Chhaava And The Global Battle For Historical Truth
By Gajanan Khergamker
When historical trauma is revisited through cinema, it often does more than revive memory—it reopens wounds that were never allowed to heal. In India, the recent release of Chhaava, a historical epic centred on the life and martyrdom of Chhatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj, has done just that. It has rekindled a contentious national conversation around Mughal emperor Aurangzeb—a ruler lionised in some academic circles and reviled in others.
While the debate may seem uniquely Indian, the tensions at its heart—between historical truth and political expedience—resonate globally. The uncomfortable truth is that history, across cultures and continents, is often held hostage by ideology, its inconvenient chapters redacted to serve prevailing narratives.
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| Image for representational purpose only |
Sambhaji Maharaj’s fate is not in dispute among historians: He was captured, tortured over several days, and executed in 1689 by Aurangzeb after refusing to convert to Islam. The brutality of the episode, documented in Persian, Marathi, and European accounts alike, is no cinematic invention. Yet, in post-colonial India, the portrayal of such events has been shrouded in a fog of intellectual hesitation, largely under the pretext of preserving ‘secular harmony.’ The question then arises: At what point does deliberate omission become distortion? And should nations be allowed, legally, to tamper with the past?
The world offers instructive precedents.
In Germany, the denial, trivialisation, or justification of the Holocaust is not only socially ostracised—it is legally punishable under Section 130 of the German Criminal Code (Strafgesetzbuch – StGB), which governs incitement to hatred. Specifically, Section 130(3) criminalises publicly or in a meeting approving of, denying or downplaying acts committed under the National Socialist regime in a manner that disturbs public peace. The penalty includes up to five years of imprisonment or a fine, reflecting the German state’s zero-tolerance approach toward historical distortion.
This legal stance emerges not merely from a sense of collective guilt over Nazi atrocities but from a profound commitment to prevent the ideological resurrection of fascism. The Federal Republic of Germany sees the preservation of historical truth—particularly regarding the Holocaust—as a cornerstone of its constitutional democracy. Holocaust denial is considered a direct affront to human dignity, a value enshrined in Article 1 of the German Basic Law (Grundgesetz), and is treated not as a matter of free speech but as a dangerous form of hate speech.
In recent years, Germany has expanded this legal protection in the digital realm. With the rise of online hate speech and misinformation, Germany passed the Network Enforcement Act (NetzDG) in 2017, mandating social media platforms to remove illegal content—including Holocaust denial—within 24 hours of notification, or face heavy fines. The move has drawn international attention and set a precedent in Europe for tackling digital distortion of historical facts.
France, too, has taken a firm legal stand. The Gayssot Act (Loi Gayssot), passed in 1990, amends the Press Law of 1881 and criminalises the denial of crimes against humanity as defined in the London Charter of 1945, the basis for the Nuremberg Trials. Article 24bis of the law specifically targets Holocaust denial and carries penalties of up to one year of imprisonment and fines up to €45,000.
But France's efforts have gone further. Despite diplomatic friction with Turkey, France formally recognised the Armenian Genocide in 2001 through Law No. 2001-70, making it one of the first European nations to do so. In 2016, the French Constitutional Court upheld the right of the state to criminalise the denial of legally recognised genocides, reinforcing the idea that historical truth, once judicially acknowledged, must be safeguarded by law. Though a proposed 2012 law criminalising Armenian Genocide denial was struck down on technical grounds, France continues to explore legislative avenues to hold denialists accountable.
These measures in Germany and France illustrate a broader principle: In mature democracies, historical memory is not left vulnerable to ideological reinterpretation or populist rhetoric. It is protected with the full weight of the law. The idea is not to suppress dissenting opinions, but to uphold facts as the foundation of justice and reconciliation.
In stark contrast to Germany and France, where history denial is criminalised to protect factual integrity and public peace, Turkey has taken the opposite path—criminalising the acknowledgment of one of the 20th century’s most documented atrocities: the Armenian Genocide.
Under Article 301 of the Turkish Penal Code, it is a criminal offence to "insult Turkishness," a term deliberately vague and expansively interpreted. While the law was ostensibly intended to protect national pride, in practice, it has been used to silence historians, journalists, writers, and even ordinary citizens who refer to the mass killings of Armenians in 1915 as a ‘genocide’. Penalties under Article 301 include prison terms of up to two years, and prosecutions can proceed with approval from the Ministry of Justice—giving the executive significant control over historical discourse.
