movement

New Delhi, India – On the night of August 4, in a counting hall in the eastern Indian city of Patna, some 1,000km (620 miles) from the national capital, Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) suffered one of its most stunning political setbacks in 12 years.

Bankipur, a constituency in the legislature of the state of Bihar, had been held by the BJP for three decades. But the fledgling Jan Suraaj Party, led by political strategist-turned-politician Prashant Kishor, ended that reign, winning a seat that the BJP’s national president, Nitin Nabin, had held until just a few months earlier.

The defeat came less than two weeks after India’s Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan resigned, bowing to seven weeks of student-led protests that had shaken New Delhi and spread to several cities. The Cockroach Janta Party (CJP), a satirical outfit born on Instagram in May after India’s chief justice, Surya Kant, compared unemployed young Indians with “cockroaches” and “parasites”, had led those protests.

Nabin, the BJP chief, had spent the Bankipur campaign denouncing the country’s Gen Z protesters as “a virus and a cockroach gang devoted to breaking the country”.

Instead, it was the BJP’s stranglehold over the constituency that was broken. That surprise electoral verdict has thrust upon India a broader question, say analysts: Will India’s most formidable political machine — the BJP — be forced to change?

A charm offensive, gone slightly wrong

The clearest sign that the BJP treats the Gen Z uprising as more than a passing nuisance is the sheer awkwardness of the party’s response. During the peak of the protests, Modi released a string of selfie-style videos on Instagram addressing the exam paper leaks that led to the protests. He reportedly told cabinet colleagues that young people were “just on Instagram”, urging ministers to court them on the platform with reels rather than media briefings.

In Uttar Pradesh, India’s most populous state, the party has launched a Gen Z outreach initiative directing civil administrative officers into schools for career counselling sessions.

The BJP has also released a gym-set video in which young people trade internet slang with an older trainer who steers the talk towards the government’s development record. The slang was laid on so thick that many Instagram users mocked the party, joking that it had seemingly paid young people to write propaganda aimed at their own generation.

After another video of Modi that briefly vanished from Facebook, the parliamentary committee on information technology demanded an apology from Meta chief executive Mark Zuckerberg.

New Delhi-based analyst Asim Ali says this sudden scramble for social media relevance reveals a lot about the party itself.

The BJP once produced narratives that its own supporters would circulate unprompted. Today, he said, much of its messaging “feels more managed and paid for” – a mismatch for a decentralised space that rewards top-down discipline far less than Facebook and WhatsApp once did.

“The party’s communications machinery remains powerful, given its control over the mainstream media,” Ali told Al Jazeera. “But on social media, especially Instagram, it is unable to generate the kind of organic emotional identification that it could around 2011 to 2014.”

Gilles Verniers, a researcher at the Center for International Studies (CERI) at Sciences Po in Paris, described the BJP’s outreach as “a battle for perception” rather than a policy shift.

“There haven’t been any proposals that fundamentally change anything,” he said. “There’s a new minister for education, but he comes from the same background, an old man from the RSS.” The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) is the far-right ideological parent of the BJP.

Verniers argued that what was genuinely broken is the BJP’s usual playbook against dissent: branding protesters antinational, foreign-funded or terrorists, as they did during demonstrations against the controversial Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA) in 2019-20. The changed citizenship law, for the first time, introduced a religious test for naturalised citizenship: non-Muslim asylum seekers from India’s neighbouring nations were given a faster track to citizenship.

That past approach towards protests failed this time partly because the movement mocked itself before the state could, and partly because it was pluralistic.

Unlike the anti-CAA or farmers’ protests, it could not be pinned to one religion or community, and also drew in young people from the BJP’s own so-called “upper-caste” Hindu base. It was a “truly caste-blind movement”, Verniers said.

The episode also punctured a notion pushed by the BJP, he said, that Modi held a natural command over the youth.

For the first time, the prime minister “appears his age”, Verniers said of 75-year-old Modi.

“What the movement has done is really turn him into a boomer in the public imagination, and that must really, really hurt,” he added.

Does any of this show up in the numbers?

The BJP lost two of the three by-elections held in the first week of August, in states it governs – Bankipur in Bihar and Datia in Madhya Pradesh. However, it comfortably retained the third, Manjalpur in Gujarat, Modi’s home state.

Opposition leaders drew a straight line from the losses to the student protests, but analysts were more cautious. Ali warned against reading too much into the Bankipur vote.

By-elections, Verniers added, are decided by a fraction of the electorate, “barely a third of the population vote”, and that the BJP’s system of power “has proved very resilient to absorbing setbacks”.

Verniers points to Haryana, where the BJP won a majority a few years after the northern state’s farmers joined a yearlong movement to oppose three controversial agricultural laws. It was an election fought “not on farmers, but on caste”, he said.

What had shifted was not the vote count but a surrounding story now building “into a broader narrative of challenges to the BJP”.

An MP on the ground

Few politicians visited Jantar Mantar, the epicentre of the Gen Z protests in New Delhi, as often as Pushpendra Saroj, 27, a Samajwadi Party member of parliament from Kaushambi in Uttar Pradesh. The Samajwadi Party is the main opposition to the BJP in Uttar Pradesh, India’s most populous state.

Saroj watched a gathering of a few hundred swell into thousands after activist Sonam Wangchuk was hospitalised following a 20-day hunger strike. He credited this to “the aggression from the government” – weeks of silence, alleged cuts to power and water and the July 20 baton charge against protesters in New Delhi. The crowd had grown beyond its student base to include army veterans and even serving police officers.

The politician pointed out that the education minister’s resignation came only after “fingers got pointed at the prime minister directly”.

A simpler sympathy helped, too. “Nobody likes to see children getting beaten up,” Saroj said.

‘This is not a victory in any terms’

For many who marched in New Delhi, the story is bigger than a satirical “Cockroach” Instagram page or a single resignation. Anjali, a postgraduate student and secretary of the All India Students’ Association (AISA) at the University of Delhi, an older left-aligned group that mobilised alongside the CJP, reads the protests as the surfacing of a longer-term anger.

“We know for a fact that this did not originate from a particular remark or any particular leak,” she told Al Jazeera. “This is an accumulated anger of the youth of this country for the last 12 years. As long as communal, casteist, anti-women politics is not ended, this is not a victory in any terms,” she said.

Anjali was also critical of who paid the price once the protests ended. Muslim and Dalit students, she said, were “the first to be put behind bars”, the first to face intimidation and police complaints, echoing the 2019 raid on Jamia Millia Islamia, the New Delhi university at the heart of the anti-CAA protests.

In the western state of Goa, police detained two young men for allegedly backing jailed activists Umar Khalid and Sharjeel Imam while celebrating Pradhan’s exit, an episode she reads as part of the same pattern.

