Between Pride and Prejudice: The Dilemmas of Bengal’s Cultural Populism

 

Bengal’s resistance to Hindutva has taken the shape of a proud cultural revival. But can a politics based on symbols, affect, and regional identity offer a real alternative—or does it risk becoming a mirror of the populism it opposes?

 

Asis Mistry

When Mamata Banerjee launched the ‘Bhasha Andolan’ from Bolpur, she signalled more than just solidarity with Bengali-speaking migrant workers allegedly harassed in BJP-ruled states. Her words—“Bengali is our pride, our asset, the backbone of our identity”—framed language as a rallying cry, elevating cultural belonging into a political imperative. This was not merely a reaction to isolated incidents, but the intensification of a broader narrative: that Bengali identity is under siege in an increasingly centralised and culturally homogenised republic. Yet beneath this fervent defence lies an unresolved dilemma: Can a populism anchored in regional pride and affective symbolism meaningfully respond to the everyday vulnerabilities of those very Bengalis—migrant workers, linguistic minorities, economically precarious citizens—whose struggles remain largely outside the spotlight of symbolic politics?

In the politically charged aftermath of the 2021 West Bengal Assembly elections, this narrative had already begun to take shape. The Trinamool Congress (TMC), under Banerjee’s leadership, triumphed not just electorally but symbolically—projecting itself as the custodian of Bengal’s cultural soul against what it portrayed as the homogenising thrust of the Bharatiya Janata Party’s (BJP) Hindutva. Three years on, the cultural idioms of that resistance—Durga, matri-bhasha, Biswa Bangla, and the image of “Banglar Meye”—continue to resonate. But so too does a central question: is this a genuine expression of pluralist regionalism, or merely a regionalised variant of affective populism?

This is a moment that demands reflection more than celebration. The renewed articulation of Bengali identity may offer a language of resistance, but it also raises uncomfortable questions about its limits. Can symbolic sub-nationalism address the structural realities of migration, marginalisation, and inequality? Or is it destined to remain a politics of performance—emotionally potent but materially inadequate?

Culture as Resistance

The TMC’s campaign in 2021 was striking in its strategic repurposing of Bengali culture. Facing a BJP that sought to export its Hindi-Hindu-Ram template to Bengal, the TMC countered with a rich tapestry of local idioms—celebrating Durga over Ram, invoking Jagannath as an eastern deity, and grounding its appeal in mother-tongue politics. This was not a rejection of Hindu identity but a reconfiguration—positioning Bengal’s spiritual traditions as plural, feminised, and distinct.

In doing so, the TMC engaged in what political theorists call “vernacular populism”—a mobilisation strategy that connects deeply with local emotion, memory, and identity. From slogans like “Bangla nijer meyekei chay” (Bengal wants her own daughter) to campaign posters evoking goddess Durga, it created a moral geography where Bengal was framed as under threat, and its salvation lay in defending its cultural soul.

To its credit, this symbolic resistance created a powerful electoral shield against Hindutva’s centralising appeal. It reaffirmed that Indian federalism is not just about administrative devolution, but also about cultural sovereignty.

Populism’s Pitfalls

And yet, the reliance on cultural symbolism has its dangers. Populism, by its nature, draws boundaries—between “us” and “them,” “authentic” and “foreign,” “insiders” and “outsiders.” In Bengal’s case, this logic has often turned inward: defining non-Bengali speakers, Hindi-speaking migrants, or even political dissenters as culturally alien.

The BJP’s weaponisation of the “infiltrator” trope, particularly targeting Bengali-speaking Muslims from border districts, is well documented. But what receives less attention is how the TMC’s regional populism can sometimes echo this logic—defining belonging through language, emotion, and nativist pride. The politics of “Bangaliana” (Bengaliness), if unexamined, can become a vehicle not for inclusion but for soft exclusion.

Moreover, when identity becomes the primary terrain of politics, questions of inequality, mobility, and justice often take a backseat. The emotional charge of culture masks the material contradictions of everyday life.

The Silence Around Migrant Labour

Nowhere is this contradiction more visible than in the plight of Bengali migrant workers. Every year, lakhs of workers from districts like Malda, Murshidabad, and Cooch Behar travel to Gujarat, Maharashtra, Karnataka, and Delhi for informal, low-wage work. They are the invisible engine of India’s economy—yet their Bengali identity, far from being a shield, often becomes a source of profiling and vulnerability.

In states ruled by the BJP, these migrants are routinely harassed, labelled as illegal, or subject to sudden evictions. The lines between “Bengali” and “Bangladeshi” are deliberately blurred, turning internal migrants into internal outsiders.

And what of the TMC? While it celebrates Bengali pride within the state, it remains conspicuously silent about the challenges Bengali workers face beyond its borders. There is little interstate advocacy, no robust legal assistance, and virtually no pan-Indian coalition-building around migrant rights.

This reveals a fundamental limit of symbolic sub-nationalism: it rarely travels. Rooted in territory and election cycles, it often fails to protect those who move—economically, socially, and physically.

