Summary of this article
Over 660 families were evicted in June 2025 from Hasila Beel, with authorities citing environmental protection, while residents lost homes, livelihoods, and access to basic services.
Displaced families now live in temporary shelters with poor conditions, limited water access, disrupted education, and little to no government assistance despite court orders.
Experts say the crisis reflects a broader political shift in Assam, where religious identity has overtaken linguistic identity, leading to the marginalisation and isolation of Miya Muslim communities.
Taslima Begum, 52, was known in her small Hasila Beel neighbourhood as an ASHA worker who checked on mothers and children. She also ran a modest grocery shop.
Her husband, a private school teacher, earned just enough to keep the household going. Their son works in a private hospital as an ultrasound technician, and their daughter is married. The family had lived for decades in a proper house in Goalpara’s Hasila Beel.
Then it was gone.
“They have destroyed all that we built,” Taslima says, her voice unsteady. The shop is gone. The house is gone.
Their house destroyed to rubble and they were evicted just after Eid-ul-Adha in June 2025. Now, Eid-ul-Fitr is here nearly nine months later, and they are struggling to rebuild. Along with hundreds of other families, they have moved about a kilometre away. They now live in a tin hut and run a small makeshift shop selling basic groceries. Her husband did not want to speak.
Between 16 and 18 June, the district administration in Goalpara, Assam, removed at least 660 families from what it described as a government-notified wetland, affecting over 4,000 people. Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma called it a “lawful eviction drive” to clear nearly 495 acres of encroached land, framing it as a step towards protecting ecosystems.
Just days later, on 22 June 2025, the state cabinet approved a proposal to declare 245 hectares of Hasila Beel a Proposed Reserve Forest. During a visit on 24 June, the Chief Minister said parts of the area would be developed for eco-tourism.
“I work with the government,” says Taslima, “and now they have rendered us homeless.”
Everyone here belongs to what the state labels ‘Miya Muslims’, a term often used for Bengali-origin Muslims whose ancestors moved from what was known as East Pakistan, distinct from Assamese-origin communities.
Prof Abdul Kalam Azad, from Barpeta in Assam and an Assistant Professor of Public Health at OP Jindal Global University, says the present crisis is rooted in a long political shift. “What we are witnessing today did not begin recently,” he explains, noting that migration has long shaped Assam’s politics, often pushing minorities to the margins.
At 55, Asaraddin Ali stands amidst rows of tin shelters. “My grandparents used to live here,” he says, pointing towards the land a bit far away. Over the years, he had constructed a house, spending nearly ₹20 lakh, his life’s savings. Inside lived nine people: his three sons, two of them married, and their young children. The youngest son, now works a daily wage labourer. “I used to be a driver, but had an accident… it’s been ten months,” he adds.
Now, he believes there is no hope. “The government is saying this is not our land,” he says, and that means “no home, no food”. Even the nearby school has been destroyed. “There used to be a better school… now we can’t even think of sending the children.” Farming, once their fallback, is no longer possible. “We used to grow vegetables… we could survive.” Today, all that remains is uncertainty.
For decades, Azad explains, Assam’s politics revolved around language. “Earlier, ethno-linguistic identity dominated—religion was secondary.” Movements from the 1960s to the 1980s targeted both Bengali Hindus and Muslims. “It was about who belonged to the Assamese linguistic identity.”
At least 150 families now live less than a kilometre away in cramped tin hutments. There is just one hand pump, where women gather through the day to collect water or wash clothes. By mid-March, rains had already begun damaging these fragile homes.
In February 2026, the Gauhati High Court directed the Assam government to ensure access to clean drinking water, basic healthcare, sanitation, and food grains through fair price shops for families evicted from the Hasila Beel wetland in Goalpara district in June 2025.
A bench led by Justice Devashish Baruah observed that the “right to life” includes living with dignity, along with access to safe water, sanitation, and essential medical care. The order came in response to a writ petition filed by 60 affected individuals, who said that 566 families, including children, had been living in severe hardship for over eight months on a small plot of patta land without basic facilities, describing the situation as a “humanitarian crisis”.