What comes next for the CJP movement?

Ali, Verniers and Anjali all agree that a leap into electoral politics is unlikely for the CJP.

Verniers called that restraint from the group so far “tactically smart”, citing the example of the Aam Aadmi Party (AAP), a protest movement that built a successful party but, a decade into power, is “seen as a disappointment” and “on the verge of disappearance” in some former strongholds.

A national campaign demands money, volunteers and organisation that a young, often underemployed movement lacks. Its more durable influence, Verniers suggested, will be on other parties’ agendas, “as an interest group, rather than as a separate political force”, one the opposition has been unusually willing to embrace.

Anjali described AISA’s posture in similar terms: present at Jantar Mantar, but unwilling to let the fight narrow to one resignation. The group, she said, plans to keep building the argument against the government on campuses nationwide.

Al Jazeera reached out to 18 BJP national spokespeople for their responses to this article, but did not receive any replies.

The gap between power and legitimacy

Ali said he did not expect the BJP to trade its Hindu majoritarian politics — an ideology known as Hindutva — for one built on jobs and education, as demanded by CJP-led Gen Z protesters.

“I don’t think the BJP would dilute its Hindutva agenda; if anything, it would double down on it, so that the most salient issue in any election is religious identity.”

That may be, but what has changed, Verniers suggested, is not so much the BJP’s raw political power as its legitimacy.

“Electorally speaking, they are as dominant as they’ve ever been, perhaps more,” Verniers said. He cited the party’s ability to win elections, engineer defections, and outspend rivals, as proof of their continued success and of the BJP having pushed “the boundaries of what is democratically admissible”.

But the authority behind that dominance is what the protests have dented. And that gulf “between the actual power that the BJP has, and its ability to have citizens comply and obey” is harder to repair with a by-election win or a polished reel, he said.

That gap, Verniers said, “is the really important, interesting disconnect” the party now has to live with.

Every Palestinian born in the West Bank before the start of the occupation in 1967 has witnessed the extent to which Israel has transformed the landscape through spatial planning, military closures, and settlement, infrastructure and road construction. Sixty years on, what used to be a straightforward journey from point A to point B within the West Bank has become an arduous and frequently hazardous undertaking.

As a foreigner living in the West Bank in the 1980s and visiting it off and on ever since, this transformation revealed itself in incremental leaps and bounds, on each occasion provoking a shock of recognition mixed with consternation at how things looked the same but different.

I remember driving from Jerusalem to Ramallah in the 1980s, for example. The two cities were linked by a single highway with an Israeli army checkpoint at Qalandia refugee camp. To get to my destination would take me from 20 minutes to half an hour, at most, depending on traffic and the mood of the soldiers that day.

Fast forward to 2000. I had not visited for several years on the day I took my rental car along the old road out of Jerusalem. Ten minutes into my journey and not having taken any turns, I suddenly found myself inside an Israeli settlement, a suburb of occupied East Jerusalem.

Backtracking, I discovered that the way to Ramallah now required leaving the main highway for a lesser road. I proceeded. Yet before another 10 minutes had passed, I ended up at the entrance to another Israeli settlement, this time in the occupied West Bank, having again missed the relevant exit.

Looking back at those days, I now remember such unexpected forced deviations as annoyances that barely consumed additional time. Today, by contrast, travelling from Jerusalem to Ramallah can take an hour, or hours, as the army slows down or holds up traffic at all the available access points to Ramallah at will.

For Palestinians, the experience is 10 times worse. Ever growing in number and impact, Israeli restrictions on Palestinian movement have come in various types. One class includes army checkpoints, both stationary and mobile, on West Bank arteries, makeshift earthen embankments blocking roads to villages and refugee camps, and steel gates that the army can close and open via remote control.

A second category involves access to occupied East Jerusalem and Israel, which is possible only by obtaining a permit from the military authorities. This affects Palestinians wishing to visit Islam’s and Christianity’s holy sites as well as those employed inside Israel.

And a third category of restrictions concerns West Bank Palestinians’ ability to travel abroad via the Allenby Bridge border crossing with Jordan.

Movement restrictions intensified after the October 2023 Hamas attacks on southern Israel. Their cumulative impact has been to fragment Palestinian society and the way it functions. They have disrupted the economy, in particular.

A combination of military no-go zones and settler violence has made the 61 percent of the West Bank that constitutes Area C, where most agricultural lands are located, increasingly inaccessible.

Curbs on movement have affected trade, raising the cost of commerce when transport is delayed at checkpoints and perishable goods spoil.

Imports and exports also face impediments, harming a Palestinian economy that is heavily dependent on trade with Israel and the outside world (representing roughly 67 percent of its GDP).

Restricted hours at Allenby and an untransparent, elastic definition of “dual-use” goods cause costly delays for imports, stymying development. Traders’ inability to meet their Israeli counterparts in person forces them to use intermediaries at additional expense.

Movement restrictions have created their own self-perpetuating cat-and-mouse dynamic as Palestinians find ways to circumvent them and the army imposes additional curbs, forcing people to pursue evermore inventive bypass tactics. But their clever manoeuvring may carry additional costs or even risks to their lives.

Take, for example, efforts by Palestinians – desperate to put food on the table – to illegally cross into Israel for work. Some have been shot dead when breaching Israel’s separation barrier while others have been detained.

In the months before October 2023, about 193,000 West Bank and Gaza workers were employed in Israel or Israeli settlements, mainly in construction and agriculture, contributing 20 to 25 percent to the Palestinian GDP.

Israel stopped workers from crossing the Green Line on the heels of the Hamas attack, citing security concerns, even though it has offered no evidence that Palestinian workers employed in Israel in any way played a role in the events of October 2023. Since then, the number of those permitted to go to their Israeli jobs is estimated at a mere 44,000, mostly in skilled professions.

The loss of what may be a family’s primary income has been calamitous, affecting about 750,000 people (based on an average family size of five) in a population of about 3.3 million. Meanwhile, an economic downturn has further swelled the ranks of the West Bank unemployed. Poverty rates have shot up.

Movement restrictions have also disrupted family networks, limiting participation in large gatherings, such as weddings and funerals, as extended families are spread throughout the West Bank. Curbs on movement additionally complicate access to emergency or specialised medical care and even to education. Since October 2023, Palestinian institutions of higher education have reduced in-class teaching as students have faced repeated delays – often of unpredictable length – in coming to school. Online classes can only partially compensate for this disruption.

What purpose do the myriad movement restrictions serve? Palestinians often describe their experience of navigating army checkpoints as a humiliation and a form of harassment, an effort by Israeli soldiers to both show who is boss and make the population’s life difficult. Many Palestinians see in soldiers’ conduct a way of taking revenge for the Hamas attacks.

