Istanbul’s Ottoman heritage is a form of capital from which Turkey benefits; India’s ruling class views Muslim heritage as a burden and is squandering this cultural capital
ISTANBUL is like an open book; every page tells a new story. Historically, this is the city where civilisations converged, where archaeological remains from the 7th century BC to the Ottoman era lie buried deep down. Evenings here are enchanting, and mornings are equally mesmerising. When the sun spreads its last rays over the waters of the Bosphorus, the minarets of mosques, domes, and ancient palaces create an image so beautiful that can’t easily be described in words.
When the city opens its eyes with the call to prayer at dawn, it feels as if history has just turned over. The chirping of birds, historical artifacts scattered everywhere, and walking amidst rows upon rows of trees make one feel as if not just wandering through a city, but through a living text of civilisation. This scene refreshes in my mind the remnants of Muslims scattered around Old Delhi, the Jama Masjid, and Mehrauli, and brings me to a comparison that is far beyond mere tourist interest.
It is said that the importance of Istanbul’s historic peninsula began in 1463, when Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror decided to build a magnificent mosque complex after taking control of the city. Later, madrasas, lodges, and shrines were added to it, and this entire district became a mirror of Ottoman urban traditions. Today, Istanbul’s historic area is included in the UNESCO list of World Heritage Sites with a national legislation for its protection in Turkey. Turkey’s system for protecting historical buildings is unique—according to ICOMOS reports, most Islamic monuments here are Waqf properties, and the responsibility for their protection is entrusted to the General Directorate of Foundations (Waqf), which is a public institution. It is estimated that 80 per cent of historical monuments in Turkey are linked to the Waqf.
This system has been in place since the Ottoman era, when the Waqf institution was the primary means of constructing and preserving the infrastructure. Turkey’s Ministry of Culture is responsible for the protection of monuments and sites, but the protection of Islamic monuments is entrusted to the Waqf. Even today, from Istanbul to Izmir, and from Aksaray to Bitlis, restoration work is ongoing on 101 Waqf cultural assets. In 2025 alone, the restoration of 131 monuments was completed. This forces us to think about how much grandeur and authority a government can possess to protect its past, and this is precisely the point where the paths of Istanbul and Delhi diverge.
French historian Pierre Nora introduced the concept of “lieux de mémoire” (sites of memory) and according to him, nations form their identity not just from history books but from the places where their collective memory is preserved. This is why historical buildings are not just stones and bricks; they are the material embodiment of a nation’s consciousness, confidence, and identity. Walking through Istanbul, I kept recalling Nora’s theory. Here, preserving the past is not just an archaeological work but a part of national policy. Historical buildings are repaired, urban planning is done around them, there is a permanent budget for them, and their supervision is carried out through an integrated institutional system. The Waqf institution is also an important link in this chain — centuries-old endowments still play an active role in the maintenance of mosques, madrasas, historical buildings, and public services. This institution is a practical example of what modern political science calls institutional continuity—institutions that maintain civilisational continuity despite changes in the state. Walking from the Süleymaniye Complex to Hagia Sophia, Topkapı, Rüstem Pasha, the Şehzade Mosque, and countless historical artifacts of the city, one repeatedly feels the same thing: empires survive not just through armies, but through the preservation of their legacy. The grandeur of the Ottomans is not found only in history books; it still breathes in the proportions of these buildings, their architectural aesthetics, and their protection system.
In contrast to this bright picture, when the mind turns towards India, a bitter question arises: Do we also view our past with the same respect? In the areas of Old Delhi, especially around Jama Masjid and Mehrauli, Islamic artifacts are scattered. The Mehrauli Archaeological Park — which is the largest collection of historical buildings after Delhi’s three World Heritage sites — is a painful saga of decline. Spread over 199 acres, this park contains over 100 tombs, mosques, and stepwells (baolis), but it is not the responsibility of any specific civic agency. The Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) only maintains six monuments, Delhi government’s archaeology department owns 15 more, and the remaining 80 monuments — and the upkeep of the entire park — belongs to no one. Sixteenth-century buildings like Jama Masjid and Jamali Kamali Mosque are victims of neglect, with slums settled around them, leaving this historical heritage abandoned and helpless. Such a heart-wrenching scene is nowhere to be seen in Istanbul, where the regular Waqf system, the Ministry of Culture, and municipalities work together to protect the country’s heritage.
