Promises deferred, trust eroded: The politics of statehood in J&K

By Himadri Priya 

The demand for the restoration of statehood to Jammu and Kashmir is no longer merely a constitutional question. It has evolved into a political indictment of the Union government's entire post-2019 approach to the region. At the centre of that indictment lies a simple but powerful charge: Delhi downgraded Jammu and Kashmir, promised that the damage would eventually be reversed, and then substituted delay for action.

That is why the issue refuses to fade from public discourse. Statehood today is not just an administrative demand; it has become a symbol of a broader grievance over the erosion of democratic authority, the concentration of power in New Delhi, and the growing suspicion that Jammu and Kashmir is being asked to accept a permanently diminished political status under the guise of a temporary arrangement.

The roots of this discontent lie in August 2019, when the Union government revoked Article 370, effectively nullified Article 35A, and bifurcated the former state into the Union Territories of Jammu and Kashmir and Ladakh. The constitutional and legal debates surrounding that decision have been extensive. Politically, however, one fact overshadowed all others: Jammu and Kashmir was not merely reorganised—it was downgraded from a state to a Union Territory.

That transformation fundamentally altered the balance of power. A Union Territory, even one with an elected Assembly, does not enjoy the constitutional standing or political autonomy of a full-fledged state. In Jammu and Kashmir, authority shifted significantly toward the Lieutenant Governor and, by extension, the Centre. Elections could still be conducted and governments formed, but the region itself remained constitutionally diminished. It is this contradiction that gives the demand for statehood its enduring force. For many residents, the issue is not about restoring a label; it is about recovering political authority that was taken away.

The 2019 decision was accompanied by mass detentions, a communications blackout, restrictions on movement, and a near-complete suspension of political activity. Beyond immediate anger, those measures left behind a deeper and more enduring sentiment: a sense of humiliation and exclusion. Many felt that the future of Jammu and Kashmir had been rewritten without consultation and without consent. In that environment, statehood emerged as the minimum democratic demand after the larger constitutional defeat. If Article 370 was gone, many argued, Jammu and Kashmir should at least not remain indefinitely under Union Territory rule.

This is one reason the demand has endured. Statehood came to represent the floor, not the ceiling, of democratic restoration. It is not widely viewed as a concession from Delhi but as the minimum political correction owed to the region after 2019.

A second reason lies in the practical consequences of Union Territory status. Its limitations are not merely symbolic; they are institutional. The return of electoral politics has not resolved this contradiction. If anything, it has highlighted it. Jammu and Kashmir now has an elected government, but not the authority normally associated with one. Significant powers remain embedded in the Union Territory framework and concentrated in the office of the Lieutenant Governor. Citizens are therefore being asked to invest faith in democratic processes without being granted the full constitutional structure that gives those processes meaning.

For many in the region, this is why official claims that democracy has been restored ring hollow. Democracy without statehood appears less like genuine restoration and more like managed participation—sufficient to reduce political pressure, but insufficient to restore constitutional equality.

The demand is also rooted in concerns over land, employment, development and local decision-making. A region that has lost constitutional weight naturally worries about who controls recruitment, resource allocation, land use, business regulation and development priorities. Even when expressed outside legal language, these concerns reinforce the same political conclusion: without statehood, Jammu and Kashmir lacks the institutional safeguards necessary to protect its interests.

Had the Centre moved swiftly to restore statehood after the 2019 reorganisation, some of this resentment might have subsided. Instead, it repeatedly suggested that statehood would eventually return while declining to specify when. This strategy of assurance without implementation transformed a constitutional grievance into a crisis of trust.

The turning point came in December 2023, when the Supreme Court upheld the abrogation of Article 370 while recording the Union government's assurance that statehood would be restored "at the earliest." Those words carried immense political significance. They enabled the Centre to argue that Union Territory status was temporary rather than permanent. Yet they also created expectations that could not be deferred indefinitely. Once the government made that commitment before the country's highest court, continued delay became increasingly difficult to justify. What may once have appeared as caution began to look like evasion.

That perception deepened after elections were held and an elected government returned while statehood itself remained elusive. The contradiction became increasingly visible. Delhi could point to elections as evidence of democratic revival, while critics could point to the absence of statehood as proof that the most important component of democratic restoration remained incomplete. Jammu and Kashmir, they argued, was being offered the appearance of normal politics without the constitutional substance of normal statehood.

This is why the latest wave of protests carries greater significance than many earlier demonstrations. The region has witnessed opposition to the 2019 decision from political parties, civil society organisations and regional leaders. The current phase is different because it is centred on a politically more difficult claim: the Centre promised statehood and has yet to deliver it.

That shift poses a more serious challenge for the government. A controversial constitutional decision can be defended on grounds of national security, parliamentary sovereignty or national interest. An open-ended delay following a public assurance is harder to explain. The debate has therefore moved beyond what Delhi did in 2019 to whether Delhi can still be trusted in 2026.

Earlier this month, the National Conference announced that its legislators and allies would raise the issue during Parliament's Monsoon Session, demanding both statehood and constitutional safeguards. The decision reflected a growing belief that quiet engagement with the Centre had yielded little and that the issue now required a more public confrontation.

The political mood intensified further on June 23, when protests and shutdowns were organised in Ladakh, particularly under the banner of the Leh Apex Body and the Kargil Democratic Alliance. Their demands differ from those in Jammu and Kashmir, focusing on representation, constitutional safeguards and political status. Yet the broader message resonated across the former state. Both Union Territories are now accusing Delhi of centralising power, making commitments and then delaying meaningful political resolution.

This convergence matters. It strengthens the perception that dissatisfaction is no longer confined to one party, one region or one set of demands. It is increasingly becoming a wider critique of the Centre's post-2019 governance model across the entire region that once constituted the state of Jammu and Kashmir. In Jammu and Kashmir, the complaint is that statehood was taken away and not restored. In Ladakh, it is that Union Territory status has left the region politically vulnerable and underrepresented. The specifics differ, but the underlying accusation is remarkably similar.

The significance of the current moment lies not in the existence of protests but in the language being used. The issue is no longer framed solely as a demand for rights; it is increasingly framed as a question of broken promises. Citizens and political leaders are not simply arguing that the Centre disagrees with them. They are arguing that it has misled them. Such a charge is particularly damaging because it strikes not only at policy but also at credibility.

Delhi's challenge today extends beyond constitutional complexity or security considerations. Those arguments may explain the decisions of 2019 and the caution that followed. They do not explain why, after elections, repeated assurances and commitments made before the Supreme Court, there is still no clear timeline for restoring statehood.

As a result, criticism has evolved from accusations of insensitivity to allegations of bad faith. The politics of delay has served the Centre well for years. It has reassured courts, tempered criticism and preserved flexibility while retaining the advantages of direct control. Yet that strategy is now yielding diminishing returns. The longer statehood remains deferred, the more official assurances begin to sound like a formula for indefinite postponement.

That is the real significance of the present unrest. It is not simply about reviving a pre-2019 constitutional arrangement or satisfying regional sentiment. It is about whether the Union government intends to restore the democratic standing it has repeatedly said Jammu and Kashmir deserves, or whether the region is expected to accept a permanently reduced status presented as a temporary necessity.

The demand for statehood therefore remains far more than a constitutional slogan. It has become the most visible expression of a deeper political reality: a breakdown of trust between Delhi and significant sections of the region's population. And the longer delay is treated as a substitute for decision-making, the greater the risk that this erosion of trust will harden into a more enduring confrontation between the public and the state.