those who manufacture applause, rationalise excess and transform power into spectacle, who thrive on half-truths, mistake expediency for wisdom and applause for legitimacy. Similar acts from Pakistan’s history involving Ayub Khan, Zia-ul Haq and Pervez Musharraf (all military officers turned Head of State) remind us of apparently all-powerful Marshals being led by fools, only to be discarded eventually. What appears to be a uniquely Pakistani phenomenon is, in fact, just another brushstroke on a larger canvas, one that depicts the recurring crises of governance, legitimacy and élite capture across the Global South.

The choreography repeats itself with almost bureaucratic fidelity, whatever the local costume. In Sudan, General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan purged his own general staff to guard against rivals even as the civil war he is fighting grinds on. In Myanmar, Min Aung Hlaing engineered a military-run election and, in April 2026, traded his uniform for the presidency. In Egypt, the military establishment leans on monuments of concrete, new capitals, bridges and mega-projects, alongside periodic constitutional amendments to project permanence even as the economy buckles beneath it. The same hands remain on the same levers, just dressed in different clothes. The cast and the setting change; the choreography remains the same.

The Fools/Marshal analogy provides a compelling insight into the mechanics of élite capture. In the absence of radical reforms from within and without, this malignancy is likely to metastasise. If so, it may not be far-fetched to imagine a revolt of the oppressed with chaos spreading across borders, states falling like dominoes, shattering the illusion of stability that undergirds the global order. The West’s backing of despots for the sake of regional stability through diplomatic recognition, military cooperation and financial lifelines has steadily eroded its own claims to moral authority. A fundamental recalibration of both foreign policy and the international monetary system is long overdue.

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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 July 2026.

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

Banner image © Zino, 2022, Unsplash.

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‘We are here to fight institutionalised corruption’ echoed through the streets of Nepal in September 2025, with hashtags like #NepoBabies and #NepoKids becoming central to Gen Z protests till elections in March 2026 brought a new government to power, led by 36-year-old rapper-turned-politician Balendra Shah. 

To understand the landslide victory that brought Shah and his Rastriya Swatantra Party to power, it is necessary to situate it in the political upheaval that preceded it. The youth-led protests which escalated into violent confrontations and culminated in then Prime Minister K. P. Sharma Oli’s resignation, a 6-month Interim Government led by former Chief Justice Sushila Karki, and the March 2026 elections emerged from a profound crisis of political legitimacy and Gen Z’s saturation point with long-standing corruption, deep frustration with entrenched party politics, economic precarity, unemployment, and a growing distance between the establishment and a generation that saw existing institutions as incapable of meeting its aspirations.

Yet, the transformation of a movement of dissent into an overwhelming electoral mandate raises important questions: how did fragmented public anger consolidate into a coherent political project, and what social forces, institutional failures and popular aspirations enabled it? It must be understood as the outcome of a longer crisis of representation, one that reshaped the dynamic between state and people.

The core of Gen Z’s protests lay in their disillusionment with political promises made since the democratic transition in Nepal (2006 onward), whether in relation to economic precarity, unemployment, migration pressures or shrinking opportunities within Nepal. This situation was very much anticipated when looking at the contemporary situation of Nepal, where corruption, patronage politics and the dominance of the ‘Old Guard’ had long corroded trust in governance.

Resistance and Reimagination

Starting in September 2025, large scale protests led primarily by unemployed youth were not just acts of resistance but also a reimagination of Nepal’s political future. For this Gen Z, dissent was not optional but necessary.

The protests were unconventional in comparison to earlier waves of dissent in Nepal. Hami Nepal, a civil society organisation, called for peaceful demonstrations, building solidarity among young people and mobilising them in large numbers despite the government’s ban on social media and increasing restrictions on public mobilisation. The protests were directed against the corruption, economic decline, and political unaccountability of the government led by Prime Minister Oli.

The state’s violent, arbitrary and repressive response to dissent rather than addressing demands for accountability, employment and economic justice exposed the widening disconnect between the establishment and Nepal’s youth. By suppressing the movement through force instead of political engagement, the state deepened the crisis of legitimacy it already faced. What began as protests against corruption and unemployment soon evolved into a broader rejection of the existing political order, laying the foundations for a shift that would reshape Nepal’s contemporary history.

Public response to these tragedies exposed stark inequalities in how lives are valued. The killing of Rajyalaxmi Chitrakar (wife of former Prime Minister Jhalanath Khanal) whose house was set ablaze during the protests drew far more sympathy than the death of 59 protestors in a total toll of 72, raising a haunting question: whose life matters more, the powerful mourned as national tragedy or the young reduced to statistics? The politics of mourning, in the end, was inseparable from the politics of power.

