Sajad Hameed
On April 3, 2025, the Lok Sabha passed the Waqf (Amendment) Bill, 2025, sparking heated debate. Critics label it an attack on Muslim identity; supporters hail it as a vital fix for a failing system. As it moves to the Rajya Sabha, let’s rise above the clamor. For India’s Muslims, this bill isn’t a threat—it’s an opportunity to reclaim Waqf’s promise, channeling its vast wealth into education, healthcare, and upliftment for the marginalized, not just the privileged few. Opponents should examine the old system’s failures and ask: who truly benefits from keeping things as they are?
The Waqf Act of 1995 was designed to oversee properties dedicated to religious or charitable purposes under Islamic law. With 8.7 lakh properties valued at Rs. 1.2 lakh crore, Waqf could transform lives by funding schools, clinics, and welfare programs. Yet, the reality has been dismal: income inched from Rs. 163 crore in 2004 to a mere Rs. 166 crore after the 2013 amendments—a paltry return for such immense assets. The new bill offers a remedy, introducing digital registration for transparency, mandatory audits for high-earning institutions, and diverse representation by including non-Muslims and women on Waqf boards. By eliminating the vague “Waqf by user” clause that enabled questionable land grabs, it aims to generate Rs. 12,000 crore annually for community benefit. This isn’t just reform—it’s a lifeline.
The old system’s flaws are undeniable, and real voices reveal its toll. Amina Begum, a widow in Hyderabad’s Old City, crams her three children into a cramped room near Waqf-owned shops, yet sees none of the rent. “They repair the masjid, but my kids’ school fees go unpaid,” she says. In Uttar Pradesh, Mohammad Asif, a laborer, watches mutawallis (caretakers) siphon profits from Waqf properties while his family skips doctor visits. “It’s supposed to help us, but where’s the support?” he asks. In Bihar, single mother Razia Khatoon begged Waqf officials for aid after her husband’s death. “They claimed there’s no money,” she recalls, “yet their cars gleam.” These stories reflect a system exploited by small groups of the elite class, leaving millions behind.
This isn’t just hearsay—it’s lived experience. At Rashmal Sahib’s ziyarat in Anantnag, one family from my village collected hefty sums from devotees in just a few days, pocketing every rupee. A devotee I once asked about this shrugged, “The system’s broken—there should be government oversight.” In Srinagar, a famous ziyarat’s land has been seized by a handful of families who’ve built mansions there. Shops in Lal Chowk, rented out 50 years ago, still pay outdated rates, enriching tenants while Waqf stagnates. A top hotelier recently bribed his way into a 30-year lease on Waqf properties—advertised for just 10 years—underscoring how the connected thrive while the poor languish. These aren’t exceptions; they’re symptoms of a system crying for change.
Social media amplifies this discontent. On X, users highlighted Tamil Nadu’s Thiruchenthurai village, where the Waqf Board claimed a Hindu-majority area—including a 1,500-year-old temple—stunning locals. In Karnataka, influential figures looted Waqf properties in a land scam, with little reaching the needy. Delhi’s handover of 123 prime properties to the Waqf Board under Congress rule smacks of political maneuvering, not public good. These betrayals twist Waqf’s sacred intent into a playground for the elite—a travesty the bill seeks to end.
Critics like AIMIM’s Asaduddin Owaisi decry it as a “war against Muslims,” pointing to non-Muslim board members and District Collectors resolving disputes as signs of overreach. These concerns deserve scrutiny—laws touching faith must be precise. Yet, the bill balances accountability with autonomy: High Court appeals within 90 days and audits for institutions earning over Rs. 1 lakh ensure oversight, not domination. Fears of mosque seizures echo the unfounded panic over the Citizenship Amendment Act. The Home Minister’s pledge that only Muslim officers will manage Waqf properties should dispel doubts stirred by vested interests. Critics with cozy Waqf ties might ask themselves: are they defending the community or their own privileges?
The bill’s vision is too compelling to ignore. Education among Muslims is in crisis—only 14% of children complete secondary school (Sachar Committee, 2006), and just 4% attend madrasas. Picture Waqf funds building schools for Amina’s kids, clinics for Asif’s family, or job training for Razia’s future. Adding two Muslim women to boards could amplify long-silenced voices, dismantling male-dominated gridlock. With democratic tools—voting, advocacy, and board participation—Muslims can shape this reform to serve the many, not the few.
This isn’t about division; it’s about delivering justice to the poorest. Amina, Asif, and Razia deserve more than being pawns in a power game. The bill isn’t flawless—its rollout demands vigilance—but it’s a rare chance to realign Waqf with its noble purpose. Muslims should unite for their children’s tomorrow, not cling to yesterday’s slogans. Those stoking fear should reflect: whose interests do they guard? The Waqf Bill offers progress over stagnation—a future worth fighting for.