In my interaction with Afroz Alam Sahil, a journalist based in Turkey and who has a deep insight into the Waqf system, I was told that in India, the problem is not just neglect; it is a deliberate campaign of erasure. The demolition of the Babri Masjid in 1992 not only caused riots but also wiped out a chapter of history forever. Since then, the erasure has continued — from 2024 to July 2026, hundreds of demolition actions against Muslim sites were recorded in India, and within just 45 days, more than 23 mosques, madrasas, Eidgahs, and mazars were bulldozed. Among the targeted places are the 1,000-year-old Ganj Shaheedan Mosque in Varanasi, which has been served a notice, and the 600-year-old Dargah of Imam Shah Baba in Ahmedabad, where graves were desecrated and idols were installed. In Uttar Pradesh, mosques over 200 years old are being demolished under the label of “illegal construction.” In the Kutch district of Gujarat, three mosques and several mazars were demolished within a few days, and 25 young protesters were arrested and sent to jail. In the border districts of Rajasthan, mosques, madrasas, and dargahs were targeted. In Jaisalmer, six mosques and madrasas were demolished in border areas. In Lucknow’s Akbar Nagar, large-scale demolition operations displaced thousands of people, especially Muslims. In Maharashtra, approximately 20 Muslim families were forced to leave their ancestral homes after attacks by Hindutva mobs. These figures are not just numbers; they are documentation of the fragmentation of an entire civilisation.
This distinction is not merely architectural or administrative — it is the politics of identity, and multiple theoretical keys help to understand it. Benedict Anderson, in his book Imagined Communities, explains that nations are imagined communities whose identity is formed by shared history and memory — when a group’s material history is erased, its collective memory also fades. Paul Connerton, in How Societies Remember, argues that physical sites are anchors of collective memory, and without them, societies lose their identity. According to post-colonial theory, colonial powers erase or distort the history and culture of indigenous populations to control them, and this same mechanism is visible in India today — but now it is not colonial, but Hindutva’s internal colonialism. Edward Said’s concept of Orientalism is also relevant here — that the “other” is portrayed as inferior and dangerous to prove one’s own superiority; hence, efforts are being made to diminish the status of the Taj Mahal, Qutub Minar, and other Muslim monuments by branding them as symbols of “foreign invaders.”
German thinker Jan Assmann, presenting the theory of cultural memory, writes that when the state begins to highlight a specific past and push another past into the background, the balance of collective identity is affected — this is the moment when history becomes not a subject of research but of power. Italian thinker Antonio Gramsci’s theory of cultural hegemony also explains this: power is not sustained only by parliament, the judiciary, or the military; it becomes stable when it influences people’s memory, language, curriculum, symbols, and cultural perceptions. From this perspective, historical heritage is not just archaeology but also the language of power — and when this language is taken away, the voice of an entire nation falls silent.
Another important aspect of this entire discussion is modern nationalism, which often seeks a monolithic past for itself where differences are minimised and a single identity appears dominant — although India’s real strength has always been its civilisational pluralism. Delhi, Agra, Lucknow, Hyderabad, Ahmedabad, or Jaunpur — all are products of a shared civilisation. If the Muslim civilisational heritage is removed from these cities, India’s history will remain incomplete.
The Waqf (Amendment) Act 2025 has further exacerbated this situation. In April 2025, the Indian Parliament passed the Act, which increased state control over Muslim Waqf properties. Waqf — a fundamental institution of Islamic jurisprudence — used to grant Muslims autonomy over their historical mosques, cemeteries, and religious sites. The new law has abolished this autonomy. Under this law, non-Muslims were nominated to Waqf boards, and the final decision regarding disputed properties was handed over to the government. While the Supreme Court suspended some provisions of the law in response to petitions filed by Muslim groups and opposition parties, the concerns of the Muslim community remain.