Digital Authoritarianism

The banning of 26 social media platforms on 4 September 2025 on grounds of not registering with the government was dictatorial to say the least — an attempt to silence dissent that exposed the Oli government’s authoritarian instincts more than it suppressed the movement. The decision backfired spectacularly, forcing the government to lift the ban within days. Thereafter, social media became the state’s biggest liability, as young people continued voicing outrage against nepotism and élite privilege: while ‘nepo babies’ and ‘nepo kids’ lived luxurious lives abroad, 1 in 5 Nepalis remained unemployed. For protesting youth, this was deeply personal — anger born of betrayal by leaders who offered nothing but broken promises.

Social media proved indispensable to the protesters’ solidarity and momentum. Hashtags like  #NepoBabies and #NepoKids across Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok helped mobilise the youth and pressurise the government, catalysing a breakdown of authority within 36 to 48 hours. The reliance on digital solidarity also underscored Gen Z’s bold defiance, in contrast to older generations’ more cautious approach to speech.

A Leaderless Movement

A striking aspect of these protests was their leaderless, lateral nature. Unlike conventional dissent led by Opposition political parties, this movement was spearheaded by no single party or figure; instead, it was a mobilisation of citizens themselves, whose collective aspiration to question, resist and dismantle an authoritarian, corrupt regime had suddenly become reality. This horizontal, decentralised structure made the protests harder to dismiss as they couldn’t be neatly attributed to an opposition bloc’s motives but were rooted in widespread discontent among the people.

Nor were the protests limited to corruption, class inequality and unemployment alone. They intersected with environmental safeguards and broader concerns about social justice, making them more inclusive and multidimensional: a cross-over that gave the protests wider resonance, letting them expand beyond a single grievance into a generational statement about the country’s future.

Aesthetics and Resonance of Protest

The symbolic use of language, memes, music, art, and hashtags gave the protests a distinct character. To older generations, such cultural tools might seem trivial yet they became vehicles for systemic change and global recognition. Visual identity mattered too: slogans were not just chanted but enacted through civic responsibility, with young protestors cleaning streets, clearing debris and repainting walls — a fusion of civic action and creative expression that lent the movement its unique identity. Hip hop, protest songs and artistic interventions connected with diverse audiences, amplifying the message across Nepal and beyond. Art is political and found its truest expression here as the youth-against-corruption movement voiced itself through murals and music. Every wall carried a memory; every mural became dissent — resistance not merely as defiance but as a culture meant to endure.

This spirit resonated with other youth-led movements across South Asia and the world. Sri Lanka’s Aragalaya protests in 2022 similarly questioned dynastic élites amid economic crisis; though Nepal is not under dynastic rule, outrage against political élites’ lavish lifestyles fuelled comparable anger. Globally, echoes can be seen in the Global Sumud Flotilla movement against the genocide in Palestine, the Umbrella Movement in Hong Kong, and Fridays for Future — all sharing a grammar of resistance rooted in the right to question, reject and repel high-handed state intimidation.

Media Narratives and State Repression

Media narratives also shaped how these protests were understood. Much of the Nepali press followed trends set in neighbouring India, framing the protests as chaotic, exclusionary and disruptive — reinforcing government propaganda and undermining the movement’s legitimacy. The sympathy extended to politicians’ families, against the dismissal of young protestors’ deaths, exposing deep social biases, while reports of batons, tear gas and mass detentions echoed repressive tactics seen globally against youth uprisings.

Protestors were also routinely dismissed as ‘misled’ or ‘ungrateful’:  a delegitimising tactic that only deepened the disillusionment driving the movement, mirroring how global élites undermine youth-led dissent by branding it reckless or irrelevant. In truth, the protests signalled collapsing trust in institutions and governance: not simply a cycle of unrest but a profound political rupture.

The machinery of repression did more than widen the distance between the regime and the generation it sought to govern through the same corrupt, outdated and arbitrary methods, hastening its own irrelevance. In refusing to remain mere recipients of decisions and orders imposed from above, Nepal’s youth transformed themselves into political actors, asserting their place as authors of the country’s future.

The example of Nepal is nothing short of the streets becoming a democratic institution when institutions refuse to listen, the last democratic space of hope for the people.

The Movement Must Not become the Establishment

Elections are not endings but beginnings of what people choose to bring to power, and equally, what they choose to bring down. Balendra Shah becoming Prime Minister marks the start of a new political responsibility, of converting the aspirations of the Gen Z protest movement into the task of governing for the people of Nepal.

Every movement that enters power risks becoming the very order it once resisted. Accountability alone can hold that possibility at bay. The greatest lesson from Nepal’s Gen Z uprising is that memory remains democracy’s most vigilant instrument: silence can no longer be mistaken for consent. What began as dissent against a ban on social media unfolded into a wider reckoning with corruption, unemployment, political unaccountability, and economic injustice.