Towards a Politics Beyond Symbols

Bengal’s current cultural mobilisation stands at a crossroads. It can either deepen into a genuinely pluralist regionalism—one that embraces linguistic diversity, safeguards migrant rights, and links subnational pride with social justice—or it can remain a decorative populism, rich in aesthetics but thin in substance.

To move forward, we must ask: what kind of federalism does Bengal really need? One that is merely defensive, drawing tight boundaries of identity and pride? Or one that is expansive—asserting cultural dignity while also building solidarity across class, caste, and linguistic lines?

There is precedent. The Left Front era in Bengal, for all its flaws, grounded Bengali identity in questions of redistribution, land rights, and anti-centrist governance. It fused regional pride with structural critique. Today’s politics could learn from that balance—replacing affective binaries with relational belonging.

The Role of the Centre

Of course, the burden does not lie with Bengal alone. The Centre’s current trajectory—marked by linguistic imposition, religious homogenisation, and a narrowing of democratic space—has compelled many regions to assert themselves. In this sense, Bengal’s cultural pushback is not exceptional but symptomatic of a deeper federal unease across India.

From Tamil Nadu’s resistance to NEET and Hindi, to Punjab’s reassertion of Sikh identity, or even Maharashtra’s Marathi pride campaigns, regional assertion has become a language of federal survival. But for this language to flourish democratically, it must remain open, plural, and inclusive—not fall into the trap of majoritarian mimicry.

Between Resistance and Renewal

Bengal’s cultural populism reflects both strength and anxiety. It is a refusal to be culturally colonised—but also a struggle to define itself in the shadow of an assertive national project. The danger lies in confusing resistance with reversal—in thinking that Hindutva’s grammar can be countered merely by inverting its symbols.

The real task ahead is not just symbolic but structural: to link the pride of identity with the politics of dignity. To make sure that Bengali workers in Bengaluru, Ahmedabad, or Surat feel as politically protected as voters in Murshidabad or Bankura. And to ensure that Bengal’s cultural soul is not narrowed into an aesthetic performance but expanded into a democratic promise.

The future of Indian federalism may, therefore, well depend on whether its regions can speak not just for themselves, but also for each other.

@ Author is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of Calcutta, email- asismistry.cu@gmail.com.

 

Pacemaker, Not Peacemaker: How Trump’s Foreign Policy Reignites the Fires of War

Asis Mistry 

Donald Trump once promised to end America’s “forever wars.” “Great nations do not fight endless wars,” he declared. Yet six months into his second term, Trump has stoked not one but two major geopolitical flashpoints—Iran and Ukraine—pushing the world closer to systemic conflict, not peace.

On June 22, U.S. bombers and submarines struck Iran’s most fortified nuclear sites—Fordow, Natanz, and Isfahan—even as Tehran remained engaged in backchannel diplomacy. Trump initially denied involvement, then justified the strikes as “peace through strength.” When Israel’s defences faltered under Iranian retaliation, Trump intervened directly, transforming a regional skirmish into a U.S.-led escalation.

This episode eviscerates the myth of Trump as a restrained realist. As in the lead-up to the 2003 Iraq war, his move was unilateral, poorly coordinated, and based on vague intelligence—this time, the disputed claim that Iran was just days from a nuclear breakout, a claim his own intelligence services had walked back earlier this year.

Far from calming tensions, Trump has become a pacemaker in the most dangerous sense—artificially accelerating global crises. His posture has reignited the flames of great-power rivalry and blurred red lines everywhere: from Tehran and Tel Aviv to Kyiv and Moscow. On June 24, Trump announced a “complete and total ceasefire” between Iran and Israel, calling an end to what he described as a “12-day war” that, he claims, could have dragged on for years. Yet this ceasefire is less an act of peace-making than a strategic intermission. Trump appears to be deliberately managing the pace of conflict—escalating it to showcase strength, then pausing it theatrically to claim diplomatic success.

This modulation serves multiple ends: it fuels his long-standing ambition for a Nobel Peace Prize, projects leadership during election cycles, and, crucially, sustains the U.S. arms economy. Netanyahu’s July 2025 nomination of Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize, citing his “pivotal role” in expanding Arab–Israeli normalization, encapsulates this contradiction. That Trump was simultaneously bombing Iran while being nominated for peace underscores the Orwellian theater of contemporary geopolitics. Critics have rightly pointed out that the nomination appears more a political gesture than a recognition of any substantive peacebuilding. Indeed, as Trump floats dreams of Middle East “Rivieras” built on the rubble of Gaza, his diplomacy takes on the contours of imperial spectacle rather than reconciliation.

Like the recent India–Pakistan border ceasefire, the Iran–Israel accord is thin on structure and heavy on symbolism, more about optics than resolution. What emerges is not a roadmap to peace, but a choreography of war—calculated, commodified, and politically profitable.