Yet by increasing the occupation’s severity, checkpoints and other restrictions on Palestinians’ movement could well have the opposite effect of triggering greater violence and thus making Israel and its citizens, including those residing in illegal settlements, not more but less secure.

While the Israeli army might argue that a certain checkpoint at a given location and time is justified on the grounds of maintaining security, in their ubiquity and seeming arbitrariness, these restrictions have, over the years, gone far beyond what could reasonably be termed a security rationale.

A motive other than maintaining security must, therefore, be at play. It is not hard to find one when Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has ruled out a two-state solution and champions annexing the occupied West Bank to Israel while some members of his cabinet, like Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich, a settler himself, openly espouse policies that would encourage West Bank Palestinians to emigrate.

Whatever the declared policy, the compounding impact of Israel’s movement restrictions has been to break up the West Bank into smaller zones that the Israeli army and intelligence apparatus can more easily penetrate and control. Palestinian politics remains vibrant in these localities (elections to West Bank municipal councils were held most recently this past April) while national politics and governance have eroded, partly as a result of obstacles to movement.

And Israel has been able to suppress, for now, armed resistance to the occupation, which has assumed an increasingly local character. The army made short work of small armed groups like the Lions’ Den, for example. These had emerged five years ago in the northern West Bank, spontaneously and largely uncoordinated between localities.

Yet even as Israel splits Palestinian society into separate enclaves, it has found no effective answer to Palestinians’ enduring aspirations to free themselves from the military occupation. To the contrary, it is sowing the seeds for further resistance through its annexationist agenda and unremittingly punitive actions.

A version of this article appeared first on Al Jazeera Arabic’s website. 

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Long-term experiments demand resources, which is why the Dodgers’ lab is perfect for the Roki Sasaki project.

Funding is no issue. Time is no object. Pressure is a privilege and so is patience.

And when the Dodgers set out to prove a hypothesis — Roki Sasaki can be a “Cy Young-caliber” starting pitcher, as general manager Brandon Gomes has suggested — they did it with the luxury of seeing the project all the way through, until they’ve been proved right.

And most everyone else, wrong.

No, Sasaki didn’t need to be moved to the bullpen.

No, Sasaki didn’t need to be sent back down to the minor leagues.

No, Sasaki wasn’t going to be a bust.

Yes, the Dodgers knew exactly what they were doing by continuing to trot out the 24-year-old right-hander, providing him with the big league education they promised.

Thursday’s test ran 5⅓ innings, and Sasaki — with his bigger glove and harder splitter — held the Seattle Mariners at bay until the sixth inning, when they scored their only two runs in a game the Dodgers won 6-2.

For the fourth straight start, Sasaki performed like the pitcher who was promised when he picked the Dodgers 18 months ago, trusting them to develop him into a starting star.

Tack on another win to three consecutive he’d previously recorded, against the Colorado Rockies, New York Yankees and New York Mets.

In his past four starts, Sasaki (5-5) has struck out 26 batters, walked seven and has a 2.25 ERA and 3.44 FIP in 24 innings.

Man alive, the Dodgers have done it! “The Monster of the Reiwa Era” is breaking out. And the rest of baseball should probably be terrified.

Teammates congratulate Roki Sasaki as he’s pulled from the game by Dodgers manager Dave Roberts in the sixth inning Thursday against the Seattle Mariners.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

“This is a tough league,” catcher Dalton Rushing said. “You have to have confidence and if you don’t have confidence, it’s hard to be successful. I think that’s all it was. He lacked a little bit of confidence early on. And as soon as he had that runway to kind of allow himself to be himself, you’ve seen the best out of him.”

Progress isn’t linear. But it’s been undeniable.

As a much-hyped rookie last season, Sasaki didn’t step right in as a permanent part of the Dodgers’ starting rotation. He had health issues and crises of confidence. And he had to acclimate to a culture far from his home in Japan, and to do it with his baseball-mad country following along closely.

All while playing under the Dodgers’ high-powered microscope. (Ask Kyle Tucker, a 29-year-old, English-speaking American, how challenging it’s been.)

Then, in the postseason, Sasaki became a not-so-secret secret weapon out of the bullpen in the Dodgers’ successful World Series defense. A step forward in relief, and then, as a sophomore starter, several steps back.

This spring training, Sasaki posted a 15.58 ERA and allowed 15 walks in 8⅔ innings. He looked lost — like, I thought, someone whose too-often dejected body language told us the glare of Dodger Stadium’s bright lights would do more damage than help.

I felt bad for the young man, felt he should get to fix his issues in the minors. I doubted his fortitude.

To start the regular season, Sasaki was shaky. He struggled with command. Failed to get out of the fifth inning in his first three starts. And the appeals began for the Dodgers to sign Sasaki up for duty in the ‘pen.

But the Dodgers (69-40) didn’t seem to consider it.

Why would they? They’re incentivized to see this trial all the way through, because of what it says about them as a developmental destination. As the club that pushes the right buttons. That can figure out how to help top talent figure it out.

A lower-half mechanical change over the All-Star break helped the 6-foot-2 Sasaki’s retooled splitter regain its movement and his fastball its heat; he hit or eclipsed 100 mph six times Thursday.

Also, a noticeably larger glove seems to have helped him curb his habit as an overly generous tipper. They thought he might have been inadvertently cluing in opponents with his movements on the mound — now they’ve found a way to better hide them, though neither Sasaki nor manager Dave Roberts want to credit the leather for this recent breakthrough.

“It’s not the glove,” Roberts said. “I think it’s just more of even the second half, when he came out that first start, you just saw that I think he just kind of decided that it’s time to go and finish strong. It’s a new half, it’s a new beginning. And you’ve seen a different player, you know, to be quite honest.

“There’s a lot more confidence … I use that word ‘conviction’ a lot, and there’s a lot of conviction.”

Because it’s not the size of a glove on a man, right? It’s his heart.

He said the quiet part out loud. As the artistic director of New York’s Public Theater and one of the art form’s most prominent leaders, Oskar Eustis is known to do that. And as always, he got the art world talking.

When Eustis, 67, announced Wednesday that he would step down from his role at the Public in 2028 — after 23 years — he said in a New York Times interview that “the American nonprofit theater movement is over.” This has been whispered about and lamented since the COVID-19 pandemic led to temporary theater closures across the country that have since become permanent, but it is rare to hear it expressed so candidly.

Did Eustis, one of the key players in that vaunted movement — the man who helped foster “Hamilton” — really mean what he said? And if so, how does theater move on in the face of obstacles that at times feel as though they are scattered across an increasingly difficult course? In a wide-ranging follow-up interview with the Los Angeles Times, Eustis addressed the path forward.