The streets are still watching. They did not merely mandate a new government; they produced a generation that now knows its own political power — and is unlikely to surrender it again.

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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 July 2026.’

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

Banner image © Sunil Chandra Sharma, 2025, Unsplash.

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June, recognised globally as Pride Month, celebrates the visibility of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, Intersex, Asexual, and other gender and sexual minority identities (LGBTQIA+). It is the time of year when social media timelines are awash with rainbow logos, corporate campaigns celebrating diversity, inclusivity advertisements, and photographs from Pride marches across cities. This annual ritual raises a critical question: is the celebration of Pride Month really serving any meaningful purpose?

This question is especially relevant in the Indian context, where over the past decade, queer and trans communities have witnessed significant legal and social transformations. Despite continuing hostility, a series of developments has emerged that would have been difficult to imagine just a generation earlier. Same-sex couples have increasingly approached courts seeking recognition of their relationships and families; transgender persons have secured comparative visibility within public and educational institutions; and workplaces have expanded diversity and inclusion policies.

Pride marches now happen in cities far beyond metropolitan centres, reflecting the growing public visibility of queer and trans lives. These developments have unfolded within a social context long structured by heteronormative institutional structures, caste hierarchies and highly unequal access to socio-cultural and economic resources.

So, at first glance, these developments suggest an unprecedented expansion of LGBTQIA+ visibility and recognition in contemporary India. However, visibility, recognition, and redistribution are not the same.

While Pride celebrations often highlight the increasing acceptance of LGBTQIA+ identities, they obscure the more uncomfortable reality: the language of inclusion has expanded far more rapidly than the material conditions of life for many LGBTQIA+ persons in India. Here, LGBTQIA+ individuals continue to face barriers in accessing fundamental human rights and basic liveability conditions, compounded by intersectional forms of socio-cultural precarity. For many, these everyday survival challenges remain largely disconnected from the celebratory narratives associated with global Pride Month.

The increasing prominence of Pride Month in India thus demands a critical rethinking of what forms of inclusion are being celebrated, and who remains excluded from these narratives. 

Pride, Markets and Exclusion

The growing corporatisation of Pride, especially in the Indian market, complicates its political significance. Each June, global conglomerates dramatically embrace aesthetic rainbow branding, advertise diversity and conduct inclusive language workshops targeted toward Indian LGBTQIA+ identities, apparently aiming to ‘normalise’ them.

On the ground, these diversity initiatives remain a branding strategy, while structural issues such as workplace discrimination, economic precarity and the exclusion of LGBTQIA+ persons from the market receive far less attention. Consequently, market visibility creates the appearance of progress without substantially altering patterns of economic exclusion. Pride, therefore, is celebrated insofar as it can be incorporated into capitalist consumption and productivity.

Studies have described this phenomenon as pink capitalism, showing how corporate participation in Pride often transforms a political movement into a marketable identity. More problematically, in this framework, the ideal LGBTQIA+ subject is often imagined as urban, educated, English-speaking, middle-class, and economically valuable. Such representations obscure the experiences of those who do not fit this model. A young trans person from Bengaluru, facing multiple forms of marginalisation, said:

I am a graduate in computer applications. But big company campaigns only wanting [queer] people speaking good English, and hi-fi education [sic]. I am coming from village with a marginalised background, so I do not fit.

LGBTQIA+ lives shaped by caste, class, religion, region, language, and disability face compounded forms of exclusion from this celebratory narrative. Dalit queer activists have long argued that mainstream LGBTQIA+ movements frequently reproduce caste privilege by treating sexuality as the primary axis of oppression while overlooking the material realities of caste-based exclusion.

This critique reveals an important limitation within contemporary Indian recognition-based Pride politics. Visibility is not experienced uniformly, and the ability to publicly express one’s identity often depends on access to economic resources, educational opportunities, social capital, and relative safety. Consequently, Pride in India often inadvertently privileges those who already possess forms of social advantage while rendering other experiences less visible.

Pride as Political Possibility

It would be folly to overlook the political significance of Pride as a form of collective resistance. Historically, Pride has challenged the silencing of non-normative sexualities and genders, creating spaces where individuals could assert their identities with dignity. It mattered because invisibility has long been one of the primary mechanisms through which LGBTQIA+ communities were excluded from social, legal and political recognition.

In India in particular, Pride emerged not as a celebration of inclusion but as a space where alternative forms of kinship, belonging and citizenship could be publicly imagined and enacted, creating spaces where individuals could publicly contest stigma, shame and invisibility. Pride enabled communities to imagine themselves as political constituencies capable of demanding recognition and rights, and remains one of the few spaces where diverse queer and transgender groups come together to articulate collective demands and build solidarities.

