The Intellectualisation and Erasure of Punjab's Sufferings
I recently read an article by Gurdeep Singh Sappal, Permanent Invitee to the Congress Overseas Committee, published in The Wire under the title Why Punjab's Wounds Must Not Be Reopened: A Long Walk to Reconciliation. It is a piece that claims to advocate reconciliation, but in reality exemplifies a longstanding tendency among sections of India's political and intellectual class: the intellectualisation, sanitisation, and eventual erasure of Punjab's suffering.
Before engaging with the substance of the article, I am reminded of a personal encounter that illustrates this broader problem.
When I had just moved to the United Kingdom to pursue my degree at SOAS University of London, Gurdeep Singh Sappal and former Union Minister Salman Khurshid visited the campus to address a small gathering of students. After the discussion concluded, I casually remarked to Sappal in Punjabi, "Es vaar Haryana elections lagda hai Congress hi jittugi" ("It seems Congress will win the Haryana elections this time.").
His immediate reaction surprised me. As a visibly turbaned Sikh speaking Punjabi in London, he instinctively assumed that hearing Punjabi around him meant the possibility of being confronted by Sikh activists. His expression stiffened, and he replied rather condescendingly, "Sirf aapko aur mujhe Punjabi aati hai, ya sabh ko thori na aati hai" ("Only you and I understand Punjabi here, not everyone else.").
Ironically, he said this in Hindi while standing in England before an audience that largely consisted of Malayali students—many of whom were far more comfortable in English than in Hindi.
The exchange stayed with me because it reflected something larger than a linguistic misunderstanding. It revealed an instinctive discomfort with Punjabi itself and an assumption that Punjabi speech inevitably carries political baggage. That instinct—viewing Punjab through the lens of suspicion before understanding—is precisely what has characterised much of India's discourse on Punjab over the past four decades.
It is therefore difficult to accept lectures on Punjab's suffering from those who approach the subject with preconceived anxieties rather than empathy.
Sappal begins his article by invoking Satluj, Honey Trehan's critically acclaimed film inspired by Amandeep Sandhu's book Panjab: Journey Through Faultlines. The symbolism is striking, but the engagement remains superficial.
The film is not merely about grief. It is about institutional violence, disappearances, fake encounters, state impunity, and the generational trauma left behind by Punjab's conflict years. Yet these themes barely find mention in Sappal's piece.
Instead, the article falls into a familiar pattern of false equivalence.
The fake encounters and enforced disappearances of thousands of Punjabi youth are juxtaposed with the assassination of Chief Minister Beant Singh. Likewise, Operation Bluestar—arguably the most traumatic event in post-independence Sikh history—is counterbalanced with the assassination of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, as though the killing of one political leader somehow morally balances the deaths, disappearances, torture, and collective punishment experienced by thousands.
History cannot be understood through bookkeeping.
One murder does not erase thousands of unlawful killings. One act of political violence does not neutralise another. Human suffering is not an equation whose variables conveniently cancel each other out.
The fundamental problem with much of India's liberal commentary on Punjab is that it mistakes silence for reconciliation.
When these commentators speak of "healing," they rarely advocate accountability. They do not demand prosecutions of those responsible for extrajudicial executions. They seldom call for a Truth and Reconciliation Commission. They rarely speak of institutional reform, official acknowledgement, or reparative justice.
Instead, their preferred solution is remarkably simple: Punjab should forget.
It should stop remembering.
It should stop asking questions.
It should stop reopening old wounds.
But justice does not work that way.
No society has ever genuinely reconciled by suppressing memory.
South Africa did not emerge from apartheid by asking Black South Africans to forget apartheid. Argentina confronted the crimes of its military dictatorship through trials and truth commissions. Northern Ireland's peace process, imperfect as it remains, recognised that acknowledging historical grievances was indispensable to building lasting peace.
Memory without justice breeds resentment.
Justice creates the possibility of reconciliation.
As author Amandeep Sandhu observed during an interview discussing Panjab: Journey Through Faultlines, if those responsible for the 1984 anti-Sikh massacres and the widespread human rights violations that followed in Punjab were genuinely brought to justice, many of the separatist sentiments that persist on the margins would naturally lose their emotional force.