Referring to the National Food Security Act, 2013, the court directed the authorities to immediately provide drinking water, healthcare services, temporary sanitation facilities, and sufficient rations through fair price shops to eligible families with ration cards. But even by mid-March, no government official has reached the area or provided them with any ration or medicine.
“The government has not helped us. We are wondering how to keep repairing these homes,” says 43-year-old Javed ul Ali, who lives here with his wife and three children. His daughters, Jamila and Sumaiyya, once attended a better school. Now they go elsewhere. “What else can we do?” he asks.
Families pay ₹300 as rent for these small shelters, uncertain how long they can stay. “We are not sure when we will be evicted from here,” he says. “We are at the mercy of the landlord.”
Their names have also been removed from the voter list of the area, but it has been added in the next village. “The BLO threatened that their names would be removed so we went and registered it in the nearby polling both. We had to run around for that as well. We are Indian citizens,” reiterated 43-year-old Shahanur Ali, who is an ex-Panchayat member.
“Public help has been there, but not from the government,” says 60-year-old Samirun, who once lived in a house built with government support. “Even the local MLA has not come.”
However, Congress Goalpara East MLA Abul Kalam Rasheed Alam said he had visited them. “I have visited the place and had attended the last rites of 19-year-old Shawkar Ali, who had received bullet injuries when police opened fire while evicting these families.” But he acknowledges that the families are angry with him because they believe they were evicted because of his arguments and political fight with the Chief Minister.
Alam said despite the government claims no food or alternative shelter had been given to the people and they even stopped the people who were helping them with food and water. “The government claims that the people were living on forest land but they were not. They were living much ahead of it,” he adds.
Azad says the political framework has shifted significantly. “With the BJP’s rise, religion has taken centre stage, overtaking linguistic nationalism.” Policies such as the Citizenship Amendment Act and NRC reflect this change. “Hindus, irrespective of language, are now accommodated, while Muslims are singled out.”
Less than two kilometres away in Goalpara’s Luptachar, families cluster along the banks of the Brahmaputra, struggling to keep their homes from collapsing after heavy rain. Tin roofs leak, bamboo frames loosen, and water seeps through everything.
Just four months ago, in November, they had to leave their homes in Sonapur, across the road, where their houses were stable and safe from floods. With no other option, they moved to the riverbank.
“Where else could we go?” asks 48-year-old Abu Sufian, as he ties palm fronds over his fragile shelter. “Several decades ago, we moved from here because of the flooding to the other side of the road.” Now he is back where he once fled. He used to work as a driver, but now barely does. “There is no day without trouble here.” His 12-year-old daughter, Nurbanu, still goes to a nearby school.
They know these shelters will not last. “When there will be heavy rains, we will have to move to higher ground,” says 45-year-old Hazrat Ali, a daily wage labourer.
For 60-year-old Monowara Khatoon, life is even more uncertain. She lives alone in the camp, dependent on the kindness of others, while her children have migrated elsewhere for work.
Residents say the forest department issued eviction notices just 15 days before the drive. Around 80 families had lived there since the 1960s, many holding periodic patta documents—forms of land rights granted decades ago. The Forest Department has since cancelled these, declaring the land part of the Dahikata Reserved Forest.
Alam explains that all of this is for land. “In Luptachar, they want to build a power project and they need land for it. They will give it to the big businesses and they are using forest land as a cover to evict people from their homes,” underscores Alam.
Azad describes this as a process of deepening exclusion. “Miyas are no longer seen as indigenous or politically aligned with others. Even those who once shared similar struggles no longer stand with them.”
This isolation, he argues, enables actions like evictions. “When a group is fully otherised, there is no solidarity or accountability. You cannot protest, and no one speaks—not the media, not the intellectuals.”
He stresses that land is central to identity and survival. “The government is tapping into that sentiment.” At the same time, he warns of an overlooked crisis: “We are not even considering the health impact of displacement. Access to public healthcare is being quietly restricted, further deepening marginalisation.”