Indeed, Pride’s enduring political value lies in its capacity to function simultaneously as celebration and protest, especially when the queer and transgender community in India has historically been criminalised, and is currently facing draconian governance regimes. Against such a background, expressing joy itself can be political. The act of gathering publicly, occupying public space and expressing forms of existence that dominant institutions have attempted to suppress remains a powerful challenge to social norms.

But if Pride Month is reduced to an annual spectacle of visibility, it risks obscuring the material realities that continue to shape LGBTQIA+ lives. For much of the past two decades, LGBTQIA+ activism in India has organised itself around making queer and transgender lives visible within law, public discourse and civil society. That struggle remains at the core, yet contemporary conditions demand a broader political horizon.

The question, therefore, is not whether Pride Month serves a purpose. It clearly does. The more significant question is what purpose it should advance in contemporary times? While struggles for recognition, inclusion and legal equality have secured important gains for queer and trans communities, these achievements alone cannot address the structural inequalities that shape everyday experiences of marginalisation. Pride’s continued relevance in India depends on whether it can move beyond the politics of recognition to engage with broader questions of exclusion.

Several young LGBTQIA+ community members have suggested that new-age Pride celebrations, apart from asserting politico-socio-spatial visibility, could serve as platforms to spotlight queer-owned small businesses, upcoming entrepreneurs, LGBTQIA+ business forums, cooperative initiatives, and mentorship programmes which can provide much-needed support in bridging gaps between access, visibility and market.

Viewed from this perspective, the political significance of Pride extends beyond securing visibility or institutional acceptance. In India, where access to dignity and citizenship remains profoundly shaped by unequal access to socio-economic resources, Pride’s continued purpose lies in its capacity to connect struggles for recognition with demands for substantive social justice. Pride’s transformative potential, therefore, rests not simply in affirming the presence of LGBTQIA+ communities within existing social arrangements but in creating space for critical reflection on the conditions under which dignity, citizenship, and belonging are distributed.

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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 29 June 2026.’

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

Banner Image © Katie Rainbow, 2021, Unsplash.

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Living with Water

In Bangladesh’s Haor wetlands, water is both a vital resource and a persistent risk. Each monsoon submerges extensive areas, isolating villages and halting agriculture for months. When water finally recedes, households have a short window to cultivate crops, often their only chance to secure food and income that year.

Austagram  (Kishoreganj district) in central-eastern Bangladesh illustrates this fragile balance. Using qualitative fieldwork across several villages, this post examines how climate variability, water insecurity and infrastructure challenges intersect within the Water–Energy–Food (WEF) nexus to shape resilience in haor communities. Here, daily life is marked less by dramatic disaster than by persistent uncertainty over water, electricity and livelihoods.

This post argues that resilience in haor regions must be understood as the product of interconnected sectoral dynamics. The interplay between water, food production, energy access, labour mobility, and governance constitutes a complex system in which climate change both heightens interdependencies and exposes policy shortfalls. Such complexity requires moving beyond sectoral silos to critically examine structural vulnerabilities overlooked by traditional policy approaches.

The Context

Broader regional patterns set the context for Austagram’s unique challenges. The area experiences seasonal flooding, submerging it entirely during the rainy season and making agriculture impossible. Farming resumes only in the dry months, so single-season cultivation underpins local livelihoods.

Most residents lack land ownership, cultivating borrowed plots or working as day labourers during the brief agricultural season. Dependence on a single season and insecure land access leaves households vulnerable to climate fluctuations, with few alternatives when farming is disrupted.

Fishing during the monsoon once supplemented livelihoods but few households now rely on it as a primary occupation. Many residents have shifted to informal work (driving auto-rickshaws or wage labour), adopting these strategies out of necessity.

Temporary migration is now a key coping strategy. During the agricultural off-season, and after climate disruptions, many workers move to urban centres like Dhaka and Chattogram. Migration is seen not as an aspiration but as a response to limited local opportunities and increasing livelihood insecurity.

Water Availability: Access without Security

Unlike northwestern Bangladesh where water scarcity during the dry season is common, Austagram presents a more complex situation. About 70–80 per cent of households report year-round access to water, mainly through shallow tube wells. Some families own wells while others use shared or government facilities.

However, access does not guarantee security. Water quality is a significant concern, as high levels of iron can cause skin conditions and other health issues. Awareness of these underlying causes remains limited.

For daily tasks such as bathing, cooking and cleaning, water from hand-operated tube wells is supplemented with water from ponds and rivers. During the rainy season, poor sanitation worsens water quality, as most households discharge toilet waste directly into rivers, polluting the same water they rely on for their daily life.

These dynamics highlight a key aspect of the WEF nexus: water insecurity impacts not only the availability and quantity of water but also food security through irrigation and energy needs for water extraction or treatment. Sanitation and health depend on energy for safe water processing, and all are especially vulnerable where institutional support is limited.

