By Nisar Ahmed Thakur
"When the telling of history and the expression of political beliefs are treated as threats, the danger extends beyond individuals to society itself."
The Indian judiciary’s controversial decision to sentence Asiya Andrabi and her two close associates to life imprisonment under the widely debated Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act has sparked intense debate across political and legal circles. Known as the ‘Iron Lady of Kashmir’, Ms. Andrabi was sentenced to life imprisonment by a special court of the National Investigation Agency (NIA) under the UAPA and Sections 120B and 121A of the Indian Penal Code. Her associates, Sofi Fehmeeda and Nahida Nasreen, were each sentenced to 30 years, marking the first time Kashmiri women faced such harsh penalties for ‘waging war against the State [sic]'.
What sets Andrabi’s case apart from other Kashmiris previously handed life sentences is the nature of the charges. For the first time, the court appears to have imposed such a severe penalty primarily on the basis of social media posts and public speeches, raising serious questions about freedom of expression and the thresholds of criminal liability.
To many, the ruling came as a shock. But for Kashmir-watchers, who closely monitor developments since the revocation of Article 370, it reflects an unfolding reality—where laws such as the UAPA are no longer exceptional tools, but central instruments shaping the post-2019 governance framework of intensified control over the majority population.
While Indian courts have previously sentenced numerous Kashmiri leaders on alleged terrorism charges involving “killing of civilians”, however, this is the first case in which life imprisonment has been imposed solely for speeches and social media posts. It underscores the deepening crisis in the region, where a significant portion of the population aligns with the political ideology championed by the Dukhtaran-e-Millat chairperson. However, it remains to be seen how this judgment will affect those who have been involved in this kind of social activism for years.
Anyhow, the ruling has set forth a chilling precedent, punishing individuals not for acts of violence, but for the words they spoke and the history they invoked. Beneath the veneer of legalese, a more unsettling question emerges: can the mere act of invoking history itself be criminalized? Could a social media post reflecting one’s political beliefs—or even chanting a slogan at a public gathering—trigger repercussions of unimaginable magnitude? It is, in effect, a judicial coup against Kashmiri voices that have refused to accept Indian diktats and its claims over the Kashmir dispute.
Kashmir has long been recognized as a disputed region, its origins tied to the turbulent events of the 1947 partition of the subcontinent. For decades, it has often been described—politically and historically—as an “unfinished agenda” of the partition. This is not merely rhetoric; it is rooted in international agreements, including multiple United Nations resolutions that acknowledged the contested nature of the region and called for its final settlement in line with the wishes and aspirations of the Kashmiri people.
One may agree or disagree with these interpretations. One may reject them entirely. But can their mere articulation be equated with terrorism?
It is also important to situate the case within the ideological position of Dukhtaran-e-Millat, the organization with which Andrabi has long been heading. The group has historically advocated for a political resolution of the Kashmir dispute, framing its stance in alignment with United Nations Security Council (UNSC) resolutions. While its position is often viewed through a particular geopolitical lens, it exists within a broader spectrum of political opinion in the region
Kashmir is a multilingual, multicultural, and multi-religious region, where people hold diverse political beliefs: some support accession to Pakistan, others advocate full integration with India, and still others envision an independent Kashmir. In any democratic framework, individuals must have the right to hold and peacefully advocate for these ideologies without fear of criminalization.
Notably, one of the principal charges against Ms. Andrabi and her colleagues is that they promoted a pro-Pakistan ideology and advocated for accession to Pakistan. This raises critical questions about the veracity of the judgment.
If certain ideological positions—such as open support for Hindutva ideology or the call for Kashmir’s full integration with India—can be freely expressed, why are other ideological frameworks treated as inherently criminal? If expressing loyalty to India is deemed acceptable for a Kashmiri Pandit or a Hindu, why does a Muslim face criminal charges for invoking the Two-Nation Theory? This selective policing exposes a fundamental imbalance in the notion of political freedom.
The two-nation theory forms the ideological and historical basis for the partition of the subcontinent. Whether one agrees with it or not, it remains part of the region’s political and historical discourse. In a territory widely regarded as disputed, where the question of its future status has long been debated, can adherence to one historical or political viewpoint alone justify being labeled anti-national?
If the people of the region are, in principle, meant to determine their political future—as suggested in multiple UNSC resolutions—then the space to articulate differing visions must remain open for all, regardless of their political ideologies.
In its judgment, the court concluded that the accused were not simply expressing a political view but were actively promoting secessionism. Video evidence presented by the National Investigation Agency (NIA) was cited to show that they claimed Kashmir belonged to Pakistan and was under Indian occupation. Yet, this is precisely where the line between speech and crime begins to blur.
If a political issue has, for decades, been debated at international forums, documented in historical records, and discussed across generations, how does invoking that same issue transform an individual into an “anti-national” or a threat to the State? When does a contested narrative—however uncomfortable—cross the threshold into criminality?
These questions are not about endorsing or rejecting anyone’s position on Kashmir. They are about safeguarding the space in which such positions can be expressed freely.
Sadly, in Kashmir, the UAPA serves less to prevent danger and more to regulate and control political expression. Its real danger lies not just in punishment but in how it repeatedly crushes Kashmiri voices and stifles freedom of expression. Ms. Andrabi’s case is a litmus test of whether the world’s so-called largest democracy can reconcile its democratic ideals with the use of law to control thought, erase historical narratives, and suppress dissent in a contested territory—awaiting final settlement under the UN resolutions.
The writer is Director media communications Kashmir Institute of International Relation and can be reached @ nissarthakur@gmail.com
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