Naxalism is not a new word in India's political vocabulary. Nearly six decades ago, the term emerged from Naxalbari, in West Bengal's Darjeeling district, becoming associated with an armed political movement rooted in questions of land, class conflict, peasant discontent and Maoist ideology. The Naxalbari uprising shook Indian politics.
In the decades that followed, the movement spread from West Bengal to parts of Bihar, Jharkhand, Odisha, Chhattisgarh, Andhra Pradesh, Telangana and Maharashtra. Organisations changed, strategies evolved, leaderships shifted and the methods of violence changed. Yet questions of land, forests, tribal rights, social inequality and deprivation remained central to the conflict.
Now, in his Independence Day address from the Red Fort, Prime Minister Narendra Modi introduced a new political expression — "dimaagi naxal," or the "Naxal mindset." He said armed Naxalism was breathing its last, but those carrying the Naxal mindset were still looking for opportunities to promote violence and anarchy. He called for identifying and isolating such elements and bringing the younger generation into the mainstream of a developed India.
This is where an important democratic debate begins. Can a person who picks up a gun and a citizen who questions government policy be placed in the same category? Does opposing a policy, criticising those in power, or disagreeing with an ideology automatically make someone a bearer of the "Naxal mindset"? If not, what are the constitutional and political limits of this new expression?
The question matters because, in a democracy, words are never merely words. They shape public discourse. They influence the political atmosphere and can alter how individuals and groups are perceived. When the language of those in power carries such weight, it must also carry a corresponding responsibility.
The history of Naxalbari cannot be reduced to a single narrative. In 1967, an intense mobilisation of peasants and sharecroppers was closely linked to the question of land. Leaders such as Charu Mazumdar, Kanu Sanyal and Jangal Santhal chose the path of armed struggle. Influenced by Maoist revolutionary thought in China, the movement regarded land and class struggle as instruments of political transformation. In 1969, the Communist Party of India (Marxist-Leninist), or CPI(ML), was formed.
Naxalbari, therefore, cannot be understood merely as a story of guns. But neither should it be romanticised as a simple peasant rebellion. Its roots lay in unequal land relations, the exploitation of tribal communities and peasants, feudal structures and administrative neglect. Yet a democratic order cannot accept armed violence as the answer to these grievances.
That is where the fundamental distinction between a democratic state and Naxalite politics lies. Raising one's voice against injustice is a democratic right; violence is not. Whether the issue concerns a farmer's land, tribal rights over forests, or a community's share in development, citizens have every right to raise these questions. But seeking political power through the barrel of a gun is a challenge to the democratic order itself.
The weakening of Naxal influence in several regions has resulted not only from security operations but also from the expansion of roads, schools, hospitals, communications and administrative institutions. Where the state was once visible largely through the police or the forest department, the arrival of schools, hospitals, banks, roads and employment opportunities has weakened the social space available to armed groups.
This is why Naxal-affected regions cannot be viewed merely through the lens of law and order. They are also a question of social justice and development. Guns cannot be weakened by guns alone; the conditions that create a social space for armed movements must also be addressed.
The difficulty begins when the word "Naxalite" moves beyond armed organisations and is applied to those who simply criticise the government. In recent years, the expression "urban Naxal" has entered political and public discourse, particularly in the context of intellectuals, social activists and academics arrested in connection with the Bhima Koregaon case.
There is a fundamental difference between being linked to a banned organisation, assisting violent activities or participating in criminal acts, and merely holding views different from those of the government. Preserving that distinction is essential to both justice and democracy.
Courts have repeatedly emphasised that criminal allegations must be tested against evidence and law. A political label is not, by itself, proof of a crime. The real test of democracy lies in maintaining the distinction between allegation and offence, and between accusation and evidence.
The expression "dimaagi naxal" takes this debate into more complicated territory. In the context in which the Prime Minister used it, the reference appears to be to those who keep alive the ideological foundations of Naxalite violence or seek to push young people towards violent paths. Any violent movement cannot be defeated merely through security operations; its social and ideological foundations must also be challenged. That concern cannot simply be dismissed.
But there is a fine line here, and erasing it could be dangerous for democracy. Ideas must be confronted with ideas, not with prosecution or social exclusion.
If "dimaagi naxal" refers to those who justify violence, actively assist banned armed organisations, incite young people to violent rebellion or encourage armed action against the state, the law must take its course. But if the expression is used for journalists, writers, university teachers, social workers, human rights activists or opposition leaders merely because they disagree with the government, the space for democratic debate will inevitably shrink.
The Constitution does not treat dissent as a crime. Criticism of the government is not a weakness of democracy; it is one of its strengths. Parliament, the courts, the media, universities and civil society are different arenas where dissent finds expression. Those in power should not fear questions, and those who ask difficult questions should not be hastily placed in categories such as sedition or Naxalism.