Energy Insecurity and Everyday Disruption

Electricity access is another vulnerability. Supply is relatively stable from October to February but severe disruptions occur during the dry and rainy seasons from March to September. Many households receive electricity for only five to six hours per day during these times.

Inconsistent power supply limits household activities, reduces economic productivity and restricts access to services. Small businesses struggle, food storage is difficult and communication with migrant family members is often disrupted. Energy insecurity also hinders adaptation by restricting the use of technologies that could address water and livelihood challenges.

Energy is not an isolated sector; its reliability directly affects how households manage water, food and income.

Climate Change as Uncertainty, Not Spectacle

In Austagram, climate change rarely manifests as sudden disasters. Instead, its effects appear through shifting seasonal patterns. Floodwaters once receded by November, allowing farmers to prepare and plant crops but in recent years they have lingered longer, delaying cultivation and shortening the growing season.

Informants also reported water arriving earlier than expected, sometimes flooding fields in the month of Baisakh (April–May) just before harvest. Such disruptions are devastating in an economy where households have only one opportunity to farm in a year.

Residents also cited factors such as ‘khata ghang’ (blockages in water flow) along with shallow rivers that cannot drain excess water efficiently. While climate variability contributes, infrastructure and governance issues worsen waterlogging and prolong submergence.

Here, climate change amplifies existing vulnerabilities by increasing uncertainty, heightening livelihood risks and reducing the margin for recovery when disruptions occur, due to unequal adaptation.

Fishing remains important but is in decline. Many informants recalled a time when fish were abundant, but today, fish stocks are seen as significantly reduced.

A common factor is the widespread use of ring-nets which indiscriminately catch fish, including juveniles. Many fishermen criticise ring-nets for harming ecosystems but still choose to use them. Those who can afford this equipment catch far more fish than those using traditional nets.

This leads to unequal adaptation. Wealthier fishermen invest in technology for short-term gains while poorer households are left behind. Although long-term sustainability is at risk, immediate survival needs drive continued use of these methods.

In some areas, government leasing (ijara) of rivers has further restricted access to them. Formerly independent fishermen now work as labourers for leaseholders, earning modest daily wages compared to previous earnings. These arrangements show how policy decisions and environmental stress reshape livelihoods.

Localised Vulnerabilities

In Baligaon, soil erosion during the rainy season is a persistent threat. Each year, homestead foundations are partially washed away, forcing families to spend scarce resources on repairs. Some households become isolated during floods, losing access to tube wells and relying on boats to collect drinking water from neighbours.

During the dry season, even deep tube wells (70–110 feet) often fail to provide a consistent water supply. When water is available, high iron content makes it unsuitable for many uses. This combination of unreliable supply and poor quality highlights the fragility of daily water security.

In Vatinagar, changes in fishing rights show how governance and climate stress intersect. The loss of open river access has forced fishermen into dependent labour arrangements with limited security.

These local experiences reflect broader patterns in the Haor region where environmental exposure, infrastructure gaps and policy decisions combine to create layered vulnerability.

Resilience, Borrowing and the Cost of Survival

Financial insecurity is common. Many households depend on loans from NGOs, banks or informal lenders to cover daily expenses especially during the off-season or after disruptions. Borrowing supports short-term survival but increases long-term vulnerability. Resilience in Austagram involves constant adjustment. Households diversify livelihoods, migrate temporarily, borrow money, and reorganise labour. While these strategies show adaptability, they also bring hidden costs such as social strain, debt and reduced well-being.

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The Austagram case challenges narrow views of resilience focused only on infrastructure or disaster response. Here, resilience is relational and systemic, shaped by water patterns; an energy integrated, analytical approach is necessary — one that systematically accounts for seasonal timing, labour mobility, water quality, and resource access as mutually reinforcing determinants of resilience.

Climate adaptation in haor regions must move beyond an emergency focus. The challenges in communities like Austagram are not temporary shocks but ongoing conditions shaped by climate variability and institutional decisions.

In Austagram, resilience means living with water amid profound uncertainty, not resisting it. Climate change has increased this uncertainty, reducing the margin for error in already fragile livelihoods.

The experiences of the haor communities offer important lessons for climate policy. Adaptation must address extreme events and the gradual loss of predictability affecting daily life. Recognising and responding to these impacts is essential for Bangladesh and other floodplain regions where water, food and work are closely linked.

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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 22 June 2026.’

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

Banner Image © Miraz Khan Salman, Ratargul Swamp Forest, Bangladesh, 2024, Unsplash.

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For a region historically oppressed for centuries and never allowed an equal seat at the table until relatively recently, South Asia today represents some of the largest democratic and sovereign nations across the world. And perhaps, democracy in South Asia ought not to be working as well as it is at the moment because all parameters that make countries democratic — press freedom, electoral integrity, judicial independence, and government accountability — are under attack,  and the region is in worse shape than it was 20 years ago. But governments still keep changing, civilian uprisings keep succeeding and voters keep astonishing everyone. Something is working, and it is not the institutions.