Lin-Manuel Miranda and Phillipa Soo portray Alexander and Eliza Hamilton in “Hamilton.” The megahit premiered off-Broadway at the Public Theater under Oskar Eustis in 2015.

(Disney+)

It’s not an easy one, but Los Angeles theater leaders working in the trenches, including Tarell Alvin McCraney at Geffen Playhouse, Danny Feldman at Pasadena Playhouse and Snehal Desai at Center Theatre Group, already knew that. They talked with the Los Angeles Times about their plans at the crossroads reached by American theater in light of Eustis’ imminent exit.

Eustis traces the rise of the American nonprofit theater movement to the late 1950s when W. McNeil “Mac” Lowry, director of the arts and humanities program at the Ford Foundation in New York, began organizing existing regional theaters into a national movement.

“What happened during that period was that a consensus emerged,” Eustis said, noting that it was expressed in the form of national endowments, state arts agencies, public policy institutes and corporate philanthropic departments. “An idea of the common good was held throughout the country, and there were many stakeholders. And part of that idea of the common good was a broadly held belief that Americans deserved serious, non-market-driven performing arts.”

With no feudal background, America lacked a capital city like London or Paris designed to showcase the arts, so the idea spread across all 50 states. This led to the proliferation of the regional theater movement, said Eustis, as well as that of symphony orchestras and ballet companies.

“The explosion of the regional theater movement is actually, in retrospect, astonishing,” Eustis said. “From a few scattered theaters in the 1950s, by the early ‘70s, there were over 400 professional nonprofit theaters in every state of the union. Tens of thousands of people were employed. Millions and millions of audience members every year. That’s the field that I walked into in the early ‘70s.”

Fifty years later, those stakeholders have “absolutely zero consensus on whether theater should exist as a nonprofit performing arts field or whether we should exist at all,” Eustis said. “It’s gone.”

“We’ve kind of been living, in a way, off inertia of this old idea,” he added.

The great pandemic pause, along with the racial reckoning in the wake of George Floyd’s murder and the continued fracturing of a shared reality under President Trump, served to reveal how fragile that consensus was, Eustis said, and, “It’s not coming back.”

Where does that leave American theater in 2026?

“We’re faced with the need to prove to the people in our individual communities that we matter enough to them that they should support us,” Eustis said. “Now, that’s not a very bad demand to put on an art form.”

Except, as every theater that has lately dared put on a show created by new, experimental or unknown artists knows, it can feel like an insurmountable task.

Danny Feldman, artistic director of Pasadena Playhouse, said that the days of theaters underpaying talent are over.

(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

Smaller theaters across the country, including many in L.A., have shuttered with staggering regularity in the last six years, which puts even greater pressure on the city’s most prominent nonprofits to shine a light on a sustainable model moving forward.

Feldman, Pasadena Playhouse’s artistic director, noted that Eustis represents the second generation of leaders of the “first chapter” of the nonprofit regional theater movement. “And that to me is what is now undeniably at the end.”

He said he and Eustis have discussed the subject at length. “We are now in a very different era. And the things that got us to this point are not the things that are going to get us to the next chapter.”

McCraney, Geffen Playhouse’s artistic director, said forging a path forward in nonprofit theater without succumbing to commercial pressure to produce only guaranteed hits requires the delicate balance of surfing.

“And there’s no better place to surf than in L.A.,” McCraney said over the phone from the Public, where he was meeting with Eustis and other theater leaders to share ideas. “I feel very connected to a bunch of folks who recognize that the regional theater model has always had to have radical vision, and that those radical visions need revision, because our most practical job is to make sure that communities have stories.”

Tarell Alvin McCraney, artistic director of Geffen Playhouse, compared the balancing act theater leaders must perform to surfing.

(Jay L. Clendenin / Los Angeles Times)

It’s not just the way theater tells — and funds — stories that must evolve. It’s the entire business model, the leaders note.

The beauty and the founding of the original regional movement, said Feldman, was artists saying, “New York is not just where it’s at. We’re going to go to our communities. We’re going to make things with and for them, and really build these ecosystems that are deeply entrenched in these local communities around the country. … And I think the underbelly of that — that maybe has not been discussed as much — was always an element of subsidized labor involved.”

In L.A. and elsewhere that meant a lot of artists in the front and back of the house working for incredibly low wages. The pandemic effectively put an end to that, and as workers demanded fair compensation, the cost of producing shows skyrocketed. Most theater leaders agree that part is as it should be. Eustis points to the recent unionization of the Public’s production department as a case in point.

“For the first time in history, everybody who’s swinging a hammer on our productions has health insurance,” he said. “They have it through the union. That’s a good thing. And it’s put a shock wave through the whole industry, but you know what? We figured out how to pay development directors. We should figure out how to pay carpenters. That’s part of growing up.”

Center Theatre Group Artistic Director Snehal Desai said Oskar Eustis’ departure from New York’s Public Theater represents a “pass the mantle” moment.

(Etienne Laurent / For The Times)

Desai, CTG’s artistic director, said he views Eustis’ decision to step down as a “pass the mantle moment.”

“Oskar has been a huge mentor to so many of us,” Desai said. “It’s up to us, the next generation of leaders, to figure it out, just as his generation did in the ‘60s, ‘70s and ‘80s when they built these institutions for us.”

At CTG that means exploring a new way of doing things including touring shows, intensive work in various communities and site-specific productions, all of which “can change the financials and the model of how we’re doing business.”

As for Eustis? He plans to leave the Public in the best possible shape for the next generation of artists, and never wavers from its core mission. “This is a theater of democracy that believes that the culture belongs to everybody,” he said.

Leaders of the movement say they will continue campaigning but will not stage another march through New Delhi.

Leaders of India’s “cockroach movement” say they will continue to protest against the government but will refrain from further rallies through the streets of New Delhi because of concerns about the safety of their supporters after a violent police response when more than 10,000 people tried to march to parliament.

“We will not march again because the police will hurt the youth again,” Cockroach Janta Party (CJP) founder Abhijeet Dipke said at a news conference on Tuesday.

He said 150 protesters were wounded by police who fired tear gas and beat activists with canes and batons during Monday’s march.

The movement will continue to demand the resignation of Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan, who it said must be held accountable for flaws in the education system.

The movement emerged after a leak of exam papers that forced 2.2 million aspiring doctors to retake their exams, reportedly contributing to at least 12 students dying by suicide. The CJP is calling for compensation of 10 million rupees ($104,000) for each family of the students who took their own lives after the leak.