Whether one agrees entirely with that assessment or not, the underlying principle is undeniable: accountability matters.
Contrary to popular media narratives, the overwhelming majority of Sikhs in Punjab are not demanding an independent state.
What many continue to demand is greater federal autonomy, implementation of constitutional promises, protection of linguistic and cultural rights, and respect for Punjab's political institutions.
Unfortunately, the trajectory of Indian federalism has moved in precisely the opposite direction.
One recent example illustrates this clearly.
On 28 October 2025, the BJP-led Union Government attempted to dissolve the Senate of Panjab University.
To outsiders, this may appear to be a routine administrative reform. It is anything but.
Under the Panjab University Act of 1947, the Senate is the university's supreme democratic governing body. It oversees administration, finances, governance, and institutional direction. It comprises ninety-one members, including forty-seven elected representatives, thirty-six nominated by the Chancellor, two representatives from the Punjab Legislative Assembly, and six ex-officio members. Graduates from Punjab directly elect fifteen Senate members, making it one of the oldest democratic university structures in South Asia.
The Senate functions as the university's parliament, while its executive body—the Syndicate—is elected from among Senate members.
Its democratic character is central to Punjab's historical relationship with the institution.
Ironically, history had witnessed something remarkably similar before.
In 1904, Lord Curzon amended the Punjab University Act precisely to weaken the Senate because he viewed it as a centre of anti-colonial political mobilisation. By reducing elected representation and increasing executive control, the colonial government sought to discipline an autonomous institution.
The parallels are difficult to ignore.
More than a century later, another central government appears willing to dismantle democratic governance in the same institution, centralise authority, weaken Punjab's institutional stake, and create conditions more conducive to bureaucratic control and eventual privatisation.
Punjab's struggles with centralisation, however, long predate this controversy.
The Punjab Reorganisation Act of 1966 created a linguistically reduced Punjab after years of agitation. Punjabi-speaking territories were divided, Chandigarh was separated from Punjab despite being constructed after the displacement of more than twenty-eight Punjabi villages, and the state's control over its river waters became increasingly contested.
The reorganisation left behind unresolved constitutional and political disputes that remain alive even today.
Sections 72, 78, 79, 81, 84, and 87 of the Act brought several institutions—including Panjab University, Punjab Agricultural University, the Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee, the Bhakra Beas Management Board, and Chandigarh—under varying degrees of central oversight.
Even agreements intended to resolve these disputes were not fully honoured.
The Rajiv-Longowal Accord of 1985 promised the transfer of Chandigarh to Punjab, yet the commitment was never implemented. Instead, Punjab continues to witness recurring disputes over river waters, the Bhakra Beas Management Board, and administrative control over Chandigarh.
These issues are not historical curiosities.
They remain active political questions that directly affect Punjab's relationship with the Indian Union.
The erosion of federalism accelerated further with the Forty-Second Constitutional Amendment in 1976, which transferred subjects such as education, forests, and minerals from the State List to the Concurrent List.
Economic liberalisation during the 1990s introduced another layer of centralisation by reducing states' fiscal independence.
The introduction of the Goods and Services Tax (GST), while creating a unified indirect tax regime, also significantly altered India's fiscal federal balance. States became increasingly dependent on centrally distributed revenues while continuing to shoulder substantial expenditure responsibilities.
Across party lines, governments in New Delhi have gradually accumulated greater administrative and financial authority.
Punjab has often found itself disproportionately affected by this trend because many of its longstanding constitutional disputes remain unresolved.
Against this backdrop, appeals asking Punjabis to simply "move on" ring hollow.
One cannot ask a society to forget historical injustices while simultaneously creating new ones.
The problem extends beyond public policy.
It also lies in how Punjab is represented in India's national media.
Since the 1990s, media narratives surrounding Punjab have increasingly reflected a statist approach. Whether under NDA governments, UPA governments, or subsequent administrations, the dominant impulse has remained remarkably consistent: legitimate political dissent emerging from Punjab is often interpreted through the lens of national security rather than democratic federalism.
