The Waqf Paradox: Faith, Power, and the State
For centuries, the institution of Waqf in India was envisioned as a sacred trust—land and wealth bequeathed by the faithful for the collective upliftment of the community. These endowments were never meant to serve personal gain. They were expressions of divine duty, material offerings dedicated to mosques, orphanages, schools, and the indigent. Yet in a tragic distortion of both piety and purpose, this charitable architecture was quietly transformed into a network of elite privilege. What was once the inheritance of the many became the preserve of the few—those who spoke in the name of God but acted in service of their own class and caste interests.
Now, in 2025, as India witnesses the passage of the Waqf (Amendment) Bill—renamed with symbolic irony as the Unified Waqf Management, Empowerment, Efficiency and Development Act (UMEED, meaning “hope”)—a long-suppressed reckoning begins to unfold. The resistance is fierce. Street protests swell, legal petitions fly, and political leaders thunder in Parliament. But beneath the noise lies a deeper truth. The fiercest critics of this reform are not its victims—they are its beneficiaries.
The Hegemony Of A Few
The Indian state, led by the Modi government, has introduced a “watershed” transformation—bringing transparency, accountability, and inclusion to an institution long controlled by religious elites. Critics call it a violation of minority rights. But history reveals a far more unsettling reality: for decades, the Waqf system has functioned less as a charitable trust than as a patrimony of the Ashraf—upper-caste, religious, and political elites—who converted a structure meant for the common good into a web of exclusion.
The sheer scale of this betrayal is staggering. According to the Waqf Management System of India (WAMSI), over 356,000 Waqf properties exist nationwide, with Uttar Pradesh alone accounting for more than 124,000. The total estimated value of these endowments stands at $14.22 billion. Yet, for all this vast wealth, the majority of Muslims in India—especially the Pasmanda, or socially and economically marginalized Muslims—have seen no tangible benefit. The land once given in faith by their forefathers was usurped by elites who spoke in the language of divine stewardship, yet operated as self-serving landlords.
Political theorists have long warned against such elite capture. Rousseau spoke of the “general will” being supplanted by the will of factions masquerading as representatives of the people. In this case, the faction is clear: self-proclaimed custodians of religion who monopolized decision-making. They excluded backward-caste Muslims and manipulated the system to enrich themselves and their close circles. One recalls Antonio Gramsci’s theory of cultural hegemony which also finds chilling relevance here. The Muslim elite, for decades, maintained control not just through wealth or institutions, but through the narrative. They positioned themselves as the sole authentic voice of Islam, rendering any critique a form of heresy.
The Waqf boards, supposedly autonomous, were anything but egalitarian. Properties meant for community development were leased to loyalists, sometimes for symbolic sums. Religious leaders gave out leases like patronage, rewarding disciples, relatives, and political allies. The system was, in effect, a feudal relic camouflaged in religious sanctity. And this was not a secret. It was an open scandal ignored by those who now cry foul at reform.
The Waqf Autonomy Being Mourned Today Was Never Distributed—It Was Monopolized
This is precisely where the UMEED Act intervenes. It does not seek to dismantle Waqf; it seeks to restore its original purpose. Centralized digital registration of Waqf assets, broader representation on boards—including women, backward caste Muslims, and even non-Muslims—and enhanced oversight mechanisms are not instruments of persecution. They are tools of justice. They aim to ensure that the Waqf system serves the many, not the few.
Yet, predictably, those who thrived under opacity now decry transparency as tyranny. They call oversight a violation of autonomy. But here we must return to another political thinker—John Stuart Mill—who emphasized that liberty does not mean immunity from accountability. Institutions, religious or otherwise, must be held to public standards when they exercise control over resources meant for the public good.
In Kashmir, where religious institutions were once governed locally, the fear now is of cultural erosion. But this fear, too, must be scrutinized. Why is it that Hindu religious institutions like the Vaishno Devi Shrine Board retain autonomy while the Waqf Board faces state oversight? The answer lies in political history. But the more urgent question is moral. Who was overseeing the Waqf when elites ran it as a private estate? Who spoke for the Pasmanda, the Sufi sects, the women, the excluded? The autonomy being mourned today was never distributed—it was monopolized.