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The last couple of years (2024–25) were crucial for South Asia in its post-colonial history, as six of the eight countries (India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Maldives and Nepal) held elections within months of each other. This set of elections proved consequential because of their strikingly unpredictable results. In a serious turn of events

• India’s ruling party lost the outright majority it held for the last decade;
• Pakistan’s citizens voted for a party whose leader was imprisoned and whose candidates were forced to run as independent candidates, and made them win; and
• two years after an economic collapse, Sri Lanka not only held a credible election but also removed the incumbent government, replacing it with a Left-of-Centre government.

The elections were not symbols of efficient democratic systems, rather they were the outcome of nations that refused to give up.

This essay argues that the reasons for this resilience are not electoral commissions, Constitutions or judiciaries (though they play a part), it is something more nuanced: the existence of a civil life beyond the state. Where citizens mobilise, question and hold authorities accountable beyond constitutional measures, democracies find a way to resurrect themselves. Take this spirit away and even completely developed systems will crumble.

Decay by Design

The danger to democracy in South Asia is rarely visibly aggressive. It does not exist in military coups or suspended Constitutions. It is never a single defining moment; instead, it happens through the gradual degradation of democratic norms through legal and political mechanisms. Security laws are used to silence journalists and election commissions become compromised. The idea of democracy is upheld while the substance is structurally dismantled.

A defining example of this was India’s Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA), introduced in 2019. Although designed to offer residency to persecuted minorities from neighboring countries, the Act was condemned globally as constitutionally discriminatory (Human Rights Watch, 2020) attributed to its explicit exclusion of Muslims from the category of displaced minorities. The Act was seen as directly offending the secular nature of India and going against the values of its Constitution. Elsewhere, anti-terrorism laws and sedition charges against academics, opposition politicians and journalists have accelerated, leading to India being ranked among the world’s top 10 jailers of journalists among other political writers in 2022 (PEN America, 2022).

In Pakistan, the removal and imprisonment of Prime Minister Imran Khan and the categorical suppression of his Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf party ahead of the 2024 elections demonstrated the violation of civilian democratic legitimacy not by military aggression but by legal and judicial means — the army did not disappear, its role simply evolved (International Crisis Group 2024).

In Bangladesh, elections were seen as merely ceremonial until 2024 saw a student uprising breaking the cycle in a way that no institution had managed before (Montlake, 2026).

After a near-total economic collapse, Sri Lanka still managed to channel civilian rage through constitutional process rather than against it, upholding the system in the face of political and economic unrest.

Where Resilience Lives Now

Democratic systems persevere not because they are structurally sound or their constitutions are intact, they survive because of what exists under the institutional façade — the ideologies and organisations that act as mediums for citizens to interact with public life outside the government and state.

A recent study spanning 18 Asian democracies makes a striking revelation: the single sufficient condition for the absence of democratic resilience is the absence of a strong civil society (Croissant and Waldner, 2025). Weak civil societies took precedence over ineffective institutions, polarised parties and ethnic divisions when it came to sustaining ideals of democracy in a country. This finding therefore describes the current context of South Asia with undeniable clarity.

The contemporary incidents of civil uprisings across South Asia act as a testament to the spirit of democracy in South Asia. The mass mobilisation across several of states against CAA in  2019–20 eventually forced the government to suspend its implementation at the time and, when it mattered, India’s voters enabled change of regime by making the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party lose its outright majority in 2024 and forcing it into coalition government with the same opposition it had spent years marginalising from mainstream politics. The student movement in Bangladesh forced Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina to resign and flee the country, effectively dismantling a government that had closed every possible formal avenue for accountability. The Aragalaya protests that erupted in Sri Lanka in 2022 as a student-led civil movement to force President Gotabaya Rajapaksa out of office came full circle in the 2024 elections when voters finally uprooted a political dynasty to elect a new leader without fracturing the Constitution.

These are not stories of decline, rather they are examples of how democracies absorb oppression and emerge stronger.

Before the Window Closes

The important issue is: structures that uphold democracy in South Asia are the ones under attack today. Throughout the region, space for civil society is diminishing. Regulations on freedom of press threaten authentic journalism, accusations of sedition make dissent come at a personal cost and, no it is not a coincidence that political structures favour the powerful. Governments that understand accountability know exactly where it exists: civil society.

This is precisely why judicial independence and electoral reforms matter. However, neither will hold without the civil infrastructure that gives them value. Institutional weakness can be compensated with a robust civil society, but where civil society is absent, institutional strength remains ineffective on its own.