This also requires a distinction between the nation and the government. The government is not the nation; it is the political authority elected through a democratic process. It deserves respect, but criticism of it is also a citizen's right. Governments change, policies change and political parties change. The nation endures.
Patriotism, therefore, cannot mean agreeing with the government on every issue.
The question of Naxal-affected regions is equally important. For decades, violence, poverty, administrative neglect and the absence of development reinforced one another. If roads, schools, hospitals, mobile connectivity, employment and governance are now reaching these areas, and violence is declining, that is unquestionably welcome. The Prime Minister said from the Red Fort that in areas once marked by Naxalite gunfire, the tricolour of development, trust and endeavour is now flying.
But the real end of Naxalism will not be established merely by a decline in the number of encounters. It will come when a tribal youth no longer has to choose between a gun and unemployment; when land disputes are resolved fairly; when local communities have a meaningful voice in decisions concerning forests and land; when schools and hospitals reach remote areas; when people in mineral-rich regions receive not merely displacement but a fair share in development; and when trust in the state comes not from fear of the gun but from the experience of justice.
The most effective way to eliminate the social foundations of Naxalism is to ensure that democracy becomes visible in places where once only the gun was visible.
It is in this context that the idea of "dimaagi naxal" needs to be examined seriously. If it refers to the propagation of a violent ideology, it must be confronted at both the ideological and legal levels. But if it means every person who disagrees with government policies, it would run contrary to the spirit of democracy.
Ideas do not disappear simply because they are suppressed; they have to be challenged with better ideas. Before an ideology is brought within the ambit of criminal law, the crucial question must be whether it actually promotes violence or merely questions the existing order. The ability to listen to criticism is itself a sign of political confidence.
This is also where Gandhi's talisman offers a useful moral test. Gandhi asked us to recall the face of the poorest and weakest person before taking a decision, and to consider whether our action would be of any use to that person.
That test remains relevant today. In the debate over Naxalism, state power and dissent, the question should not merely be whether a citizen agrees with the government. It should be whether the exercise of state power protects the life, liberty and dignity of the weakest citizen.
Gandhian non-violence was not merely the absence of physical violence. It was also the moral discipline of recognising the human being in an opponent, keeping the channels of dialogue open, and refusing to turn disagreement into enmity. Naxalite violence must be confronted firmly. But democratic dissent must be answered through non-violent dialogue, reason and constitutional restraint.
Gandhi's talisman reminds us that the ultimate test of power is not how many people agree with it, but how secure and respected the weakest citizen feels under it. If an ordinary citizen begins to fear speaking their mind, the country may still display the symbols of development, but something darker begins to take root within democracy.
The political reactions to the expression "dimaagi naxal" are significant for the same reason. Congress leader P. Chidambaram responded sarcastically to the Prime Minister's remark, applying the new label to himself. It was a political response, but it raises a larger question: can patriotism have only one definition?
Can a citizen oppose the government's economic policy and still be a patriot? Can a journalist criticise those in power and still work in the national interest? Can a university teacher question government policy and thereby become anti-national?
The answer in a democracy must be clear: yes. Love for the country and criticism of the government are not mutually exclusive.
The fight against Naxal violence must be firm. But democratic dissent must be met with argument. Erasing the distinction between the person who picks up a gun and the person who picks up a pen does not strengthen the state — it can, instead, raise questions about its democratic legitimacy.
India is moving forward with the ambition of becoming a developed nation. It needs not only economic progress but also democratic maturity. A developed India cannot be one where citizens merely applaud government achievements. It must be an India where citizens can ask questions, governments can answer them, courts can deliver independent judgments, journalists can write without fear and universities can debate ideas without intimidation.
The state's success in defeating Naxalism will be measured when the guns fall silent and democratic institutions grow stronger. But the success of democracy will be measured when dissent, too, is recognised as a source of national strength.
The journey in political language from "Naxal" to "urban Naxal" and now to "dimaagi naxal" should make us pause and ask whether the constitutional boundaries between violence and dissent, crime and criticism, and armed rebellion and political disagreement are becoming blurred.
Those boundaries must remain clear. The law must fight crime, not ideas. An idea may be wrong, unpopular or inconvenient for those in power. But unless it crosses the limits prescribed by law, its answer should be reason, argument and dialogue.
The end of Naxalism is a victory for democracy. The end of dissent cannot be.
The gun must be answered by law, violence by non-violence, an idea by another idea, and dissent by dialogue.
This is the fine line that the government, opposition, media and civil society must collectively protect. National security is undoubtedly important. But so is the citizen's freedom to think independently.
And ultimately, viewed through the moral light of Gandhi's talisman, the greatest test of democracy is whether its weakest citizen can speak without fear.
The greatest strength of a democracy is not the silence of its citizens, but their fearless, responsible, non-violent and informed voice.
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*Independent journalist
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