As Edmund Burke warned, “The greater the power, the more dangerous the abuse.” And abuse there was. Over 73,000 Waqf properties are currently under dispute. Many more are likely lost to decades of informal transfers, fraudulent leases, and insider deals. Reform is not the enemy of tradition—it is its protector. True tradition evolves to serve the people; corruption freezes it in service of privilege.
What makes the UMEED Act revolutionary is not just its structural clarity, but its philosophical stance. It affirms what Amartya Sen has long argued: that freedom is not merely the absence of interference but the presence of capabilities. By opening Waqf governance to backward Muslims and digitizing records, the state is enhancing the capacity of ordinary Muslims to participate in and benefit from institutions once kept beyond their reach.
Hope as Mandate
The resistance from elites is thus understandable—it is existential. The patronage networks, the hereditary positions, the disciple-controlled leases—all stand at risk. For decades, the Muslim political and religious elite weaponized marginalization to secure their power, all while ignoring intra-community inequality. They cried “communalism” when the state interfered but enforced their own caste and class exclusivity with impunity.
This duplicity has now been confronted and challenged. The UMEED Act, in theory and practice, demands a redistribution of power within the Muslim community itself. It places the Pasmanda—long silenced—on centre stage. It questions the hereditary moral authority of clerics who never answered to the poor. It replaces whispered deals with public ledgers. And it does so not as a communal exercise, but as a constitutional one—guided by principles of equity, transparency, and justice.
Reforms Are Usually Turbulent, State Has Called The Bluff
As with all reforms, the road ahead will be turbulent. Legal challenges will mount. Protests will continue. But as Max Weber reminded us, politics is “a strong and slow boring of hard boards.” The government has chosen to bore through an issue long ignored, shaped by centuries of misappropriation and silence. And for once, it has chosen to side not with the loudest voices, but with the most ignored.
In the end, this is not merely about land or law. It is about reclaiming a moral vision of community. A vision where religious charity does not become elite capital. Where the faith of the poor is not looted by the piety of the powerful. It is a struggle between the rhetoric of victimhood and the reality of exploitation. And in this struggle, the state has called the bluff.
Who was overseeing the Waqf when elites ran it as a private estate? Who spoke for the Pasmanda, the Sufi sects, the women, the excluded? The autonomy being mourned today was never distributed—it was monopolized
When the dust settles, history will not remember the clerics who wailed, nor the politicians who filed petitions. It will remember the quiet assertion of justice that turned sacred land back into sacred trust. It will remember that hope—Umeed—is not a word, but a mandate.
In Kashmir, Waqf Functioned as a Fiefdom Of A Few Religious Families and Political Patrons
Nowhere is this reckoning more symbolically potent than in Kashmir—a land where faith, politics, and identity have long been entangled in a complex web. For decades, the Waqf in Kashmir functioned not as a public trust but as a fiefdom of a few religious families and political patrons, untouched by scrutiny and shrouded in mystique.
Mosques and shrines that once echoed with prayers for justice became quiet havens for patronage. The spiritual soul of the valley was traded for silence and submission. Now, with the UMEED Act piercing through the fog of unaccountable autonomy, even Kashmir’s sacred institutions must stand in the light. The cries of cultural invasion ring loud, but they mask the real fear—the fear of losing unearned power.
The valley, once manipulated in the name of divine stewardship, is being returned to its people. For the first time in decades, the poor of Srinagar, the marginalized of Baramulla, and the silenced voices of Anantnag and Pulwama and all other districts may find their faith not just represented, but respected. Kashmir does not need inherited custodianship—it needs emancipated stewardship. And in that promise, too, there is Umeed.
Dr Syed Eesar Mehdi is a Research Fellow at the International Centre for Peace Studies, New Delhi, India. The views expressed here are his own. He can be reached @ eesar.mehdi@gmail.com