Assam’s silent battle: Tracking radical outfits without tearing the social fabric

Assam has always stood as one of India’s most culturally rich and strategically sensitive frontiers. With its mosaic of ethnicities, languages, and faiths, the state embodies the idea of plural India, yet it has also borne the burden of infiltration, illegal migration, and periodic unrest. In recent years, intelligence reports and security investigations have pointed towards a worrying development—the presence of Islamic radical outfits operating within Assam, finding pockets of local shelter, and attempting to create ideological footholds. The issue is not merely about policing, but about how a diverse society can protect itself against forces that thrive on division, while still nurturing harmony and trust among communities.

The roots of radicalisation in Assam cannot be understood in isolation. The state shares a long and porous border with Bangladesh, a country that itself has faced the menace of fundamentalist organisations like Jamaat-ul-Mujahideen Bangladesh (JMB). Over the last decade, several modules of JMB have been busted in districts such as Barpeta, Goalpara, Dhubri, and Chirang. The discovery of madrassas being misused by radical preachers, or safe houses sheltering operatives, has confirmed that Assam has been a convenient transit and recruitment ground for networks that aim to destabilise not just the state but the entire Northeast. Security agencies have also traced links between radical elements in Assam and sleeper cells with global jihadist affiliations, pointing to a danger that cannot be brushed aside.

Yet, it would be simplistic—and even dangerous—to treat this as a religious question. The overwhelming majority of Muslims in Assam, especially those who trace their roots to the soil of the state, have historically lived in deep cultural symbiosis with Assamese traditions. The syncretic spirit of Srimanta Sankardeva’s legacy, the folk idioms of Bihu, and the riverine life of the Brahmaputra valley have long been shared across communities. The problem arises not from faith, but from radical ideologies imported from outside, which exploit vulnerabilities such as poverty, illiteracy, and lack of employment. These ideologies thrive by cutting young people off from their cultural roots, by painting a narrative of grievance, and by projecting separatist or global jihadist goals that are alien to Assam’s own civilisational fabric.

The challenge before Assam, therefore, is twofold: to act firmly against radical networks with all the might of the law, and to simultaneously ensure that innocent communities are not stigmatised in the process. A balance between vigilance and inclusion is essential. Security agencies have already stepped up monitoring of border areas, madrassas, and financial flows that may indicate radical influence. Several illegal madrassas with suspicious funding have been shut down in the last few years. Police forces, in coordination with central agencies, have disrupted sleeper cells and arrested operatives before they could strike. These are crucial steps, but they must go hand in hand with deeper socio-educational reforms that leave no space for extremist ideologies to find recruits.

Assam’s geographical location makes it uniquely vulnerable. The 263-km-long international border with Bangladesh is difficult to monitor in its entirety. Migration—both legal and illegal—has changed the demographic patterns of districts over decades, creating anxieties that occasionally spill over into politics. Radical outfits take advantage of these unsettled questions, attempting to turn demographic change into a breeding ground for alienation. But history teaches us that Assam’s identity has always absorbed waves of people while still retaining its cultural core. What is needed is a politics of confidence—asserting that Assamese identity is strong enough to embrace diversity, but alert enough to reject ideologies that seek to undermine the nation.

There is also a regional dimension. The Northeast has long been a corridor for multiple insurgencies, from Naga militancy to ULFA. While most of these movements were ethno-nationalist rather than religious in nature, the ground reality of porous borders, arms smuggling routes, and weak policing has often created overlaps. Radical Islamist outfits see in the Northeast an opportunity to piggyback on these existing fault lines. This is why Assam’s fight against radicalisation cannot be divorced from the larger national and regional security framework. Cross-border intelligence sharing with Bangladesh, investments in border infrastructure, and greater central support for Assam’s security needs are non-negotiable.

At the same time, counter-radicalisation must also be a social movement. No amount of policing can succeed if communities do not themselves become stakeholders in rejecting extremism. This is where Assam’s civil society, religious leaders, teachers, and cultural organisations have a vital role to play. By promoting an inclusive sense of Assamese identity, by emphasising local traditions and shared values, and by offering platforms for youth to channel their energy into constructive activities, society can act as a natural barrier against extremist ideologies. It is a quiet strength—an unseen flow of cultural rootedness—that has historically helped India absorb shocks and remain united. Assam, too, can draw upon this heritage.

The stakes are high. In an interconnected digital age, radical ideas no longer travel only through physical borders—they spread through social media, encrypted messaging, and transnational propaganda machines. The youth of Assam, like their counterparts elsewhere, are vulnerable to online recruitment strategies that prey on isolation and resentment. This is why digital literacy, community engagement, and mentorship programs are as important as border fencing or arrests. Security is no longer just about boots on the ground; it is about minds and hearts.

Critics may argue that raising the alarm over radical outfits risks polarising society. But silence is not an option either. The answer lies in how the issue is articulated. If it is framed as a security and developmental challenge rather than a communal question, if it is tackled with sensitivity and fairness, then society can remain united even while confronting the threat. Assam’s story has always been one of resilience—of overcoming floods, migrations, and insurgencies, yet holding together. There is no reason why it cannot withstand this challenge as well.

Ultimately, Assam’s safety is not just about guarding its borders but about protecting its civilisational soul. Radical outfits seek to divide, to uproot, and to disconnect people from their shared heritage. The counter must be rootedness, cultural confidence and inclusive vigilance. This is not about one community versus another; it is about society versus extremism. The state’s history, geography, and demography make the battle complex, but the same history also offers hope. For every attempt at radicalisation, there is a stronger pull of harmony; for every imported ideology, there is the deeper soil of Assamese culture that binds people together.

Assam’s silent battle, therefore, must continue—with firmness, with fairness, and with faith in its own enduring traditions. The security forces will play their part, but the larger victory will be won when every community refuses to give shelter to hate and instead finds strength in the shared rhythms of the land. In that lies not just Assam’s safety, but India’s as well.