Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath has once again stirred a storm with his remark linking halal certification with terrorism. His statement, delivered with the characteristic sharpness of electoral season rhetoric, has become a talking point across political and social circles.
For some, it’s another example of the BJP government taking a strong stance against religious appeasement. For others, it signals the deepening of a narrative that paints the Muslim community as suspicious.
Adityanath didn’t just talk about the ban on halal certification, he framed it as a weapon and a threat to society. Sadly, claiming that the industry’s Rs 25,000 crore revenue is used to fuel terrorism, “love jihad”, and religious conversion is not just a wild exaggeration, but a deliberate narrative designed to provoke fear.
As a Muslim, I find it absurd and troubling. Halal is not some hidden agenda; it is a simple, personal religious practice. It governs what we eat and consume, avoiding forbidden animal products, alcohol, or meat prepared in ways our faith forbids. This is no different from a Jain avoiding meat, a Hindu following sattvic principles, or a Jew following kosher.
Yet here, a routine religious choice is being twisted into a conspiracy. Halal certification is simply a private religious body certifying compliance with dietary laws. Companies may use it to market products to a Muslim community.
Ideally, Muslims don’t need halal certificate apart from meat consumption and avoiding food that is not halal in some cases helps to know if ingredients used are in accordance to the faith. However, if there are illegal activities being funded by anyone—Muslim, Hindu, Christian—the state’s job is to investigate and prevent it. You don’t ban a religious practice or demonise an entire community based on unverified assumptions.
Deliberate attempt to create public fear
What worries me most is the intent behind this language. It signals to millions that their faith, their everyday practices are nothing but politics. It’s not just about banning a certificate. It’s about creating an environment where everything related to Muslims has been constantly seen as potential threats. And when such narratives come from the top leadership of a state, it normalises suspicion, emboldens prejudice, and undermines the very idea of a plural, inclusive democracy.
If the concern is about a parallel system or lack of official oversight in halal certification, it could be raised calmly, with facts, and with a regulatory solution in mind. There is absolutely no need to invent wild claims about ₹25,000 crore being funneled into terrorism, “love jihad,” or religious conversion. Where is this figure even coming from? No credible source, no verification, just a number thrown into the public debate to create fear.
Yet, strangely enough, halal certification is perfectly fine when it comes to exports. Why that is, no one seems to know. The other part of Yogi’s speech—about “love jihad” and political Islam—is hardly being examined critically, and that itself is telling.
Political Islam is a well-studied phenomenon; there is ample research and literature. If the argument is that political Islam poses a threat to India, there are many avenues to discuss that thoughtfully but this speech doesn’t feel like that. Instead, it reads as a declaration for one community, for Sanatan, rather than as a message from the chief minister of an entire state.
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Equal rules for every citizen
Justice, fairness, protection of rights, these should be universal, for every citizen, Sanatani or otherwise. Yet, the tone and focus suggest otherwise, reducing governance to the language of identity politics rather than the principles of equity and law.
Yogi’s claim that “Political Islam dealt a greater blow to Sanatana than colonialism” is a simplistic and flawed historical argument. It’s a warning sign of how politics twists history to serve division. Centuries of complex social, political, and economic change are reduced to a single sound bite. Colonialism, internal social reforms, and movements across communities all shaped this land, but to single out one religion as the cause of harm is not analysis, it is provocation.
The deeper problem with statements like these is that a chief minister is speaking not as a leader of all citizens, but as a spokesperson for one community—making it almost synonymous with the nation itself. And why now? Is the intent to teach us how to coexist, to build a more harmonious society, or to reflect on past mistakes? Or is it to sow suspicion and fear?
We can talk about colonialism today, acknowledge its wrongs, learn from it, yet still maintain trade and diplomatic ties with Britain. But what lesson does “political Islam of the past” offer in this context, and why frame it as the “greatest blow”? The answer seems clear: it’s less about history and more about narrative.
For Yogi, the discussion becomes a way to highlight issues like demography, “love jihad,” and conversion as part of a larger “political Islam,” positioning Sanatan as the threatened community that needs protection. It’s a crafted story of victimhood and allegiance, one that benefits him politically: instead of being accountable to every citizen and their rights, he can consolidate a loyal vote bank that sees him as their protector.
I’ve observed this pattern before in my own community where fear of “the other” is invoked, people often demand less accountability and more security from their leaders. And what more could a politician ask for than that?
Amana Begam Ansari is a columnist and writer. She runs a weekly YouTube show called ‘India This Week by Amana and Khalid’. She tweets @Amana_Ansari. Views are personal.
(Edited by Saptak Datta)