BJP Rally in Jagiroad Showcases Women's Empowerment and Grassroots Support

The air in Jagiroad, Assam, crackled with tension and anticipation on March 29 as thousands gathered for a BJP election rally. Amoiya Medhi, a 38-year-old local, stood among the crowd, her face lit by the glow of LED banners emblazoned with the party's lotus symbol. For Medhi, the event was more than a political spectacle—it was a reaffirmation of identity and gratitude. "This government has done so much for everyone, especially women," she told Al Jazeera, her voice tinged with conviction. "I'll only vote for the BJP." Her words echoed through the throng, where women in saris and men in traditional Assamese attire clapped as Nitin Nabin, the BJP's national president, extolled the virtues of Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma's policies. The rally, held on the outskirts of Morigaon district, was a microcosm of the BJP's strategy in Assam: a dangerous cocktail of Hindu nationalism and welfare schemes aimed at securing a decisive victory in the upcoming state assembly election.

The party's playbook is clear. Just days before the March 10 disbursement of the Orunodoi scheme—where nearly four million women received 9,000 rupees each—BJP leaders had been relentless in their messaging. The funds, a direct benefit transfer program, were framed as a triumph of "Hindutva" values, with Sarma's government touting it as a lifeline for Assamese women. Medhi, who received her share, nodded in agreement. Yet beneath the surface of this economic largesse lies a deeper political calculus. The BJP's rise in Assam hinges on exploiting the state's demographic fault lines, particularly the growing unease among indigenous Assamese communities toward the Muslim population, which constitutes 34% of the state's 31 million people. That figure is the highest in India, with only Indian-administered Kashmir and Lakshadweep surpassing it.

For decades, Assam has been a battleground for Hindu nationalist rhetoric. The BJP and its allies have long labeled Bengali-speaking Muslims as "foreigners," a narrative rooted in historical tensions over migration. During British rule, Bengali-speaking Hindus and Muslims moved to Assam's tea estates and rice fields, creating a legacy of cultural and linguistic division. Today, the term "miya"—a derogatory slur for Bengali-speaking Muslims—resurfaces as a tool of political manipulation. Sarma, the chief minister, has been at the forefront of this campaign. In 2024, he openly admitted instructing BJP workers to file objections with the Election Commission to remove half a million Bengali-speaking Muslims from electoral rolls. "We will take sides," he declared in the state assembly, vowing to prevent "miya Muslims" from "taking over Assam."

The rhetoric has grown more brazen in recent months. In February, an AI-generated video produced by the BJP and shared on X showed Sarma holding a rifle and shooting at images of two Muslim men, with the caption "No Mercy." The 17-second clip, titled *Point Blank Shot*, was deleted after sparking outrage across India. Yet, for many Assamese voters, such provocations are overshadowed by tangible benefits. Champa Hira, another attendee at the Morigaon rally, spoke of the Orunodoi scheme as a critical draw. "For us, it's also about protecting our Hindu identity," she said, gesturing toward the lotus emblem on her sari. Her words underscored the party's dual strategy: using financial incentives to win over voters while stoking fears of cultural erosion.

The BJP's approach is not without risks. The 2011 census revealed that nearly nine million of Assam's 10.3 million Muslims speak Bengali rather than Assamese, a fact that fuels accusations of "foreign" influence. Special tribunals have been established to identify and deport undocumented migrants, with thousands detained in state-run centers. Meanwhile, the party's welfare schemes—like the Bihu festival bonus—have become a double-edged sword. While they provide immediate relief to women, they also serve as a veneer for policies that marginalize Muslim communities. As the election looms, the stakes are clear: Sarma seeks a third term by leveraging both economic promises and divisive rhetoric, a gamble that could either solidify BJP dominance or ignite further unrest in Assam's fragile social fabric.

We will let the lotus bloom once again for such schemes and also for our Hindu identities."

This chilling declaration from Assam's Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma underscores a campaign strategy that has intensified ahead of upcoming elections. The BJP, leveraging roadside billboards, wall graffiti, and posters across the state, has aggressively promoted its anti-Muslim policies over the past decade. At the heart of this messaging is a claim that the party has "cleared" approximately 20,000 hectares of government land—more than three-and-a-half times the size of Manhattan—from Bengali-speaking Muslims, whom Sarma has referred to as "osinaki manuh," or "strange people." These evictions, which have accelerated since Sarma took office in 2021, are framed as part of a broader "war" to "reclaim every inch of land" allegedly encroached upon by the community.