“We won’t stop. Pradhan has to be sacked,” the CJP’s Ashutosh Ranka said.

⁠Opposition leaders Rahul Gandhi and his ⁠sister Priyanka along with members ⁠of their Indian National Congress party, staged a protest outside Prime Minister Narendra ‌Modi’s house, videos shared by the party showed on Tuesday.

“We have marched to PM ⁠Modi’s house to ⁠demand answers from him for the brutalities against ⁠young students yesterday,” ⁠Rahul Gandhi posted ⁠on X.

The rights group Amnesty International said in a statement late on Monday that the police action showed “how peaceful dissent is being suppressed in India.”

“They beat us black and blue, and they damaged our protest site,” Sahil Singh, a protester from the northern state of Uttar Pradesh, told the Reuters news agency. “We want accountability to be set with Pradhan’s resignation.”

The number of protesters who marched on Monday was larger than expected, partly due to widespread anger after veteran 59-year-old activist Sonam Wangchuk, who has been on hunger strike for three weeks in solidarity with the CJP, was seized by police and hospitalised against his will.

The Delhi ⁠High ⁠Court ruled on Tuesday that Wangchuk could be moved ⁠from a government hospital to a private healthcare facility after his ⁠wife petitioned the court, alleging he was being held in “illegal detention”, the legal news website Bar and Bench ‌said.

About 200 protesters gathered at the CJP protest site at Jantar Mantar in central New Delhi on Tuesday morning, chanting slogans under a monsoon drizzle.

Paramilitary personnel continued to patrol central parts of India’s capital, and barricades were restricting traffic.

Delhi police said nearly 180 people – 60 protesters and 118 security and police personnel – were injured in Monday’s clashes. Police also said 70 protesters were detained and legal action would be initiated against them.

Multiple videos of Monday’s clashes show police attacking protesters, but no footage has emerged of any violence by the marchers.

The CJP and its supporters remain hopeful that they may change the status quo. A representative said on Monday that a federal minister had promised the government would consider their demands.

On Tuesday, Parliamentary Affairs Minister Kiren Rijiju said: “I think when the talks are going on in a right direction, the atmosphere should not be vitiated.”

The CJP’s campaign initially began online with viral satirical memes mocking the government, and it quickly amassed millions of followers on social media. It has since morphed into a movement able to mobilise thousands on the streets, as Monday’s march demonstrated.

After the chief justice of India’s Supreme Court likened some unemployed young people to “cockroaches”, the protesters adopted the insult as the name of their movement.

Joseph Soto is an activist and co-founder of the Transgresores collective. This 34-year-old, who holds a degree in performing arts, has emerged as a leading figure in the defense of the rights of the sexual and gender diversity community in Venezuela, with a particular focus on raising awareness about trans men.

How was the transition process to a trans man in Venezuela amid a full-blown crisis?

It was undeniably very complex. The years 2016–2017 saw a worsening of the socioeconomic crisis in Venezuela as a result of the US blockade and sanctions, which had a drastic impact on day-to-day life, public services, and the population’s living standards. Everything pointed to the fact that, in order to transition, I would have to leave the country, but I decided not to. There had to be some way to be a trans man in Venezuela.

It was difficult, not only because of the material and socioeconomic conditions, but above all because of the lack of information and the void of references surrounding the issue of trans masculinity. Historically, trans women have shouldered the burden of visibility within the struggles for sexual diversity. When we talk, for example, about the 1969 Stonewall riots, trans women played a leading role. Trans men, on the other hand, have not taken on that protagonism.  It caused me a great deal of anxiety to not know what to do, where to start, or where to go. I figured it out by researching, studying, seeing how things were done in other countries, reading medical protocols, analyzing different perspectives, and acquiring theoretical tools to develop my own process. But also by making connections and building networks here. That’s what saved me.

In the end, it was challenging but not impossible. And that’s exactly how I began to make connections with activists and advocates in the field of sexual and gender diversity, who in turn put me in touch with trans peers who were here in Venezuela. That allowed me to navigate the initial challenges of my gender identity transition, which involved building a collective of trans men called Transgresores.

In general terms, how would you describe the access to healthcare and medical treatment for trans people in Venezuela?

I believe there is a great need for discussion, training, and awareness-raising among healthcare workers regarding the care of our population. In addition to the inherent weaknesses of the public healthcare system, resulting from the US blockade and internal mismanagement, which create endless hurdles for receiving care at a hospital or affording treatment at a clinic, there is also the anxiety stemming from the possibility that a medical professional might be prejudiced or lack knowledge about trans issues. 

The trans community doesn’t just go to healthcare centers for issues related to their gender transition, such as hormone replacement therapy or surgery. We may also experience general illness or suffer an accident, and prejudice stemming from ignorance can affect the quality of care we receive. It’s happened to me. Once I went to the hospital in Lidice (Caracas) for a swollen lymph node in my armpit, but when I mentioned that I was trans, the doctor refused to treat me, telling me to go to my primary care physician or an endocrinologist. He couldn’t even prescribe some ibuprofen. Prejudice won out. 

Worse still is the treatment of transgender women. Discrimination persists, and the medical field is no exception. But we exist, and we have the right to healthcare. It seems like something very basic, but it’s work that still needs to be done. In the current context, with the Coexistence Program and the call made by the acting president herself for the recognition of sexual diversity, there is an opportunity for the Ombudsman’s Office, which has been facilitating this debate, to collaborate with the governing bodies in the healthcare sector to develop a training and awareness-raising process. 

In other Latin American countries such as Cuba, or certain provinces in Argentina and Uruguay, there are established protocols and transition processes. This is provided through the public healthcare system, including access to hormones and surgical procedures if that is what the person desires. However, in Venezuela, there is no public health policy established and regulated by the state geared toward the care of transgender people. Before that can happen, there must be a rigorous debate since, in addition to transgender people, gay men and lesbians also suffer this type of discrimination.

Two issues stand out on the gender and sexual diversity agenda: marriage equality and legal name and gender changes for transgender people. Can you explain why these two issues are so central? And what other demands does the movement have?

In what concerns marriage equality, the Venezuelan sexual and gender diversity movement submitted a bill to the National Assembly in 2014. In other words, work has already been done on this issue, including going through the various legal steps required by the Venezuelan legal framework to present a bill of this magnitude to the legislature. But in the end, that debate did not proceed. It was shelved despite having met all the requirements. That is why we still demand a debate, to overcome the fear of recognizing other forms of family and to integrate ourselves as subjects of equal rights within our legal framework. That would allow, for example, our partners to have inheritance rights. 