This approach transcends ideological divides.
Centrist, right-wing, and sections of liberal commentary frequently converge in portraying Sikh political institutions as uniquely regressive or inherently suspect.
Political journalist Aditya Menon has documented this phenomenon, noting how terms such as "medieval," "anachronistic," and even "dunces" are routinely used to describe Sikh institutions like the Akal Takht—despite its long history of advocating communal harmony and speaking on broader questions of justice.
Language shapes public perception.
When institutions are consistently described through derogatory stereotypes, their political legitimacy is gradually undermined.
The consequences become particularly dangerous when media reporting conflates ordinary criminality with separatist politics.
A striking example occurred following clashes near a gurdwara in Sacramento, California, on 26 March 2023.
Several Sikh individuals were arrested.
Indian television coverage quickly framed the incident as evidence of "Khalistani violence."
Television anchor Palki Sharma warned viewers not to ignore "the Khalistani problem," suggesting that those involved in the violence represented the broader Khalistan movement.
Similarly, OpIndia described some of those arrested as "Khalistanis wanted in India."
However, subsequent reporting revealed a different picture.
Jennifer Dupré, District Attorney of Sutter County, explicitly clarified that the arrested individuals were not associated with the Khalistan movement and did not subscribe to Khalistani ideology.
Yet the correction received only a fraction of the attention generated by the original allegations.
This pattern is deeply problematic.
When every act involving Sikhs is casually linked to Khalistan, the distinction between criminal conduct and political ideology collapses.
Such reporting not only misinforms audiences but also reinforces stereotypes that further alienate an already misunderstood community.
Punjab's suffering has therefore been subjected to a double erasure.
First, the violence itself is minimised or relativised.
Second, attempts to discuss that violence are dismissed as dangerous exercises in reopening old wounds.
Meanwhile, the cycle of grief continues.
In recent years alone, Punjab has witnessed the assassination of popular singer Sidhu Moosewala, the deaths of protesting farmers during the farmers' movement, attacks on activists, recurring communal tensions, drug-related devastation, economic distress, and persistent political uncertainty.
These are not merely historical wounds.
They are contemporary realities.
Healing cannot occur while new injuries continue to be inflicted.
The language of reconciliation is meaningful only when accompanied by truth, accountability, institutional reform, and respect for democratic federalism.
Otherwise, reconciliation becomes little more than a euphemism for silence.
Punjab does not require selective remembrance.
It does not require intellectual lectures asking it to forget.
It requires honest engagement with history.
It requires justice for victims of state violence as well as accountability for all forms of political violence.
It requires the implementation of constitutional promises that have remained unfulfilled for decades.
Above all, it requires that Punjab be allowed to narrate its own history rather than having that history constantly interpreted through distant ideological frameworks.
Ultimately, the question is not whether Punjab should heal—it is whether India is willing to confront the conditions necessary for that healing. Reconciliation cannot be built on selective memory, convenient amnesia, or the expectation that victims alone must bear the burden of moving on. Every society that has emerged from periods of political violence has done so by acknowledging the truth, holding perpetrators accountable, and creating institutions that inspire confidence in justice. Punjab deserves nothing less. Asking Punjabis to forget Operation Bluestar, the anti-Sikh massacres of 1984, enforced disappearances, fake encounters, and decades of political marginalisation while new disputes over federalism, autonomy, language, and democratic institutions continue to unfold is not reconciliation—it is erasure. It asks a people to surrender both their history and their dignity. Punjab has repeatedly demonstrated resilience in the face of immense adversity, from rebuilding after Partition to feeding the nation through the Green Revolution and contributing disproportionately to India's armed forces and economy. That resilience should not be mistaken for an obligation to remain silent. The demand is neither revenge nor perpetual grievance; it is truth, justice, and constitutional fairness. Punjab will move forward—as every society eventually does—but lasting peace will come only when remembrance is no longer treated as a threat, and justice is recognised as the indispensable foundation of reconciliation.