In Ukraine, Trump’s rhetoric is equally destabilising. He boasts of ending the war in 24 hours—yet as the Lowy Institute notes, his fear of appearing weak may push him toward increased U.S. military support if negotiations fail. Ironically, a second Trump term could see him pivot against Putin, not out of principle but optics. His unpredictability—flirting with both appeasement and escalation—unsettles allies and emboldens adversaries.

Meanwhile, Republicans remain divided. According to Pew, nearly half of GOP voters believe the U.S. is giving too much aid to Ukraine, and support for NATO has significantly eroded among Trump’s base. Should this transactional approach define U.S. foreign policy, both Ukraine and Europe may be forced to reckon with strategic abandonment mid-conflict.

Behind Trump’s foreign policy rhetoric lies a deeper, structural engine: the political economy of American arms exports. As public support for overseas entanglements becomes more fractured, the defence industry provides continuity and momentum. According to the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI), U.S. weapons exports to Europe surged by 233% between 2020 and 2024—driven largely by Ukraine-related military aid. For the first time in decades, Europe surpassed the Middle East as the largest destination for American arms, accounting for 35% of U.S. exports. Ukraine alone absorbed 26% of these shipments, with nearly three-quarters sourced directly from U.S. military stockpiles. This rapid flow of materiel has accelerated a new wave of militarisation across NATO countries, all under the legitimising narrative of allied support.

This is not incidental. As the Global Times analysis notes, the Ukraine war has sparked a massive rearmament drive among NATO states—many of which are now locked into long-term procurement contracts with U.S. defence firms. Over $81 billion in U.S. arms sales were recorded in 2023 alone, a 56% jump from the previous year. These deals don’t just project American power abroad; they anchor jobs and economic activity at home. The U.S. aerospace and defence sector supports over 2.1 million jobs, a figure that lends domestic economic justification to sustained overseas military engagement.

The entanglement of strategic objectives with industrial benefits turns global conflict into both a political and economic imperative. When Trump promotes “peace through strength,” what often follows is an arms pipeline that fuels instability under the guise of deterrence. This militarised economy makes withdrawal from war zones economically costly and politically fraught. It also means that regional flare-ups—in Ukraine, Iran, or potentially South Asia—can be seen as market opportunities rather than diplomatic failures. In such a context, foreign policy is no longer about strategic vision or conflict resolution; it is about sustaining a system in which peace becomes structurally unprofitable.

The Iran strikes, for their part, have shredded what remained of the nuclear non-proliferation order. The global message is stark: disarmament invites attack; deterrence ensures survival. Nowhere is this more dangerously internalised than in South Asia.

Pakistan, long defensive about its tactical nuclear posture in the face of India’s conventional military edge, now sees its strategy vindicated. Trump’s strike on Iran sends a stark message: adherence to international norms offers no shield against pre-emptive force. For Islamabad, this reinforces the belief that nuclear deterrence remains its only credible safeguard. For India—traditionally cast as a responsible nuclear actor and regional stabiliser—the collapse of trust in global diplomatic frameworks makes continued strategic restraint harder to justify, and potentially more costly. The precedent set in Iran reverberates across South Asia, casting a long shadow over its already fragile deterrence balance.

This shift has global implications. Trump’s style has turned preventive war into standard policy. Having dismantled the 2015 Iran nuclear deal, he moved from diplomacy to sanctions, and now to strikes. In Ukraine, he may soon pivot from “deal-maker” to war-expander. In both cases, the guiding logic is not de-escalation, but coercion.

The economic fallout has been swift. Oil prices soared 28% within days of the Iran strike. Energy markets remain on edge. Inflationary shocks ripple across Europe and Asia. With 40,000 U.S. troops deployed in West Asia, America is exposed—militarily, politically, and economically.

What Trump celebrates as “strength” is, in fact, a war on memory—a disregard for the hard lessons of Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya. Like before, there is no exit plan, no congressional authorisation, and no strategy beyond spectacle. The strike on Iran drew bipartisan concern, but Republican hawks cheered it as decisive leadership. The White House spun it as a triumph for global security. The truth is far murkier.

Meanwhile, Benjamin Netanyahu—facing domestic unrest—rides this moment to reassert Israeli hardline power. But in doing so, he and Trump risk dragging the U.S. into a protracted conflict it neither initiated nor fully controls.

The message to smaller states worldwide is chilling: negotiate and die, or arm and survive. Diplomacy becomes obsolete, and nuclear deterrence becomes a doctrine of despair. For South Asia—where a single misstep between India and Pakistan could lead to catastrophe—this unravelling is deeply ominous.

Trump did not end forever wars. He fractured them into episodic flashpoints, more dangerous for their unpredictability and lack of resolution. His foreign policy is not peace-making—it is pace-making, rushing the world toward chaos with no vision for peace.

This is not a strength. It is a spectacle. And it leaves the world—Tehran, Kyiv, New Delhi, and beyond—holding its breath for the next strike.

 @ The author is an Assistant Professor of Political Science, University of Calcutta.