This legal framework perpetuates a state-sanctioned denial of a genocide that most independent historians and more than 30 countries, including France, Germany, Canada, and recently the United States (in 2021 under President Joe Biden), have formally recognised. According to scholars and genocide documentation projects, more than 1.5 million Armenians were systematically exterminated during the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. Yet, mentioning this as "genocide" within Turkey remains perilous.
High-profile cases have underscored the chilling effect of Article 301. The renowned Turkish-Armenian journalist Hrant Dink, who repeatedly referred to the 1915 killings as genocide, was prosecuted under Article 301 before being assassinated in 2007 by a Turkish nationalist. Despite public outcry and international condemnation, Article 301 remains on the books, serving as a legal muzzle on historical truth and dissent.
The result is a deeply distorted national memory, propped up by state apparatus and reinforced through educational institutions, media, and legal tools. Turkish school textbooks either omit or actively deny the genocide, and public discourse is tightly controlled. Civil society attempts to open dialogue are often shut down under the pretext of “national security” or “preserving Turkish identity.”
Internationally, Turkey’s position has sparked repeated diplomatic rifts. Every time a country recognises the Armenian Genocide, Ankara responds with diplomatic protests, recalling ambassadors and threatening economic consequences. Yet, the conflation of national honour with historical denial only further isolates Turkey from the growing international consensus.
Unlike Germany, which has used legislation to come to terms with its Nazi past and heal through acknowledgment and restitution, Turkey’s legal policy continues to promote amnesia, hinder reconciliation, and suppress open academic and societal inquiry. It reflects a model where the law serves not justice, but myth-making, ensuring that inconvenient truths are neither remembered nor redressed.
The United States, bound by the robust protections of the First Amendment, follows a markedly different legal and cultural trajectory from countries like Germany and France. Holocaust denial, slavery minimisation, or revisionist takes on Native American genocide are not criminalised, as doing so would directly conflict with the constitutional guarantee of free speech—even if such speech is historically inaccurate or socially corrosive. This approach is rooted in the Jeffersonian ideal that the best remedy for falsehoods is not suppression but more speech—a greater push for truth in the public square.
Yet, while the legal framework resists criminalisation, the civic and educational apparatus has become the front line in the battle for historical accuracy. Over the last two decades—and particularly following the murder of George Floyd in 2020 and the ensuing racial reckoning—numerous U.S. states have enacted laws mandating the teaching of slavery, Jim Crow segregation, and the systemic erasure of Native American populations.
For example, California’s Education Code (Section 51204.5) requires the study of the “role and contributions of both men and women, Black Americans, Native Americans, and other ethnic groups.” In Illinois, the Teaching Equitable Asian American History Act mandates that public schools include Asian-American history in K-12 curricula. New York and New Jersey have passed laws requiring Holocaust and genocide education. And in Oregon, public school curricula must include instruction on the histories and experiences of Indigenous tribes local to the state, acknowledging genocidal policies of forced relocation, assimilation, and boarding school trauma.
Notably, President Joe Biden, in recognising the Armenian Genocide in 2021, underscored the U.S. government’s commitment to “acknowledge history as it happened,” even when inconvenient. That move broke with decades of strategic ambiguity shaped by military and diplomatic considerations with NATO ally Turkey.
Despite these advances, the United States remains deeply polarised over how history is taught. The recent backlash against Critical Race Theory (CRT)—a legal and academic framework examining systemic racism—illustrates the ongoing tug-of-war between truth-telling and political sanitisation. As of 2024, over 36 U.S. states have introduced or passed legislation aimed at limiting how educators can discuss race, history, gender, and systemic oppression in classrooms.
This legislative push—often under the guise of protecting children from “divisive concepts”—is seen by many as an attempt to whitewash uncomfortable truths, effectively replacing open engagement with a curated, state-approved version of the past.
The Stop W.O.K.E. Act, officially known as the Individual Freedom Act and enacted in Florida in 2022, restricts how schools and employers can discuss race, gender, racism, and social privilege. It prohibits instruction or training that teaches concepts such as individuals being inherently racist or oppressed based on race or gender, or that people should feel guilt or psychological distress for past actions committed by others of the same race or gender. The law aims to prevent what Governor Ron DeSantis calls "woke indoctrination," with penalties including disciplinary action, job termination, and loss of public funding for schools.