Conclusion

The primary reason why democracy is able to survive its own erosion in South Asia is because of its citizens and their active participation in the politics of the region — in classrooms and courtrooms, on streets and screens, and in the polling booths. While the 2024 elections across the region exhibited both pressure and persistence to push back against oppressive, authoritarian regimes, it also exposed the paradox of resilience: the same pressure that weakens institutions also acts as an instrument to mobilise citizens,  resulting in their eventual rectification, in most cases.

Today, South Asia is home to a quarter of humanity. The fact that democracy has sustained and further strengthened in such contested and demanding situations is a living example of its reach and adaptability. However, if structures that are responsible for upholding democratic values are put under attack — specifically civil society — the consequences will move far beyond South Asia’s borders. In the end, the question of South Asian democratic resilience is a question about the future of democracy itself.

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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 15 June 2026.’

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

Banner image © Dmitrii Vaccinium, 2024, Unsplash.

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The post The Resilience Paradox: How South Asian Democracy Survives Its Own Erosion first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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Quetta is the capital of the  politically wounded province of Balochistan (Pakistan). Everyday survival is more about which roads are open, whether the internet is available, a general strike, roadblocks, and unresolved security risks. Stepping out of home requires permission for women when fear thickens, where threats and surveillance seep into the lives of people. Amid the uncertainty, the city mirrors violence and inequalities, layered with multiple exclusions. Yet, life goes on.

Colonial Past shaping Geography

What Quetta is today cannot be detached from its past, as it carries the remnants of colonial history, the ‘Little London’ or  ‘Little Paris’ known for its pleasant climate. In 1876, the British developed the city into a garrison town, giving it geostrategic significance. British agents travelled through Central Asia as part of ‘trade missions’; when they came to Balochistan, they gathered local information on tribal politics for later colonial expansion. In time, Quetta became a strategic buffer city for British control of Afghanistan.

Following their defeat in the First Anglo-Afghan War (1839–42), the British installed a compliant Shahnavaz Khan as ruler of Quetta, which helped them to ‘divide and rule’; The city’s later reoccupation was formalised when Sir Robert Groves Sandeman was appointed in 1877. Quetta Cantonment was established in the 1860s and is one of the largest and oldest in Pakistan, housing the Southern Command Headquarters, and  now plays a central role in Pakistan’s military planning and defence across Balochistan. Within these cantonments, there are high-security residential zones, sports clubs, parks, and golf clubs, reflecting how a post-colony has continued with a segregated city and geography.

According to the  World Population Review, Quetta’s population in 2025 is 1,253,110 (approx.). Quetta functions as a frontier outpost between Iran and Afghanistan and is a key node in transnational conflicts, such as the war in Afghanistan, regional insurgencies, and militarisation — with state-sponsored militancy, Jihadist-militant groups and cross-border dynamics. This makes Quetta a distinct urban city that is highly segregated, and militarised with checkposts, an influx of militant groups, refugees, porous borders, and the pervasive presence of paramilitary forces. These impact social interactions, economic activities and people’s mobility.

Fears Shape Movement for Hazara People

The Hazaras (ethnic Perso-Afghan), local to Balochistan, confront many challenges in Quetta’s cityscape, and their lives are shaped by constant vigilance. Most live in Hazara enclaves (like Mariabad and Hazara Town) due to sectarian violence and prejudice and, after the end of the ‘War on Terror’, have faced brutal target killings by militant Sunni-Jihadist groups like Lashkar-e-Jhangvi (an Al-Qaeda-affiliated group), Islamic State-Khorasan Province (ISIS-K) and Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) (National Commission for Human Rights 2018).

In their daily lives, Hazaras also face sealed routes, checkpoints, and ‘high alert periods’, a now normalised segregation. They say they are unable to  travel or move freely in the city without facing uncertainty, so they rarely venture beyond their enclaves. The heightened securitisation produces a logic that certain communities need to be managed rather than understanding individuals with full rights and autonomy who have a right to participate in social, economic and political spaces.

Following the escalation of their target killings in 2013, the government deployed Frontier Checkpoints personnel to secure the Hazara community in Hazara Town and Mariabad. Additionally, permanent checkpoints have been established at the entry and exit points of these enclaves. There are also ongoing police patrols along common routes to ensure the safe movement of Hazaras from Quetta to Taftan (in south-eastern Iran on the west). However, some Hazara people say these measures have reduced their mobility.

Some Hazaras also said that  they have built markets, shops, buildings, and shopping malls in the heart of Quetta city, but land mafias are coercing them to abandon their businesses and properties, sometimes killing them if they refuse to do so.

Women’s Survival & Gendered Spaces

Élite-driven economic projects contribute to the unequal urban landscape.  Since 2000, real estate has become a major investment zone in Pakistan. Gated communities have mushroomed, aiming to provide security for upper-middle-class people, who also view informal settlements as  ‘backward’,  ‘uncivilised’ or  ‘criminal’. A research study on Quetta (2024) found that residents of higher-income, gated neighbourhoods (like Jinnah Town) experienced lower crime rates than those in lower-income or non-gated neighbourhoods (like Chaman Society and Arbab Town).

