Peerzada Masarat Shah
In the annals of Indian law, few statutes have shown the chameleon-like versatility of Jammu and Kashmir’s Public Safety Act (PSA). Born in 1978 under Sheikh Abdullah’s government, the PSA was crafted to curb timber and jungle smuggling—a menace that plundered the Valley’s lush forests under the cover of darkness. Fast forward to 2025, and this once-noble law has morphed into a blunt tool of political control, wielded against separatists, activists, stone-pelters, journalists, and now, astonishingly, elected MLAs. Yet, in a bitter irony, one group remains untouched by its long reach: the corrupt. While petty timber thieves once languished in detention, the grand architects of corruption—those who siphon public funds and erode trust—continue to thrive, unscathed by the PSA’s shadow.
The recent drama in Doda encapsulates this troubling evolution. Mehraj Malik, a sitting MLA from the Aam Aadmi Party, ignited a firestorm with a vulgar livestream tirade against the deputy commissioner and his family. His outburst was crass, unbefitting a lawmaker, and a textbook case of how not to hold bureaucrats accountable. Malik’s behavior was indefensible—elected representatives should wield constitutional tools, not social media rants. But the response was even more absurd: an FIR followed by the invocation of the PSA, a law reserved for “threats to public order.” Overnight, Malik went from a lion roaring online to a fugitive fleeing arrest. If an elected MLA can be silenced with such ease, what hope does an ordinary citizen have?
This is not to absolve Malik. His conduct was immature, a betrayal of the dignity his office demands. Yet, slapping the PSA on him trivializes a law meant for graver threats. It turns democracy into a farce, where words, however reckless, are equated with existential dangers. The message is chilling: speak too loudly, and the state’s hammer will fall.
The plot thickens with reports that government employees were directed to protest against Malik during office hours. If true, this violates the All India Services (Conduct) Rules, 1968, and Central Civil Services (Conduct) Rules, 1964, which mandate political neutrality for public servants. When bureaucrats become pawns in political vendettas, governance descends into a theater of gossip and retribution. The Doda episode is not an isolated misstep but a symptom of the PSA’s broader misuse—a law stretched so far from its roots that it now serves as a catch-all for silencing dissent.
Consider the case of journalist Asif Sultan in 2018. Arrested under the PSA for allegedly “harboring known militants,” Sultan spent over four years in detention without trial, only to be released when courts found no evidence to support the charges. Or take the 2019 detention of dozens of political leaders, including former Chief Ministers Omar Abdullah and Mehbooba Mufti, under the PSA following the abrogation of Article 370. Their crime? Being vocal in a turbulent time. These examples reveal a pattern: the PSA is no longer about protecting forests or public order—it’s a weapon to mute voices that challenge the status quo.
The hypocrisy is stark. Timber smuggling, once deemed a grave enough offense to justify preventive detention, has been overshadowed by a far worse crime: corruption. Unlike stone-pelting or online rants, corruption operates in silence, hollowing out schools, hospitals, roads, and trust in governance. In 2021, Transparency International’s Corruption Perceptions Index ranked India 85th out of 180 countries, a grim reminder of the rot within. Yet, the PSA has never been used to detain a single corrupt official or politician. Why? Perhaps because corruption doesn’t disrupt the optics of order—it’s a quiet cancer, nurtured by the very system it weakens.
A year ago, on September 8, 2024, Omar Abdullah vowed to scrap the PSA if his National Conference returned to power. Today, September 8, 2025, the law remains alive, repurposed to cage an MLA. Promises, it seems, are as fleeting as the PSA’s detention orders. The people of Doda, caught in this circus, deserve better—a representative who upholds dignity and an administration that governs with fairness. Instead, they get a spectacle: MLAs shouting on livestreams, officials flexing draconian laws, and public servants allegedly coerced into street protests.
The J&K Assembly, if it retains any moral fiber, must act. On its opening day, it should summon the Doda deputy commissioner and demand answers. Was the PSA truly necessary for Malik’s outburst? Did government employees violate service rules by protesting? Is democracy in J&K reduced to a puppet show, with strings pulled by unseen hands while elected representatives are relegated to powerless mascots?
The PSA’s journey—from protecting forests to policing speech—is a cautionary tale. If it can stretch this far, why not extend it to the real threat: corruption? If timber smugglers warranted detention for stealing wood, surely those who plunder public money deserve the same. A 2023 report by the J&K Anti-Corruption Bureau revealed over 1,200 pending corruption cases, yet none have seen the PSA’s shadow. This selective blindness exposes the law’s true purpose: not justice, but control.
J&K’s democracy today resembles a poorly scripted play—overacting politicians, overreaching administrators, and an audience forced to applaud a performance they never chose. The PSA, once a shield for the Valley’s forests, is now a cudgel against its people. Until it targets the true enemies of governance—corrupt officials and politicians—it will remain a symbol of power misused, a law that punishes the noisy while sparing the silent thieves who loot the system’s soul.
