From “heritage politics” to allegations of land grabbing, the Mawa-Hami tussle is more than just a clash of personalities. It exposes a deep fault line in the Valley’s governance, where religious trusts operate as opaque family enterprises and state land becomes collateral damage
By Mushtaq Ul Haq Ahmad Sikander
In recent weeks, the political and social landscape of Kashmir has been punctuated by a vitriolic public confrontation between Dr. Sandeep Mawa, a Kashmiri Pandit activist-turned-politician, and Maulana Ghulam Rasool Hami, the head of the influential Karwan-e-Islami. While on the surface this appears to be a clash of personalities—a “Ponty Chadha of Pandit politics” versus a prominent cleric accused of land grabbing—the deeper narrative exposes a critical fault line in the region’s governance. It brings to the fore uncomfortable questions regarding the opacity of religious institutions, the widespread encroachment on state land under the guise of faith, and the long-standing reluctance of the state to regulate the “business of piety.”
Dr. Mawa has positioned himself at the forefront of a campaign to reclaim encroached temple lands in the Valley. Leading demonstrations at Lal Chowk and historic religious sites, he has demanded a commission of inquiry and legal protection for centuries-old Pandit heritage. For many in the displaced Pandit community, Mawa’s activism articulates a long-held grievance: that their religious spaces have been quietly usurped or neglected in their absence. However, Mawa’s detractors view his brand of “heritage politics” with skepticism, suggesting that his sudden emergence as a loud, personalized voice for the community blurs the line between genuine public interest and political self-promotion.
The confrontation escalated significantly when Mawa directed his focus toward Maulana Hami. In a series of provocative statements, Mawa accused the Karwan-e-Islami chief of operating institutions on government land and allegedly selling portions of it for personal gain, going so far as to label the cleric “Daku Mangal Singh” in public discourse. The allegations ignited a firestorm, drawing angry rebuttals from Karwan-e-Islami supporters and prompting Hami to hold press conferences defending the legality of his institutions.
While the veracity of these specific claims is a matter for investigative agencies and the judiciary, the controversy has ripped the veil off a much larger, systemic issue. The specific status of the land occupied by Karwan-e-Islami is merely a microcosm of a broader national and regional pattern where religious structures—mosques, temples, shrines, and ashrams—have been constructed on encroached public land. Official reports suggest the existence of thousands of such illegal structures across Jammu and Kashmir, implicating institutions of all faiths.
The consequences of this unregulated construction are not merely legal or moral; they are existential. The catastrophic 2014 floods provided a grim audit of the region’s land management. Experts identified encroachments on floodplains, riverbeds, and water channels as primary factors exacerbating the disaster. While public discourse initially questioned the placement of mosques and commercial structures on these fragile ecosystems, the debate was swiftly communalized. Clerics and community leaders deflected criticism by pointing to temples on similarly encroached land, engaging in a logic of competitive wrongdoing. This “whataboutery” serves only to deepen institutional cynicism, implying that two violations cancel each other out rather than compounding the public risk.
Furthermore, this controversy invites a necessary scrutiny of the “religious economy” in the Valley. Maulana Hami, like many prominent figures in the religious landscape, operates at the intersection of the pulpit and political influence. He leads a network comprising schools, welfare trusts, and a devoted base of followers. Critics argue that a new class of “religious entrepreneurs” has emerged across the spectrum. In this model, intelligent graduates of madrasas or seminaries establish trusts that function effectively as semi-family enterprises. Funded by public donations collected in the name of safeguarding religion, supporting orphans, or defending community honor, these entities often lack rigorous oversight.
There is a jarring disconnect between the theology preached and the administrative reality practiced. Islamic historical narratives, frequently cited in Friday sermons, emphasize rigorous accountability. Biographies of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) note that he ordered the purchase of land from orphans in Medina before building the city’s first mosque, explicitly rejecting the occupation of land through force or sentiment. Similarly, stories of Caliph Umar (RA) being questioned by a Bedouin woman or a common citizen regarding his assets are hallmarks of Islamic egalitarianism. Yet, in the contemporary landscape, the application of these principles is selective. The historical precedent of transparency sits uneasily alongside the modern reality of shrines and institutions constructed without due legal process or financial transparency.
For the faithful, the relationship with such leaders is often governed by emotion rather than reason. Loyalty to the sect, the peer, or the organization is conflated with religious duty. Consequently, questioning financial decisions, land titles, or trust deeds is perceived as an act of betrayal or sin. Those who demand transparency risk social ostracization, labeled as troublemakers or enemies of the faith.
The state apparatus has rarely been an innocent bystander in this dynamic. In conflict-ridden regions like Kashmir, governments have historically viewed influential religious leaders as useful intermediaries for maintaining social stability. A fragmented clerical landscape prevents the emergence of a unified, independent leadership capable of mobilizing large-scale dissent. In this tacit arrangement, strict financial and land-related accountability is often sacrificed. Media platforms further distort this dynamic by granting high-profile clerics disproportionate visibility as the sole representatives of “community sentiment,” rarely investigating the financial spreadsheets behind the sermons.
However, the digital age has introduced a new variable: the unruly mirror of social media. The Mawa-Hami tussle has triggered a response that defies traditional sectarian lines. Netizens are increasingly asking pointed questions about land records, revenue documents, and audit reports. Old videos and contradictory statements are being resurrected and dissected with a forensic intensity that was impossible in the pre-digital era. While social media is often a vector for polarization, in this instance, it has nudged a segment of the public toward a more demanding form of citizenship.
The path forward requires moving beyond the specific personalities of Mawa and Hami. The structural solution lies in the enforcement of robust norms for religious trusts. The judiciary in India has repeatedly ruled that no faith claims immunity from civil law, ordering the demolition or relocation of religious structures on public commons. Yet, at the operational level, most local trusts remain opaque, publishing no audited financial statements. A legal framework requiring regular external audits, public disclosure of accounts, and a clear separation of personal and institutional assets is essential.
Ultimately, the reclaiming of encroached temple lands is a legitimate cause, but it must be pursued in tandem with a broader audit of all religious encroachments, regardless of the faith involved. The law cannot be communal; it must be consistent. For the press and the public, the value of this conflict lies not in the noise of the argument, but in the validity of the questions raised. Who owns the land under our religious structures? How are donations managed? The answers to these questions will determine the health of public life in Kashmir long after the current headlines fade.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this Magazine.
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