New Wakf law in India outlaws communal camaraderie

Sikh-Muslim harmony in India faces a legislative blockade as the new Waqf Act bars non-Muslims from donating to Islamic endowments, threatening a legacy of interfaith solidarity

By Iftikhar Gilani

In a village in the Indian province of Punjab’s Malerkotla district, an extraordinary act of interfaith solidarity quietly made headlines earlier this year. Sukhjinder Singh Noni, former sarpanch of Umarpura village, and his brother Avninder Singh, donated 5.5 acres of prime agricultural land—for the construction of a mosque.

Their reason was simple, rooted not in politics but in compassion.

“About 30% of our village population is Muslim, and they didn’t have a mosque. My brother and I decided to donate this land, fulfilling our commitment,” Sukhjinder told The Indian Express.

On January 12, Punjab’s Shahi Imam Mohammad Usman Rehman Ludhianvi laid the foundation stone of the mosque, calling it “a powerful message of love and humanity.”

Other Sikh villagers soon joined in: Tejwant Singh and Ravinder Singh Grewal contributed money to allow Muslims to build the mosque.

But this is not an isolated episode in Punjab.

The state, where Muslims form just 1.9% of the population and saw bloody communal riots in 1947 has seen a quiet revolution of communal amity.

Across its villages and towns, Sikh families have stepped up to rebuild or restore Muslim places of worship, many of which were abandoned in the traumatic aftermath of Partition.

In Jitwalkalan, a Sikh-majority village with barely a dozen Muslim families, a new mosque is nearing completion—thanks largely to Sikh donations of both land and money.

“90% of the contribution came from Sikhs,” says Mohammed Anwar, a local Muslim.

“First land, and then financial support. Because of them, we no longer need to travel to another village for prayers.”

According to Shahbaz Ahmed Zahoor of Idara Taameerey Masaajid, an organisation that helps build and maintain mosques in Punjab, there are about 200 such instances across the state where Sikh families have donated land for mosques.

Around 100 new mosques have come up as a result.

Now the Waqf Amendment Act of the endowment law, adopted by the Indian Parliament, introduces a controversial clause that has sent shockwaves through political circles.

The law stipulates that only a practising Muslim of at least five years can now donate land or property for Muslim religious or charitable purposes.

Donation by non-Muslim invalid

This means that the hundreds of land donations by Sikh families to help their Muslim neighbours build mosques or graveyards in Punjab would now be invalid—or outright illegal.

The law demands that donors “demonstrate that they are practising Islam for at least five years,” raising questions about how religiosity would be proven.

Would a person need a certificate? A statement from clerics? Who decides what “practising Islam” means?

Muslim parliamentarians have strongly opposed the law.

“This is an affront to the Muslim community,” said member of parliament  Asaduddin Owaisi.

“No other community faces such a discriminatory clause. The new converts to Islam are excluded by this provision—it violates basic principles of Islamic equality and Indian secularism.”

Owaisi called it “discriminatory to new converts” and warned that the clause could create a dangerous precedent, where Muslims are forced to prove their faith with documentation.

Legal experts say the amendment to Sub-section 3(r) of the Wakf Act replaces a broad and inclusive provision—allowing “any person” to donate property—with a narrow, exclusionary one. The new text demands that the donor prove ownership, declare absence of any “contrivance,” and crucially, prove they’ve practised Islam for five years.

It’s an unprecedented intervention in religious endowments—and it has left communities like those in Punjab confused and angry.

The law effectively criminalises Sikh generosity. “If this law had existed earlier, we would not have been able to build the mosque,” said a imam, requesting anonymity.

“This is not just about a donation—it’s about our shared lives, our shared villages. What kind of government stands in the way of that?”

Political commentator Sanjay K. Jha, writing in The Wire, sees the law as part of a larger strategy to sow distrust between communities while pretending to help them.

“The Narendra Modi government claiming it brought the Wakf Bill because it is animated by the concern for Muslim welfare is the vilest political fraud independent India has seen,” Jha wrote in a scathing article.

“The audacity of the government to sell this lie is bewildering. They think this operation can be conducted by administering local anesthesia on the nation’s polity… as if their bigoted supporters will lie quiet till the surgery is completed.”

He calls the bill part of a long list of measures— the bulldozing of homes—meant to appear “benevolent” but ultimately designed to isolate and alienate Muslims. And now, he argues, even Muslim philanthropy and interfaith charity are being policed.

“Why should only Muslims perpetually keep proving their loyalty to the nation?” Jha asks. “Why special fetters on their religious activities?”

Implications of law

The implications of the law go beyond Punjab. Across India, interfaith charity is now under suspicion. A Hindu or Sikh wishing to donate to a Muslim waqf institution must first convert and wait five years—effectively turning the gesture of charity into a bureaucratic quagmire.

Worse still, this adds a new layer of surveillance and religious profiling. What counts as “practicing Islam”? Will donors be asked for proof of prayer attendance, religious affiliation, or clerical certificates?

Asaduddin Owaisi warns that such requirements are not only unconstitutional but dangerous. “This amendment introduces a certificate of practice, which is a form of marginalization and authorization,” he said during the parliamentary debate.

What is  perhaps most jarring is the contradiction between the law’s stated intent and its real-world effect. In Parliament, BJP ministers waxed lyrical about using waqf assets for Muslim welfare—especially for education, health, women’s empowerment, and skill development.

But Sanjay Jha calls this “a magical invention of the Amrit Kaal”—an illusion meant to distract from the government’s otherwise antagonistic stance towards minorities.

“Let’s forget what Modi said barely months ago,” Jha writes, “that other governments would snatch people’s assets and distribute them among those who are ‘intruders’ and who ‘produce more children’.”

“Let’s forget the eloquent home minister doesn’t utter a word when goons give calls for economic boycott of Muslim hawkers… when innocent men are lynched.”

The contradiction is stark, a government with no Muslim MPs preaching welfare for Muslims, even as its political apparatus targets them through hate speech, exclusionary policies, and legislative landmines.

In Punjab, this law sends a chilling message—not just to Sikhs, but to every Indian who believes in helping their neighbour regardless of faith. A centuries-old tradition of interfaith harmony is now subject to religious certification and ideological policing.

Sanjay Jha warns that this is more than a political maneuver—it is a moral crisis.

“Evil intents are often camouflaged by noble pretensions,” he says. “The truth is known to the world, and it rests on a higher perch, beyond the weeds and sprouts of sophistry and illogic.”

In villages like Umarpura and Jitwalkalan, Sikhs and Muslims still build together. But now, in the eyes of the law, their love and brotherhood might be not just irrelevant—but illegal.