Waqf land is often described as Allah’s property—meant to serve a higher purpose, and in practical terms, serve people. That’s the principle it rests on. But once any sacred trust is left in human hands, it becomes subject to human flaws. History has repeatedly shown how the invocation of god’s name doesn’t always lead to compassion or collective good—but to justify negligence, power plays, or even profit.
The story of Waqf Boards in India follows a familiar pattern. Lands that were donated with the intention of serving the community—be it through education, maintaining mosques, providing burial grounds, or assisting the economically disadvantaged —have too often ended up as case studies in corruption, poor governance, and systemic failure.
Over the years, there have been documented instances of encroachments, illegal sales, and board members themselves colluding in the misuse of property.
Not just mismanagement
In practice, the management of Waqf properties has largely remained in the hands of the Ashraf Muslim elite, with little to no representation from the wider community—especially the Pasmanda and economically weaker sections who make up the majority of Indian Muslims. Despite being intended as a resource for collective upliftment, most ordinary Muslims have no say in how these lands are managed or who benefits from them. And given the socio-economic marginalisation of the community as a whole, the disconnect is hard to ignore. Waqf, in theory, should have reduced dependence of poor Muslims on state welfare schemes—yet, in reality, many continue to rely entirely on the state for basic needs.
The Sachar Committee, set up in 2005 by then–UPA government to examine the status of Muslims in India, recognised this gap. Its report, submitted in 2006, highlighted that revenues generated by Waqf Boards were disproportionately low compared to the vast assets under their control. The committee estimated that with proper reforms and efficient use, Waqf land could potentially generate Rs 12,000 crore annually—a staggering number, especially when compared to the current estimated revenue of only around Rs 200 crore per annum. This difference doesn’t just signal mismanagement, it points to unrealised possibilities, a system that could have supported schools, community, and homes but remains stuck in administrative neglect.
Under the Waqf Act of 1995, encroachments were to be dealt with under Section 54, which laid out legal procedures for removing illegal occupants from Waqf land. However, the Sachar Committee report highlighted that not only was the revenue generation from Waqf properties alarmingly low, but encroachment was a persistent and growing challenge. According to government data, at least 58,889 Waqf properties are facing encroachment, and over 13,000 are tied up in litigation. These numbers speak volumes about a system that was created to serve the community but has often failed to protect even its own foundations.
However, the more debated piece of legislation was Section 40 of the Waqf Act, which gave the Waqf Boards the authority to identify and declare properties as Waqf, even if they hadn’t been officially recorded as such. The intention, perhaps, was to safeguard forgotten or undocumented endowments. But over time, this provision began to raise difficult questions—not because it helped tackle encroachments, but because of how it was used to assert ownership over disputed or poorly documented land.
The current Waqf reform debate seems to revolve around Section 40, which has quietly become the most contested part of the Waqf Act. In Parliament, it wasn’t just debated, it was torn and thrown, quite literally, by AIMIM chief Asaduddin Owaisi. That moment may have been dramatic, but it reflected the deep anxieties that surround this section.
Under Section 40, the Waqf Board has the authority to initiate a suo motu enquiry to determine if a property is Waqf—a power unique to it, and not granted to any other charitable or religious board representing other communities.
The argument in defence of Section 40 is not without weight. Many Waqf properties were gifted informally, used communally, or simply never documented—especially during colonial times when records were often patchy or non-existent. Section 40 was meant as a safeguard, a way to protect what might otherwise be lost or quietly taken.
But here’s where the tension begins to show. The Waqf Board is not a court, and yet it is allowed to make a serious declaration—one that affects the legal status of property.
Yes, the decision can be challenged, but the onus falls entirely on the other party—often individuals with far fewer resources or awareness—to take the fight to high court.
Also read: Waqf is anti-Quran. Muslim elite used it to build political power
Looking ahead
What makes Section 40 stand out even more is that no other religious body in India—whether Hindu, Christian or Sikh—has a statutory right to unilaterally declare any property as part of its religious trust. And this uniqueness is increasingly being viewed as an imbalance. It naturally raises a larger question—about equality before the law.
Handing such a powerful tool to a religious charity body isn’t a small thing. And while the power is handed over with good intent, it entirely depends on how it’s used. When applied with care, Section 40 can do what it was meant to—protect properties that might otherwise disappear from the community’s grasp. But when used carelessly, or worse, politically, it starts to feel deeply unfair.
And that’s the concern. There doesn’t seem to be any strong system in place to ensure this power isn’t misused. No strict safeguards, no real deterrents. When you place that kind of unchecked authority into a structure that already struggles with mismanagement and corruption, it doesn’t inspire much confidence.
To me, the removal of Section 40 doesn’t feel like an attack on Waqf—it feels like a necessary course correction. Stripping away undue power isn’t the same as weakening an institution; sometimes, it’s the only way to bring it back to purpose. Instead of constantly looking backward—trying to trace lands with no records, reigniting disputes that affect the lives of others—it might be wiser to look ahead. The focus now should be on better management, greater transparency, and a system that actually serves the community it was meant for.
One thing I still don’t fully understand—why even propose appointing non-Muslims to the Waqf Board? It’s being presented as a move toward inclusivity, maybe even transparency. But no other religious or community trust I know of has such a provision. However, Home Minister Amit Shah did clarify in Parliament that there is no provision to include non-Muslims among those managing the religious aspects of Waqf institutions. He said the changes apply only to the council and administrative board, not to those directly handling religious matters.
At its core, the conversation around Waqf reform is not just about land, law, or boards—it’s about trust. Trust in institutions, in governance, and in the idea that something created for community welfare can still serve that purpose. Section 40 may be gone, but the real test lies ahead. Will these reforms bring transparency and better management, or simply shift power from one place to another without addressing the deeper structural issues? It’s easy to rewrite clauses in legislation; it’s far harder to rebuild systems weighed down by years of neglect and misuse.
Amana Begam Ansari is a columnist, writer, TV news panelist. She runs a weekly YouTube show called ‘India This Week by Amana and Khalid’. She tweets @Amana_Ansari. Views are personal.
(Edited by Aamaan Alam Khan)