Regarding the issue of legal name and gender changes for transgender people, there are two key points. The first is that for trans people, when the name registered on legal documents does not match how we see ourselves, it can often expose us to situations of violence and discrimination in administrative procedures or when dealing with law enforcement. There have been instances of discrimination, violence, and abuse by the police when they identify a person as trans. 

The second reason is that there is no need to create a new right. What is needed is to enforce and implement an existing one. The Organic Law on the Civil Registry establishes that every citizen of this country has the right to change their name at least once if it is humiliating or does not correspond to their gender. That is why the Venezuelan sexual and gender diversity movement has been so vocal in demanding this provision. As for other demands, there is the issue of the right to a life free from violence and discrimination, because discrimination based on gender identity, gender expression, or sexual orientation is still very much alive in Venezuela. Certain municipalities have proposed decrees on this matter, but I believe that is insufficient. We need a legal framework that establishes penalties and, above all, addresses all the various forms of discrimination faced by our community.

In other interviews and articles, you have talked about the harm suffered from studying in religious schools, despite the law establishing that education should be secular. As we witness a major offensive from evangelical groups in national politics, what is your perspective?

Indeed, the rise of conservative religious thought is a threat to sexual and gender diversity. But at the end of the day, this is nothing new. We are the cultural product of [Spanish] conquest and colonization, and from that point on, the Catholic religion was imposed. 

Now, [Protestant] fundamentalist groups are definitely on the rise both nationally and regionally. But I believe the threat does not lie in religious thought itself, because this country is not inhabited solely by Christians. It is a melting pot of religions, beliefs, and faiths. I believe that our commitment must be precisely to celebrate, through sexual and gender diversity, that religious pluralism, so long as it does not infringe upon the rights of any group. My call is for sexual diversity to provide the country with a roadmap, a vision of a truly diverse, respectful society that aims for recognition and is free from violence and discrimination. We must engage in a meaningful debate about the kind of society we want to build. This involves addressing educational, cultural, and media issues.

Most of the country is focused on socioeconomic issues, and this is pushing other important questions to the backburner. What does the sexual and gender diversity movement propose in these circumstances?

I believe that the diversity movement owes a debt to the country because it has often limited itself to merely making demands and pointing out the shortcomings of the Venezuelan state and the Venezuelan people, but it has also failed to develop a strategic, programmatic vision to offer the country a vision of governance and an institutional framework.

My view is that we need to open up a broader debate and reestablish spaces for discussion within collectives, organizations, and platforms. Migration has also disrupted spaces for activism, because many sexual, gender, and diversity activists left the country. But it’s time to regroup and rise to the challenge of the times. What do we propose for the country in the present context? How do we see it? That is the debate we are called upon to have. I cannot definitively say what the sexual and gender diversity movement proposes because it is a debate that has yet to take place. But our approach cannot be limited to marriage equality and sexual identity.

You have also expressed concerns about a sector of the LGBTIQ+ community subordinating its agenda to the dynamics of foreign funding. Can you elaborate on this?

On this topic, I am referring to the fact that many of the sexual and gender diversity initiatives or forms of activism have been limited by NGOs since the international humanitarian system entered the country, as a result of sanctions, the crisis, and so on. In this kind of activism, political action has fallen short because it has been restricted solely to activities outlined within a given project sponsored by a specific funder, and it has lost its own organic character. It cannot be that the only spaces for us to meet and discuss are fully determined by the timelines, categories, and demands of a specific NGO project.

We must have our own agenda, with our own perspective and objectives. One that, above all, is guided by sexual and gender diversity activism and struggle. We have the responsibility and the challenge of overcoming this logic to reclaim an organic structure linked to concrete spaces of work and transformation, to a community, to a specific educational institution, to our territories, with our own agendas, categories, and timelines, not those predefined by an external organization. 

The idea is not to demonize external funding, but our actions cannot be completely determined by it. Furthermore, these project activities fall short of the transformation we owe to our society. This is a personal perspective, and I’m sure I’ll get a lot of hate for it, but painting a bike lane with a rainbow flag in wealthy parts of eastern Caracas doesn’t bring about real change, even if resources, information, media coverage, and human effort are devoted to it. In terms of social and structural transformation, it achieves nothing; it leaves no lasting impact. We need a deeper, more strategic vision that harnesses the transformative potential we possess as a collective, as organized actors in society. That is why we must rebuild the movement.

When Republican Spencer Pratt burst into Los Angeles politics, venting a torrent of online fury against Mayor Karen Bass’ handling of the Palisades fire, he pitched his mayoral campaign as a full-bore challenge to L.A.’s political status quo.

The former reality TV star, who lost his home in the blaze, started as a long shot but emerged as a national story, with the ability to harvest social media attention, rally a base and dominate the news cycle.

But in a city overwhelmingly Democratic, where Republicans make up just 15% of registered voters, even some of his supporters wondered how far he could rise. In the end, voters selected Bass, a Democratic centrist, and democratic socialist City Councilmember Nithya Raman, who ran to Bass’ left, to face off in the runoff.

Still, for many of the 200,000 Angelenos who voted for Pratt, his brash, social media-fueled campaign was not just a long exercise in trolling. Pratt gave voice to their discontent with the system of one-party rule and said things they too often felt uncomfortable saying.

And now, they face a difficult choice of who to support in November.

“I know a lot of people who are disappointed,” said Meghan Daum, an L.A. writer and podcaster and former Los Angeles Times columnist who endorsed Pratt. “They are saying, ‘OK, now what? What can we do?”’

While Pratt did not make the runoff, political experts said his candidacy tapped into Angelenos’ dissatisfaction with the Democratic establishment and resonated with a sizable number of Angelenos who are rarely represented in L.A. politics.

“He identified a previously invisible level of anger and frustration,” said Dan Schnur, a longtime politics professor at USC, UC Berkeley and Pepperdine University, of Pratt. “The question going forward is whether he, or someone else, can shape that raw emotion into a movement.”

Pratt has yet to put out a statement conceding the race or contesting the results. As a stream of Republicans, including President Trump, made unfounded allegations of election fraud in California, the campaign’s most online candidate was conspicuously absent on X and Instagram.

Some Democrats in L.A. urged Pratt to make good on his promise to leave the city if Bass or Raman were elected. Late night TV host Jimmy Kimmel, a prominent Democrat, told Pratt he had rented him a U-Haul.

Despite the snark from Democrats, political observers say Pratt changed the terms of L.A.’s mayoral debate.

“He forced the more conventional candidates to talk about the issues in a way that would not have been the case if he weren’t in the race,” Schnur said.

“For the first time in years, there is a critical mass of citizens who are done pretending that what they see before their eyes isn’t really there,” Daum wrote on her Substack. “The people in charge will have to answer to those citizens.”

