The Indian government has unleashed its latest grand scheme—a sweeping overhaul of the Waqf Act of 1995, rebranded with the pompous title *Unified Waqf Management, Empowerment, Efficiency and Development Act* (UMEED). Introduced in the Lok Sabha on August 8, 2024, and tabled again for consideration and passing on April 2, 2025, the Waqf (Amendment) Bill 2024 promises to “streamline” and “empower” Waqf institutions. But beneath the glossy rhetoric lies a troubling reality: a system that’s been chugging along for centuries, flaws and all, is being dismantled and reshaped into a centralized, bureaucrat-heavy mess that few in the community actually want.
This isn’t a tweak or a tune-up—it’s a full-blown makeover that risks stripping away autonomy, sowing division, and handing control to officials who may not grasp the cultural or religious stakes. And in Kashmir, where the Bill has sparked fierce backlash, voices like Sajad Lone and Justice (Retd.) Hasnain Masoodi are sounding the alarm, calling it everything from a “right-wing trespass” to outright “discriminatory.”
A Stroke of Genius or a Recipe for Chaos?
The Bill kicks off with a head-scratcher: only someone who’s been a practicing Muslim for at least five years can establish a waqf. Faith, it seems, now comes with a government-mandated waiting period. Who’s checking the credentials? Will there be a piety test administered by a panel of bureaucrats? The absurdity isn’t lost on critics, who see this as an unnecessary gatekeeping exercise in a system that’s historically relied on community trust.
Then there’s the axing of “Waqf by user”—a long-standing practice where properties used publicly as Waqf for decades were recognized as such. Under the new rules, if it’s not formally documented, it’s not Waqf. Never mind that many properties lack paperwork due to historical quirks or colonial-era oversight—centuries of community use can now be waved away as a clerical oversight. In Kashmir, where land disputes are already a tinderbox, this move could ignite fresh tensions.
Bureaucracy: The New Guardian of Waqf?
Say goodbye to the Survey Commissioner, the official once tasked with assessing Waqf properties. That job now falls to the District Collector—a single government appointee who gets to decide what’s Waqf and what isn’t. If a property’s ownership is disputed between Waqf and the government, guess who settles it? The same Collector, reporting to the state. It’s a classic case of the referee playing for one team. Critics argue this centralizes power in a way that undermines Waqf’s religious and communal roots, turning a community institution into a bureaucratic fiefdom.
Kashmir’s media has been ablaze with this shift. Reports across outlets highlight fears that government control over Waqf properties could pave the way for encroachments or reclassifications, especially in a region where land is both sacred and politically charged.
Inclusivity or a Gimmick?
The Bill touts inclusivity by mandating Muslim women on Waqf boards—a nod to gender equity that sounds noble on paper. But it doesn’t stop there. It also requires two non-Muslim members on these boards, a move that’s raised eyebrows. Waqf is a Muslim institution rooted in Islamic law—why should outsiders with no stake in its traditions oversee it? Imagine appointing non-Hindus to manage Hindu temple trusts or non-Sikhs to govern gurdwaras. The analogy isn’t perfect, but the disconnect is glaring. Posts on X have called this “a reform for justice, not politics” (echoing Minister Kiren Rijiju), but many see it as a hollow gesture—or worse, a Trojan horse for interference.
Divide and Rule 2.0?
Historically, Waqf boards have split along Sunni and Shia lines to respect theological differences. Now, the Bill proposes separate boards for Bohras and Agakhanis—smaller Muslim sects with distinct practices. On one hand, it’s recognition of diversity; on the other, it’s fragmentation. In Kashmir, where unity among Muslims has often been a bulwark against external pressures, this splintering feels like a deliberate wedge. Sajad Lone, leader of the People’s Conference, slammed it as “yet another right-wing trespass,” arguing it weakens community cohesion under the guise of reform.
Digitization: Efficiency or Vulnerability?
A centralized digital registry for Waqf properties sounds like a win—transparency, accountability, the works. The Bill mandates this portal, along with detailed procedures for property mutations. But who controls the data? In a country where clerical “errors” have a way of rewriting history, a mosque or graveyard could vanish from the records with a few keystrokes. Kashmir’s media has flagged this risk, noting that digitization could expose Waqf assets to manipulation, especially in disputed areas.
No More Experts Needed
Waqf tribunals once required a member versed in Islamic law—a safeguard to ensure rulings respected religious principles. The amendment scraps that, opting for generic legal expertise instead. It’s a baffling downgrade. Why sideline scholars who understand the nuances of Waqf when the stakes are so high? Justice (Retd.) Hasnain Masoodi, a National Conference leader and former judge, has called the Bill “discriminatory,” pointing to this as evidence of its disconnect from Waqf’s ethos.
Kashmir’s Outcry: A Unified Front
In Kashmir, the Bill isn’t just a policy debate—it’s a lightning rod. On April 2, 2025, as the Lok Sabha took up the Bill for consideration and passing, headlines across the region’s media screamed opposition. “Lok Sabha Takes Up Waqf (Amendment) Bill for Consideration and Passing” ran the news, met with swift rebukes from local leaders. Sajad Lone’s “right-wing trespass” jab framed it as an assault on Muslim autonomy, while Hasnain Masoodi’s “discriminatory” label underscored its perceived bias. The Kashmir narrative paints a picture of a community bracing for a loss of control over its sacred spaces.
The Bottom Line: Control, Not Reform
The government pitches this as modernization—a way to fix corruption and mismanagement in Waqf boards. X posts from supporters like @rishibagree tout “transparency,” “fair representation,” and “streamlining registration.” But dig into the details, and it’s hard to see this as anything but a power grab. The Waqf system, for all its imperfections, has sustained mosques, schools, and charities for centuries. Rather than bolstering it, the Bill burdens it with red tape, dilutes its religious character, and shifts authority to bureaucrats.
In Kashmir, where mistrust of centralized control runs deep, the backlash is visceral. Lone and Masoodi aren’t alone—community leaders, clerics, and everyday citizens see this as an overreach that threatens their heritage. Nationally, the All India Muslim Personal Law Board has planned protests, with AIMIM’s Asaduddin Owaisi calling it “unconstitutional” on X.
This isn’t about efficiency or empowerment. It’s about control. And when governance meddles too far into faith, history shows it rarely ends well. What’s next—a loyalty oath to practice religion? With this Bill, we might not be far off.