Sarma has repeatedly accused Bengali-speaking Muslims of orchestrating a "conspiracy" to alter Assam's demographics and reduce Hindus to a minority, though no evidence has been presented to substantiate these claims. The government's crackdown has reportedly led to the forced repatriation of dozens of Muslims to Bangladesh, their alleged homeland, or the bulldozing of their properties. These actions have drawn sharp criticism from human rights groups and opposition parties, who argue that the policies are rooted in communal polarization rather than genuine land governance.

Amid these hardline measures, the BJP has also emphasized welfare schemes for women and youth as part of its electoral appeal. The Orunodoi cash transfer program, which provides financial aid to poor households, is set to increase from $13 to over $32 per month. Meanwhile, the Udyamita scheme—a fund for rural women entrepreneurs—will see its allocation jump from $107 to $269 per recipient. Analysts suggest these initiatives are being weaponized to sway voters, particularly in a state where economic grievances and identity politics often intersect.

Political scientist Akhil Ranjan Dutta of Gauhati University describes the BJP's strategy as a "cocktail of Hindutva and welfarism," blending cultural nationalism with developmental promises to attract Assamese voters. "The party is co-opting Indigenous armed struggle and cultural nationalism while solidifying Hindu identity and othering Bengali Muslims," Dutta told Al Jazeera. This approach, he argues, is designed to exploit existing tensions between Assamese Hindus and Bengali-speaking Muslims, who have long debated the state's linguistic and cultural identity.

BJP spokesperson Kishore Upadhyay has defended the eviction drives, insisting they target "illegal encroachment" without regard to religion or identity. He blamed previous Congress governments for allowing such settlements, which he claims have created current challenges. "This is about restoring land rights of indigenous and tribal communities, protecting forest areas, and ensuring proper land governance," Upadhyay said. However, critics argue that these claims obscure a systematic effort to marginalize Bengali-speaking Muslims, who constitute a significant portion of Assam's population.

The Bengali-speaking Muslim community, meanwhile, fears the BJP's election manifesto signals further persecution. The party has promised intensified crackdowns, including the implementation of a Uniform Civil Code—a policy that would replace personal laws for Muslims with a single legal framework governing marriage, divorce, and inheritance. Though long advocated by Hindu groups, the Uniform Civil Code is already in place in Gujarat and other BJP-ruled states. The manifesto also pledges to combat "Love Jihad," a conspiracy theory alleging Muslim men are luring Hindu women into conversions through marriage.

A former Congress parliamentarian, speaking anonymously due to fears of government reprisal, echoed Dutta's analysis. "The BJP has managed to turn Hindus against Muslims and enjoy support," he said. Opposition parties and analysts argue that the BJP's reliance on cash transfer schemes—such as the timing of Udyamita disbursements in December 2025 and January 2026—is a calculated effort to influence voters. The government withheld monthly payments under the Orunodoi scheme for three months before releasing them ahead of the election, a move Communist Party of India (Marxist) member Isfaqur Rahman called "a strategic manipulation" to secure female votes.

As the election looms, Assam stands at a crossroads. The BJP's fusion of Hindutva rhetoric with welfare promises risks deepening communal divides, while its aggressive land policies raise urgent questions about human rights and governance. For Bengali-speaking Muslims, the stakes are existential: their presence in Assam is increasingly framed not as a historical or cultural fact, but as a threat to be eradicated.

This is nothing more than vote buying by the BJP." The accusation echoes through Assam's crowded marketplaces and political rallies, where the line between welfare and manipulation is increasingly blurred. Economist Joydeep Baruah, a professor at Krishna Kanta Handiqui State Open University, sees the government's Orunodoi financial aid—a direct cash transfer to four million women—through a lens of political strategy. "Distributing a lump sum of money will bear a positive political result for the ruling party," he said. His calculations suggest that 10 to 15 percent of the scheme's beneficiaries, women in rural Assam where wages have stagnated for years, could shift their votes toward the BJP. "The Orunodoi converts into 10-15 percent of their monthly income," Baruah explained. "Such populist schemes help sustain pro-incumbency." He described the dynamic as a "patron-client relationship," where the BJP acts as patron and beneficiaries as clients, a transactional bond that plays out on the ground.