In the final weeks of the campaign, Pratt became ubiquitous in the national media. There were profiles in high-end publications, podcast interviews and regular reports from Fox News. But the results show he fell short of persuading enough Angelenos to make the runoff.

“It doesn’t appear that he’s impacted the political underpinnings of a deep blue city like Los Angeles,” Schnur said. “His impact was less ideological than attitudinal. He wasn’t convincing the voters to become more conservative, he was convincing them that it was OK for them to vent their anger in an unconventional way.”

Dissatisfaction is building in L.A. as the city’s cost of living mounts and a new generation of young Angelenos are unable to buy homes. Many are concerned about the lack of visible progress on street homelessness. Some are angry at what they see as city leaders’ poor preparation and response to the Palisades fire.

Ultimately, the momentum for change in Los Angeles was divided. As Pratt challenged Bass from the right, Raman tacked to the left of Bass on homelessness and policing and made affordability a key plank of her campaign.

Whatever their concerns about the status quo in L.A., many Angelenos were unwilling to vote for a Republican.

During the course of the campaign, Daum said she had numerous conversations with Angelenos who said: “I can’t associate with anybody who voted for Trump. I can’t have them in my house. I can’t have a conversation with them. I want nothing to do with them.”

A 42-year-old millennial who became famous on “The Hills” and owns a business selling “healing” crystals, Pratt had no political experience when he entered the mayoral race. He didn’t even appear to have a campaign manager.

“The system in Los Angeles isn’t struggling, it’s fundamentally broken,” Pratt said as he launched his campaign on Jan. 7, the anniversary of the fire. “It is a machine designed to protect the people at the top and the friends they exchange favors with while the rest of us drown in toxic smoke and ash.”

Bombastic and full of braggadocio, Pratt critiqued what he saw as Bass’ failure to prepare for and respond to the wildfires. He berated city leaders for not doing enough to get unhoused people off the streets. He railed against the city’s challenges with public safety, potholes, and the abuse of dogs on Skid Row. He even seized on a comment Bass made on the campaign trail about using taxpayer money to fund dental care for meth users.

As Pratt talked about homelessness, his message resonated with Marissa Comstock, 36, a stay-at-home mom and former software engineer in Eagle Rock.

“It’s totally obvious to me,” she said. “We need to get these people off the street.”

Last year, Comstock said she and her husband had a negative encounter at Griffith Park as they pushed their daughters around in strollers. Just a few minutes into their hike, she said, they were accosted by an unhoused person who screamed at them and threatened to cut off their daughters’ legs.

Since that incident, Comstock said, she takes her daughters only to places like the Huntington or Descanso Gardens that require membership to be admitted.

“I don’t feel comfortable even being on regular streets,” she said. “If there’s some crazy homeless person, what am I supposed to do?”

Pratt did extraordinarily well in capturing attention and developing a message, said Paul Mitchell, vice president of the Sacramento-based bipartisan firm Political Data Inc. Many Angelenos, he noted, had a better sense of Pratt’s viewpoint than they did of much more deeply funded California gubernatorial candidates, like Matt Mahan or Xavier Becerra.

During his campaign, Pratt did not express support for Trump or the Make America Great Again movement. He insisted he was a nonpartisan candidate running on local issues.

“I’m going to show everybody that I’m their mayor,” Pratt said on election night.

But even if Pratt was not explicitly MAGA, his reality TV theatrics mixed with antiestablishment populism were so MAGA-coded that he struggled to persuade disaffected liberal Angelenos. He referred to the homeless as “fentanyl zombies.” He railed against California’s “socialism.” He called Bass “Basura,” Spanish for trash.

When Trump spoke of Pratt, telling reporters “I heard he’s a big MAGA person,” Raman was quick to share Trump’s remarks on social media, warning Angelenos that Pratt was wildly out of step with their views.

While Pratt impressed some political observers with his performance in a May 6 televised debate with Bass and Raman, others said he alienated a significant portion of Angelenos with some of his social media antics.

“He could have talked about the drug use and the risks and the filth and the fire risks and all that,” said Rob Stutzman, a GOP political strategist, of Pratt’s zombie rhetoric, “but then paired that with, ‘My God, these liberals are leaving these people out here to die,’ and expressed some humanity towards the population that’s on the streets.”

Ultimately, Daum said Pratt was a “terrible candidate.”

“He did a million things wrong,” she said. “The whole time, I was yelling on Twitter about how he’s got to stop it: the AI videos are gonna hurt him, the Basura stuff, the zombie stuff. Like, stop it! Stop it!”

As Pratt’s campaign came to an end, Stutzman said, it is not clear that he represents any kind of lasting political movement.

“The question remains: Did he create a political movement or did he exploit the opportunity to run for mayor to restoke his diminishing fame?” Stutzman said. “He’s in the mold of a Kardashian: He’s just found ways to be famous without ever really doing anything important. I suspect that this was more about him acting out as to what he is as a reality celebrity versus becoming a leader of a political movement in L.A. We’ll see.”

When Angelenos go to the polls in November, there are several paths for Pratt voters.

Some, Mitchell said, will probably sit the election out entirely.

“You’ll get some Republicans who vote for Raman because they’re like, ‘Well, she’s a socialist and I can’t stand her, but I’m just voting no on Bass.’ And then you’ll have a lot of Republicans who are like, ‘OK, Raman’s a socialist.’”

After Raman made it to the runoff, Bass’ campaign slammed the city council member for voting against hiring more police and blocking efforts to keep homeless encampments away from schools. Meanwhile, Raman positioned herself as the anti-status quo candidate.

In a statement celebrating her advance to the general election, Raman did not mention Pratt or his supporters, but railed against “powerful interests” in City Hall.

“Working people pay the price in higher rents, depleted services, and a city that has stopped working for them,” she said. “If you’re as frustrated by the broken status quo as I am, I hope you’ll join our movement to build a city that works for everyone.”

Even as Daum felt depressed that Pratt’s campaign was not continuing, she said she felt more engaged in L.A. politics than she had ever been. She planned to vote in November and would be watching both Bass and Raman to see how they responded to Angelenos’ concerns about street homelessness.

“If Karen Bass said, ‘OK, I get it, “housing first” is not the panacea that I’ve been thinking it is. Seriously, I’m gonna put together a task force of people who are going to actually think this through.’ … I would be following that. I would be very curious,” Daum said. “Same if Nithya said that, too. I’m open to either of them, I guess.”

Comstock said she would probably vote for Bass in the runoff.

“Nithya Raman is just way too far on the socialist scale for me and will likely do more damage, rather than Karen Bass’ ineffectualness,” she said. “I don’t want to go any farther left.”