Similarly, there are many  informal settlements  (katchi abadi) on the outskirts of Quetta where Afghan refugees live. There are no paved roads or drainage systems here; instead, open sewage manholes are common. One afternoon, while visiting a mud-brick house in Ghousabad, an Afghan refugee woman who was cleaning peanuts from their husks, said that her husband does dihari mazdoori (daily wage work). ‘I do this labour for our livelihood, cleaning peanuts husks, and the daily wage labour contractors pay us 50 rupees per day.’ She has three children to look after; she also does all domestic chores.

Her experience reflects how refugee women are burdened with domestic labour and sustaining livelihoods for their families. These women face multiple layers of oppression, including invisible labour, state oppression and patriarchal constraints, immigration challenges, lack of protection from the state, restricted mobility, social constraints, ethnic discrimination, cultural othering, and economic poverty, limited access to financial independence, dependency on aid agencies.

But it overlooks how refugee women and their rights and existence are monitored or denied.

When everyday lives are disrupted, unpredictable public spaces also become gendered. This legitimises restrictions on women’s mobility, travel and claims on public spaces. Women feel unwelcome and unsafe in male-centric spaces. Men often claim communal spaces, including public transport, parks and streets.

This also produces a cyclical psychology where women, when visible in public, are harassed, judged, watched, and monitored like an outsider. On the other hand, men become visible through surveillance, bureaucracies and authorities. Men then internalise this behaviour and reproduce control against women, underlining how urban violence, militarisation, and patriarchy infiltrate everyday lives for everyone. For working women and middle-class women in Quetta, stepping outside becomes a negotiation over when to leave, which route to take, and weighing every calculated risk in the city. Not many women are comfortable driving a car or riding a bike;  some rely on public transport (like  rickshaws) or have male escorts. Restricted movement also limits access to healthcare, education, and civic engagement.

Informal Jobs and Labour

What is also overlooked is the expansion of the informal economy in Quetta, as businesses and households operate outside the formal economic framework. Because of job scarcity and unemployment, informal jobs are common across multiple sectors of Quetta’s urban economy — like transportation, food services, retail, and real estate.  Many wholesale traders in the city operate without formal registration, tax compliance or licences, operating outside regulatory oversight. Informal manufacturing activities also includes invisible women’s labour, often excluded from formal jobs because of ethnic or sectarian prejudice. Lower-income families, such as Afghan, Baloch and Hazara women work from home, which is also  underpaid. For Baloch women, their resistance is also an emotional labour, as they grieve for loved ones subject to enforced disappearances.

In a militarised, volatile city, a street vendor selling fruits, an Afghan refugee who is a waste-picker in the city, the informal work is considered as something that exists ‘outside the system’ but is, in fact, built on the cheap labour of these marginalised people. These informal works are shaped by the same development policies that build lavish malls, housing schemes, towering luxury apartments, and the privatisation of land. The irony is stark in how these mega-projects shape development policies that prioritise spectacle over the welfare of people. These people absorb the risk that a formal system refuses to carry, as they keep the food circulating, services running, and risk their lives and labour to make ends meet.

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Since the 1980s, Pakistan has experienced economic privatisation of public spaces, with land and property in the hands of a few élites. Public assets are converted into market assets, like the Defence Housing Authority (DHA) in Quetta, near Kuchlak. Liberalisation of the economy has meant opening cities for the market and allowing the flow of profit but public needs have been ignored. This has led to polarised and fragmented class divisions and new conflicts related to land, resources and opportunities.

Today, Quetta is a city of contrasts —  it  is harsh and agonising for the downtrodden, yet it is alive with the quiet pulse of everyday acts of resistance and human endurance. After 2000, Pakistani cities have been transformed not for citizens on the margins and those who live there but for global capital, surplus of capitalist development and wealth concentrated in corporate hands. On the flipside, there are working-class individuals who clean, cook, drive, and maintain urban life amid constant fear and threats. When élites  ‘redevelop’ cities, they also reorganise who can move freely, who is policed, and who is discriminated against — perpetuating new hierarchies, discrimination and technological surveillance. Inclusive city planning needs bottom-up, community-centred approaches that reduce people’s vulnerabilities, rather than providing band-aid solutions and development designed for the wealthy.

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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 8 June 2026.’

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

Banner image © Syed Aoun Abbas, Quetta, 2021, Unsplash.

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The post Everyday Lives and Labour in Quetta’s Urban Spaces first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.

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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.

Banner image © Marek Studzinski, 2024, Unsplash.

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The post The Tourism Trap: Pink Money Will Not Liberate Queer Sri Lankans first appeared on South Asia @ LSE.