The law sparked significant controversy and legal challenges. Critics argue it whitewashes history and violates First Amendment free speech rights. Several lawsuits have been filed challenging the law's constitutionality, particularly its restrictions on workplace training and educational content. A federal judge issued a temporary injunction in August 2022 blocking enforcement of the law’s prohibitions on mandatory workplace training, ruling that it discriminates based on viewpoint and is unacceptably vague, violating the First and Fourteenth Amendments.
In March 2024, the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals upheld the injunction, unanimously ruling the law unconstitutional and criticising Florida’s defense as “clever framing rather than lawful restriction.” Subsequently, in July 2024, a federal judge permanently blocked the restrictions on workplace race-related training, affirming that the law violates free speech protections. The legal challenge was initiated by Florida businesses represented by the nonprofit Protect Democracy, which argued that the law restricts employers' rights to advocate for ideas disfavored by politicians.
Additionally, the law has been criticised for fostering censorship in education, curtailing meaningful discussions about racism and Black history in schools. Lawsuits have challenged the Stop W.O.K.E. Act and related Florida censorship laws on grounds of vagueness, overbreadth, and constitutional violations. Some provisions have been blocked by courts, including a temporary injunction at the higher education level, due to concerns over state interference in academic freedom.
In summary, the Stop W.O.K.E. Act has led to ongoing legal battles centered on free speech, educational content, and workplace training, with courts increasingly ruling against the law’s restrictions as unconstitutional interference in how race and inequality are discussed in Florida schools and workplaces.
The U.S. therefore offers a complex model: one where freedom of speech is preserved even for historical falsehoods, but where counter-narratives are promoted through education policy, museum curation, public monuments, reparations debates, and civic activism. Institutions like the National Museum of African American History and Culture, the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, and the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian play a pivotal role in shaping public understanding and cultural memory—bridging the gap left by legal inaction.
Crucially, this indicates a growing recognition, even in the world’s most vocal champion of free expression, that state-endorsed silence or erasure of historical trauma can be as damaging as outright denial. In today’s polarised world, America’s lesson seems clear: If law cannot limit denialism, education and culture must.
In this global context, India remains curiously ambivalent.
Despite its millennia-old civilisation and history etched in stone, scroll and song, there exists no comprehensive legal mechanism in India to protect historical fact from distortion. Laws criminalising defamation protect individual honour; copyright laws protect intellectual output; yet history—arguably the bedrock of national identity—is left defenceless against partisan revision.
The portrayal of Aurangzeb’s rule and Sambhaji Maharaj’s execution in Chhaava has ruffled feathers precisely because it threatens to upend the curated narratives of post-independence historiography, often shaped by colonial hangovers and Nehruvian consensus. In many Indian classrooms, Mughal emperors are still remembered for architecture and administration, while their acts of religious persecution, cultural suppression and destruction of local traditions are conveniently downplayed.
But historical justice, much like legal justice, demands objectivity—not balance for its own sake. To equate resistance with bigotry, or truth with provocation, is to blur the lines between analysis and appeasement.
To guard against this, India would do well to consider the creation of a Historical Integrity Act—a legal framework that upholds the sanctity of verified historical events, criminalises deliberate distortions in textbooks and public discourse, and allows academic and journalistic freedom within the bounds of verifiable truth. Such a statute could draw from international examples while being tailored to India’s pluralistic complexity.
This is not a call for censorship or nationalism-by-statute. Quite the opposite. It is a call for accountability. For too long, India’s historical narrative has been shaped not by archaeologists, chroniclers, or constitutionalists, but by political tides. That Sambhaji Maharaj’s martyrdom, one of the most gruesome religious executions in South Asian history, is still considered “sensitive” to depict in classrooms speaks volumes.
If Germany can teach generations of children about its Nazi past, not to vilify Germans but to learn from collective guilt, why should India hesitate to teach its own about the tyranny of Aurangzeb? To protect historical fact is not to demonise a religion, community, or class—but to uphold the moral contract a nation owes to its future citizens.
In Chhaava, Sambhaji does not cry out or capitulate in the face of barbarism—he dies for a principle, for an ideal. His story is not that of a Hindu prince battling a Muslim king. It is the story of an individual refusing to submit to religious tyranny—a story that should resonate with all defenders of liberty, regardless of faith or nation.
In the end, history is not merely what happened—it is what we choose to remember, codify, and teach. And when that memory is compromised, the very soul of a civilisation is at risk. The time has come, not only in India but globally, to recognise that historical truth is not a matter of perspective. It is a matter of law.