A recent study by McGill University discussed the preservation of Ottoman heritage in the Fatih district of Istanbul, where various factors — Sufi orders, Muslim civil society, and the current government — are working together to keep this heritage alive. The study concludes that the meaning and function of Ottoman heritage are not constant; it is shaped in the changing socio-political and economic context. In contrast, in India, a single force is running a campaign to erase Islamic heritage under a biased agenda. David Harvey’s theory of historical-geographical materialism states that urban landscapes reflect relationships of capitalist and political power — in Istanbul, Ottoman mosques and inns are still centres of core economic activity, while India’s Muslim monuments are either tourist sites or have been neglected.
According to Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of cultural capital, Istanbul’s Ottoman heritage is a form of capital from which Turkey benefits for tourism, diplomatic prestige, and internal unity, while India’s ruling class views Muslim heritage as a burden and is squandering this cultural capital — the Taj Mahal alone brings in millions of tourists, yet efforts to diminish its architectural importance continue. Turkey has gained soft power by turning Ottoman heritage into a tool for tourism and cultural diplomacy, while India, by neglecting this heritage, has not only lost economic opportunities but has also created a bigoted image internationally.
United Nations experts have called on India to immediately halt arbitrary demolitions targeting minorities and marginalised communities. According to the experts, “Arbitrary demolitions are a serious violation of human rights, particularly when they target or discriminate against minorities or marginalised communities.” They noted that although India’s Supreme Court has established clear regulations against demolitions, these actions continue. The experts stated that “Muslim communities are being disproportionately targeted, particularly following religious violence or protests.” They pointed to the demolition of over 10,000 structures — including homes, businesses, and mosques — in Ahmedabad on April 29 and May 20-21, 2025.
This difference is not just limited to the policy level, but is equally deep at the level of everyday life. On the streets of Istanbul, Ottoman heritage is alive — teahouses have Ottoman calligraphy plaques hanging, shops in the Grand Bazaar operate in the same old style, and children play football in the shadows of ancient mosques. History there is a living experience, not an object imprisoned in a museum. In contrast, in India’s historical cities, heritage has become isolated and silent, where locals have lost their emotional connection to their history, and some have even started feeling shame or fear — which psychologists term the internalisation of cultural trauma. UN experts warned that “such incidents not only displace thousands of individuals and families and deprive them of their livelihoods but also contribute to social instability, deepen divisions, and undermine public trust in the rule of law.”
Laura Jane Smith says that heritage is not an inanimate object but a social and cultural process that undergoes constant dialogue, contestation, and renewal — in Istanbul, this process is openly ongoing, while in India, it suffers from severe homogenisation. This is the fundamental difference between the two cities, two states, and two ideologies: one place sees heritage as a dialogue, the other sees heritage as a battlefield.
The purpose of this comparison is that we do not remain confined to complaints but also point towards possible pathways. If historical heritage is to be truly protected in India, work must be done at three levels. At the legal level, Waqf boards need to be strengthened and made autonomous so they can supervise their assets without judicial interference. At the social level, local heritage committees should be formed involving historians, architects, and ordinary citizens so that heritage becomes a people’s movement rather than just a government file.
At the international level, a formal appeal should be made to UNESCO and global cultural institutions so that India’s Muslim heritage gains international attention and pressure can be applied — just as Turkey did with Istanbul. UN experts emphasised that “India must ensure that urban development is carried out in accordance with both domestic guarantees and international human rights standards.” Without these measures, the protection of history is not possible, because heritage is not just a grant from the government, it is the right of the people, and this right can only be preserved when the people themselves become its guardians.
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Mohammad Alamullah is a UK-based academic, author, and journalist, holding two Master’s degrees from Swansea University, UK, and Jamia Millia Islamia. He has authored three books:A Brief History of Muslim Majlis Mushawarat, Few Days in Iran, and Media: Paper to Screen — Scenarios, Problems and Possibilities. The views expressed are solely his own.
