Indian by Birth, Alien by Accusation: Assam’s Muslims Pay the Price for a Tag They Never Earned

In Assam, identity is no longer a shield of belonging, it has become a sword of suspicion. For many Indian Muslims in the state, being born in this land, growing up with its culture, and contributing to its communities still doesn’t exempt them from the label of "foreigner." This label, often assigned with alarming ease, continues to devastate families, shatter lives, and deny dignity to citizens who know no other home but India.


Decades after the signing of the 1985 Assam Accord — which sought to settle the complex question of illegal immigration by fixing March 24, 1971, as the cut-off date, thousands of Muslims, many with no ties to cross-border migration, find themselves trapped in its unintended consequences. The Accord was meant to bring peace, but it has instead deepened a crisis of identity for those who have never known another country.


The publication of the updated National Register of Citizens (NRC) in 2019 was hailed as a landmark moment. It was meant to draw a clear line between citizens and illegal immigrants. But instead, it blurred that line for 1.9 million people, among them both Bengali Hindus and Muslims. For many Muslims in Assam, the process became less about documentation and more about discrimination.


Behind these numbers are stories of unimaginable pain. Take the case of Sahida Bibi, a woman from Dhubri district who was wrongfully declared a foreigner based on a decades-old case. In May 2011, two weeks after giving birth to twin sons, Sahida was taken to a detention centre. There, one of her newborns died in her arms. Her husband, in desperation, sold all their farmland to secure her release, a sacrifice that cost him his health, his peace, and eventually, his life. Years later, Sahida still grieves her child, her land, and the dignity stolen from her family.


Foreigners’ Tribunals, meant to be instruments of justice, have become halls of hopelessness. Often inconsistent and opaque in their functioning, these tribunals force people with limited financial means and minimal legal access to fight long, lonely battles to prove their Indian identity. In one tragic instance, Rahim Ali from Nalbari district was finally declared an Indian by the Supreme Court, twelve years after his case began. By then, he had already died, buried with the shame of a false identity forced upon him.


In 2019, in areas like Goroimari and Sontoli, and other parts from the Lower Assam, large numbers of people were abruptly notified about Re-verification of citizenship, majority of the hearing were in Upper Assam, requiring them to travel hundreds of kilometres within days. For the privileged, this might have meant a short drive. For the poor, it meant selling their livestock, jewelry, or even borrowing money at high interest to afford the journey. Horrific accidents ensued — like the tragedy at 9th Mile, Guwahati, where hot tar spilled over passengers en route to a tribunal hearing, or the heartbreaking image of a toddler found buried in mud after a vehicle crashed near Singimari.


Even for those who emerge from this ordeal with proof of their citizenship, the pain doesn’t end. The stigma clings. The term “Miya,” once neutral, has become a slur — a reminder that proof of identity does not equal acceptance. People continue to live under the shadow of doubt, constantly watched, constantly questioned, constantly having to prove what they already are: Indian.


And now, once again, news trickles in of Muslims in Assam being sent to detention centres. If they are indeed undocumented immigrants, the law must take its course. But if they are Indian citizens paying the price for their religion or mother tongue, then it is a national shame  and a moral failure.


In a democratic republic whose Constitution promises equality, liberty, and justice, how have we come to a point where a citizen must prove, repeatedly and painfully, that they belong?


India must look inward. Citizenship cannot be reduced to surnames or skin tones. Suspicion cannot be the foundation of state policy. Mechanisms like the NRC and the Foreigners’ Tribunals must be reformed to be transparent, fair, and above all — humane.


A nation is only as strong as its weakest citizen feels safe. It is time we ensured that safety is not reserved for some, but guaranteed for all