On May 14, the high court in the central Indian state of Madhya Pradesh ruled that the centuries-old Kamal Maula mosque in the city of Dhar was actually a temple dedicated to a Hindu goddess. Two days later, saffron flags associated with Hindu far-right groups were all over the site, with supporters celebrating and filming rituals that were carried out.

The Kamal Maula mosque, also known as the Bhojshala complex, has been disputed for decades. And such claims are not unique to this mosque. Far-right Hindutva activists have made similar claims – that a given mosque was built atop a temple – across the country, emboldened by Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s rise to power in 2014.

Modi is a leader of the Bharatiya Janata Party, which follows an ideology known as Hindutva.

But what is the Hindutva movement, and how did it emerge?

What does Hindutva mean?

Hindutva is a right-wing political and nationalist ideology that defines the cultural and national identity of India based on a particular interpretation of Hindu values. India is a constitutionally secular state, but advocates of Hindutva want the country to adopt Hinduism as its state religion.

The term Hindutva consists of two linguistic parts: The first is the word “Hindu”, whose origin likely traces back to the Sanskrit word “Sindhu”, the ancient name for the Indus River. With the evolution of linguistic usage, the ancient Persians and others replaced the letter “S” with “H”, and the term “Hindus” came to be used for the inhabitants living beyond the river.

The second part is the Sanskrit suffix “-tva”, which indicates essence or being, meaning that the term literally denotes “Hindu essence” or “Hindu identity or being”.

How did Hindutva originate?

Hindu nationalism emerged in protest against British colonial notions of the religion, but quickly grew into a majoritarian ideology that viewed the Indian identity through the lens of a specific interpretation of Hinduism.

Its early years coincided with sectarian Hindi-Muslim tensions in the early 20th century under British rule, culminating in the partition of the subcontinent at independence in 1947 and the formation of Pakistan on religious grounds.

Indian freedom fighter and ideologue Vinayak Savarkar coined the term “Hindutva” in his 1923 pamphlet Essentials of Hindutva, presenting a vision of Hindu identity based on the unity of territory, culture, and historical belonging, while considering India as the fatherland and the holy land of Hindus.

Based on this notion, some Hindutva theorists argued that Muslims and Christians do not fully belong to the Indian nation, as their holy places are located outside India – even though India is home to one of the world’s largest Muslim populations, and has more Christians than many European nations such as the United Kingdom.

Savarkar was, and remains, a controversial figure: He infamously wrote letters to the British pleading for his release from a notorious prison in the Andaman Islands.

From idea to movement

By 1925, the early Hindutva ideologue Keshav Baliram Hedgewar had founded the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) – which loosely translates to National Volunteer Organisation – the mothership of the Hindu majoritarian political movement.

The RSS focused on organising and strengthening the Hindu community through local social and cultural activities. Over time, it expanded to include a network of affiliated institutions and organisations spanning religious activities, education, health, publishing, student politics and even the trade union sector.

Some of its early leaders publicly, in their writings, admired the European fascists and the manner in which they dealt with religious and ethnic minorities.

After India’s independence, the movement faced significant pressure following the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi in 1948: Gandhi’s assassin was a former RSS member. Savarkar, the founder of the Hindutva ideology, was also arrested in connection with the assassination but was eventually acquitted because the prosecution could not present corroborating evidence against him.

Later, the movement shifted towards political action by establishing a party in 1951, which subsequently evolved into the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) in 1980.

The party witnessed a remarkable surge in its political influence during the 1980s and 1990s by championing the construction of the Ram Temple in the city of Ayodhya on the site of the Babri Mosque.

In 1992, the demolition of the mosque by activists associated with the RSS and the BJP prompted a widespread wave of sectarian violence. In the wake of that violence, the BJP first came to national power in 1996 as India’s single largest party, but its government collapsed in 13 days after allies it depended on withdrew support. In 1998, it returned to power, but this time lost after 13 months. New elections followed in 1999, and the BJP emerged as the single biggest party again. It led a coalition government for a full five years until 2004, when the Congress party – now India’s largest opposition force – defeated it.

The Congress ruled for a decade until 2014, when Modi stormed to power with the largest mandate any party had received since 1984.

Thought and Ideology

Hindutva ideology posits that Indian identity is fundamentally rooted in Hindu culture and civilisation.

The ideology relies on historical narratives portraying the periods of Islamic and Mughal rule as an era that weakened Hindu heritage, calling for the restoration of Hindu identity and the strengthening of its presence in the public sphere.

Its most prominent ideas include: Rereading history from a Hindu nationalist perspective, viewing India as a sacred civilisational entity, calling for the return of those believed to have Hindu origins to their ancestral religion, and granting national status to symbols such as cows and the Sanskrit language.

Critics differentiate between Hindutva as a nationalist political project and Hinduism as a religion and spiritual philosophy, arguing that the former politicises religion and can contradict values such as tolerance and nonviolence that have long been central tenets of Hinduism, the faith.

Hindutva in political practice

Hindutva has gradually transitioned into the political and legislative spheres with the rise of the BJP to power. Its principles have begun to reflect in laws, public policies, and the nature of social debate within the country. Supporters argue that these policies preserve national identity, while critics contend that they undermine religious and cultural pluralism.

The most notable of these measures was the abrogation of Article 370 of the Constitution in 2019, which had granted the Muslim-majority region of Jammu and Kashmir a special autonomous status.

Additionally, the Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA) was passed that year, granting expedited citizenship to certain immigrants from neighbouring countries, excluding Muslims. It officially went into effect in March 2024, accompanied by the National Register of Citizens (NRC), which threatens to strip millions of Muslims of their citizenship and label them as infiltrators.

The impact of this vision has extended to local legislation in certain states, such as tightening restrictions on cow slaughter and enacting laws to regulate religious conversion and interfaith marriages, alongside calls for the implementation of a Uniform Civil Code to replace certain personal status laws for minorities.

Hindutva has also been linked to the emergence of Hindu nationalist groups, such as the Bajrang Dal, which have been implicated in acts of violence and intimidation against Muslims, Christians and marginalised social groups, particularly over issues related to cows or religious conversion.

In January 1999, when the BJP was in power nationally, Bajrang Dal activists burned alive Graham Staines, an Australian Christian missionary, and his two sons, while they were sleeping in their car. And in 2002, while Modi was chief minister of the western state of Gujarat, independent India witnessed one of its worst massacres of Muslims, after a group of Hindu pilgrims on a train were burned alive under circumstances that are still contested.

Indian far-right groups ideologically aligned with the RSS have also been accused of lynching dozens of Muslims since 2014, often on accusations that they were carrying cows for slaughter. In almost all cases, none of the murderers have been punished, and in several instances, families of the victims have faced charges.