Dipika Baruah, a 34-year-old shopkeeper in Nagaon district, sees the scheme differently. "The money helped me keep the flame in my stove going," she said while shopping at Mama Bazar, a marketplace named after Assam's chief minister, Himanta Biswa Sarma. "This was possible because of mama. Women will only vote for Mama." Her words reflect a sentiment shared by many beneficiaries, who view the cash transfers as a lifeline rather than a political ploy. Yet, for others, the scheme's timing—just months before state elections—raises eyebrows. Pre-poll surveys by Vote Vibe, a political research firm, suggest the initiative could consolidate the BJP's base. Fifty-four percent of respondents believe the cash transfers will attract opposition voters, while 38 percent of female respondents say the scheme has strengthened the BJP's voter base. "The allegations of influencing voters by transferring cash before the election are factually incorrect and politically motivated," BJP spokesman Upadhyay insisted. "Orunodoi is a long-standing welfare initiative, not a last-minute electoral measure."

But for marginalized communities like the Bengali-speaking Muslims of Assam, the political calculus is starkly different. At a BJP rally in Morigaon, where speakers railed against "infiltrators from Bangladesh," Amir Ali spoke of his sister Afsana, one of 1,800 Bengali Muslims killed in the 1983 Nellie massacre. "We had no choice but to vote to prove we are not illegal Bangladeshis," Ali said. "Likewise, we have no choice now but to prove we are not infiltrators." His words carry the weight of history. The Nellie massacre, one of the worst episodes of ethnic violence in India's post-independence era, left scars that still define Assam's political landscape. For Ali, the BJP's rhetoric about "breaking the backbone of miyas" (a term used to denote Bengali Muslims) feels like a repeat of past violence.

In Jagiroad town, Noorjamal's story adds another layer to the narrative. Two years ago, his family was rendered homeless when 8,000 Muslim homes were bulldozed during a government eviction drive. "The chief minister says he is evicting Bangladeshis from government land," his mother, Maherbanu Nessa, said. "How are we Bangladeshis if my father and forefathers were born and died in India?" Her frustration is palpable. The UN Committee on Elimination of Racial Discrimination (CERD) recently highlighted racial discrimination against Bengali-speaking Muslims in Assam, citing forced evictions, hate speech, and excessive use of force by law-enforcement agencies. An investigation by The New Humanitarian found that between May 2021 and early 2026, over 22,000 structures were demolished, displacing 20,380 families—most of them Bengali Muslims.

As the election looms, the tension between welfare and exploitation deepens. For the BJP, Orunodoi is a tool to solidify power. For many beneficiaries, it's a chance to survive. For others, like Noorjamal and Nessa, it's a reminder of erasure. "The way Himanta 'mama' is bulldozing our homes, he might as well just kill us all at once," Nessa said. Her words hang in the air, a haunting echo of a past that refuses to stay buried.

We have nothing to resist this cruel government but prayers and our votes," Ali told Al Jazeera. "But maybe, if not today, then someday we will find peace in this land. We are still hopeful."

Ali's words carry the weight of a people caught between oppression and perseverance. What does resistance look like in a country where dissent is met with silence? His statement suggests that hope, not action, has become the most powerful tool available. Yet, how can a government described as "cruel" claim legitimacy when its citizens speak of peace as a distant dream?

The phrase "prayers and votes" hints at a paradox. In nations where voting booths are often manipulated or erased, can a ballot truly represent freedom? Or does it serve as a hollow ritual, a reminder of powerlessness? Ali's mention of prayers raises questions about faith's role in political struggle. Does religion provide comfort, or does it become a weapon wielded by those in power to pacify the oppressed?

The mention of "someday" reveals a fragile optimism. Yet, for how many more generations must people endure injustice before "someday" becomes "today"? What forces—economic, cultural, or historical—keep this land from achieving the peace Ali longs for? Are the barriers internal, rooted in division, or external, imposed by regimes that profit from instability?

Al Jazeera's role in amplifying such voices is both vital and dangerous. In regions where journalism is censored, the act of broadcasting dissent becomes an act of defiance. But does exposure alone spark change, or does it merely illuminate suffering without offering solutions? What responsibility does the global media hold when it highlights despair but rarely follows through with accountability?

Ali's hope is not unique. Across the world, communities cling to the belief that justice will prevail. Yet, history is littered with examples of promises unfulfilled. What makes this moment different? Is there a shift in power dynamics, or is this simply another chapter in an unending story of resistance?

The path to peace, if it exists, remains obscured. For now, prayers and votes are all that remain. But as Ali's words echo, one must wonder: when will the balance tip from hope to action? And who will be the first to take that step?