When the state begins to question belief, freedom of religion ceases to be a right and becomes a permission
THE recent Supreme Court ruling quashing a fabricated “forced conversion” case is not merely a legal correction; it is a revealing moment in the life of a democracy under strain. Beneath the relief granted to the accused lies a more troubling truth: the steady transformation of law into an instrument of suspicion, and citizenship into a conditional entitlement.
India today finds itself navigating a dangerous shift. Constitutional guarantees of religious freedom continue to exist on paper, but their lived reality is increasingly mediated by ideology, administrative bias, and a climate of fear. The misuse of anti-conversion laws is not incidental or episodic. It reflects a structural trend, one that signals the erosion of secularism not through overt constitutional rupture, but through the quiet distortion of legal processes.
This crisis must be situated within the broader framework of international law. India is a signatory to the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, which guarantees the freedom of thought, conscience, and religion, including the right to adopt, change, and propagate one’s beliefs. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, similarly, affirms that religious freedom is a fundamental human right, indivisible and universal. These are not abstract commitments; they are binding principles that define the contours of a rights-respecting state.
Yet, the operational reality of anti-conversion laws in India reveals a widening gap between commitment and practice. Increasingly, cases are initiated not by victims of alleged coercion, but by third parties who claim to act in the public interest. This fundamentally alters the nature of religious freedom. It ceases to be an individual right and becomes a matter of public surveillance. The United Nations Human Rights Committee has made it clear that coercion in matters of religion must be narrowly defined. Persuasion, preaching, or acts of charity cannot be equated with force unless accompanied by demonstrable fraud or violence. Indian legal practice, however, has expanded the scope of suspicion to such an extent that legitimate religious expression itself becomes vulnerable to criminalisation.
The consequences of this shift are profound. India’s model of secularism, which historically rests on the principle of equal respect for all religions, is gradually being replaced by a form of majoritarian constitutionalism. In this emerging order, rights are not withdrawn outright but are selectively applied. Laws appear neutral in their language but are enforced in ways that disproportionately affect minorities. The result is a system in which the appearance of constitutional fidelity is maintained even as its substance is eroded.
The Supreme Court’s recent insistence on evidentiary rigor is an attempt to restore balance, but it is a defensive intervention. It addresses symptoms rather than causes. The deeper issue lies in the normalisation of suspicion toward minority communities, particularly Christians and Muslims, whose religious practices are increasingly viewed through a lens of doubt and hostility.
To fully grasp this transformation, one must examine the ideological framework that underpins it. Hindutva is often described as a form of cultural nationalism, but such a description is insufficient. At its core, Hindutva constructs a hierarchy of belonging rooted in notions of civilisational authenticity. It defines the nation not merely as a political entity, but as a cultural and historical continuum in which certain communities are seen as inherently native, while others are cast as outsiders.
This distinction is not expressed in biological terms, but it operates through cultural essentialism, which international law recognises as a form of racialisation. The United Nations Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination has clarified that racial discrimination encompasses distinctions based on ethnicity, descent, and national origin, extending beyond narrow definitions of race. Hindutva’s framing of Muslims and Christians as “foreign” or “derivative” communities aligns with this broader understanding of racial exclusion. It transforms religious difference into a marker of civilisational otherness.
Such ideological constructions do not remain confined to rhetoric. They find expression in law and policy, creating patterns of exclusion that bear comparison with other systems of institutionalised inequality. The International Convention on the Suppression and Punishment of the Crime of Apartheid defines apartheid as a system of systematic oppression and domination by one group over another, maintained through legal and administrative measures. While India is not an apartheid state in the formal sense, certain structural parallels are difficult to ignore.
The disproportionate targeting of minorities through anti-conversion laws, the surveillance of their religious activities, the climate of intimidation that discourages the exercise of fundamental rights, and the frequent impunity enjoyed by vigilante actors together form a pattern of systemic inequality. The relevance of the apartheid framework lies not in drawing direct equivalence, but in identifying early warning signs of institutionalised discrimination. It is a reminder that systems of exclusion often emerge gradually, normalised through law and practice before they are recognised as such.
Perhaps the most insidious feature of the current legal landscape is the transformation of process into punishment. Even when courts ultimately dismiss cases for lack of evidence, the damage inflicted on the accused is often irreversible. Arrests carry stigma, legal battles impose financial and emotional burdens, and communities are left isolated and vulnerable. The law, in such instances, functions not as a mechanism of justice but as a tool of intimidation.
This dynamic is further exacerbated by the acceptance of third-party complaints, which effectively deputises ordinary citizens as enforcers of ideological conformity. It fosters a culture of surveillance in which religious life is no longer a private matter, but open to public scrutiny. In such an environment, acquittal offers little solace. The punishment lies in the process itself.
For minority communities, the cumulative effect is a pervasive sense of insecurity. Religious practices that were once routine now carry the risk of legal consequences. The fear of arbitrary arrests and social backlash creates a climate in which rights exist in theory but are difficult to exercise in practice. The boundary between state authority and mob action becomes increasingly blurred, as allegations of conversion often trigger both legal proceedings and social violence.
The judiciary, in this context, serves as a fragile shield. Its interventions are essential, but they are inherently limited. Courts can quash false cases and reaffirm legal principles, but they cannot prevent the misuse of law at its source. Nor can they address the deeper social and political currents that sustain such misuse. Without legislative reform and a commitment to constitutional values at the level of governance, judicial rulings risk becoming isolated acts of resistance in an otherwise hostile environment.
What emerges from this landscape is a profound shift like citizenship itself. The promise of equal citizenship, enshrined in the Constitution, is being replaced by a model of conditional belonging. Rights are no longer guaranteed as a matter of principle; they are contingent upon conformity to majoritarian norms. Minorities are not excluded outright, but their inclusion is qualified, their freedoms subject to scrutiny and limitation.
This is the quiet unmaking of secularism. It does not occur through dramatic constitutional change, but through incremental distortions that reshape the relationship between state, society, and individual. Laws that are ostensibly designed to protect become instruments of control. Freedoms that are constitutionally guaranteed become socially penalised.
The implications extend far beyond the immediate context of anti-conversion laws. When the state begins to regulate belief, when law becomes a vehicle for ideological enforcement, and when identity becomes a basis for suspicion, the foundations of democracy itself are undermined. The erosion of minority rights is rarely an isolated phenomenon. It is often the first stage in a broader process that ultimately affects all citizens.
The Supreme Court’s recent ruling offers a moment of clarity, but it also serves as a warning. It underscores the importance of evidence, due process, and constitutional safeguards. At the same time, it highlights the extent to which these principles are under threat. The question is not whether secularism is under strain. It is whether it can withstand the cumulative weight of its own distortion.
India stands at a critical juncture. The choices made today will determine whether it remains a pluralistic democracy rooted in constitutional values, or evolves into a system where rights are conditional, dissent is constrained, and difference is viewed with suspicion.
History offers many examples of societies that have faced similar crossroads. In each case, the outcome has depended not only on institutions, but on the collective willingness to defend the principles that underpin them.
The challenge before India is not merely legal or political. It is moral. It calls for a reaffirmation of the idea that freedom of belief is not a privilege to be granted or withdrawn, but a right that lies at the heart of human dignity.
If that principle is allowed to erode, the consequences will not be confined to any one community. They will reshape the very character of the nation.
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Ranjan Solomon is a writer, researcher and activist based in Goa. He has worked in social movements since he was 19 years of age. The views expressed here are the author’s own and Clarion India does not necessarily share or subscribe to them. He can be contacted at ranjan.solomon@gmail.com
