Revoked For Dissent: India’s Diaspora Loyalty Test Begins
By Gajanan Khergamker
In what may be construed as yet another instance of India’s growing assertiveness in foreign and domestic policy, the revocation of Dr. Nitasha Kaul’s Overseas Citizen of India (OCI) card has triggered polarised reactions—ranging from liberal outrage to nationalist vindication. The episode, when stripped of emotive overtones, unveils a more nuanced portrait of a new India—one that is unapologetically sovereign in posture, politically selective in engagement, and increasingly intolerant of what it perceives as hostile ideation, even from individuals of Indian origin.
Dr. Kaul, a political academic of Kashmiri descent, was scheduled to attend a parliamentary hearing in India on issues relating to the situation in Jammu and Kashmir. Her participation, on the face of it, was intended to amplify the voices of Kashmiris and highlight alleged violations of human rights post Article 370’s abrogation—an event that continues to resonate across global rights discourse. However, her OCI status was revoked just ahead of the visit, a move justified by Indian authorities citing alleged “anti-India activities” and misrepresentation of purpose.
On first pass, this may seem excessive or even authoritarian, particularly when viewed through the prism of liberal democratic principles. But to cast this action as an anomaly within global governance would be profoundly disingenuous. The truth is that revocation of privileges such as visas, residency, or special status cards like OCI, often under opaque premises of national interest, is a globally-practised norm cloaked in legality and strategic prudence.
Take the United States, a democracy often held as a paragon of free speech and civil liberties. It has historically denied visas and entry to individuals based on ideological beliefs, national security concerns, or even political posturing. The most conspicuous example—ironically—was India’s own Prime Minister Narendra Modi, who, until his electoral ascension in 2014, was denied a US visa for nearly a decade over his alleged role in the 2002 Gujarat riots. That same law—Section 212 of the US Immigration and Nationality Act—has been deployed against academics, activists, and even political leaders from Latin America and the Middle East, whose mere presence was deemed incongruent with American interests.
The United Kingdom, often the moralising watchdog of global rights, maintains its own list of “undesirable persons,” regularly denying entry to individuals accused of promoting “extremism” or “hate speech”—a term whose definition seems to bend with the political winds. When Dutch politician Geert Wilders was denied entry in 2009 for his views on Islam, or when Louis Farrakhan was barred entry for over three decades, there was little legal recourse offered. Closer to academia, foreign scholars from Palestine, Iran, and even Indian universities have faced unannounced delays or rejections for visas purely for expressing political views deemed inconvenient to host nations.
So, when India—through its Ministry of Home Affairs—revokes the OCI of Dr. Kaul, citing her “political activism against India’s interests,” it is doing what sovereign states across the world have long normalised: safeguarding the domestic narrative space from foreign ideological encroachment, even if the foreigner once held an emotional or genealogical tie to the homeland.
This, however, marks a departure from India’s traditionally measured diplomacy. The India of the post-Independence era—steeped in Nehruvian idealism—may have tolerated contrarian diasporic voices in deference to democratic virtue. But Modi’s India is less diffident, more muscular, and unhesitant in wielding state power to control the optics. It is an India that views human rights critique, especially emanating from foreign soil, not as constructive dissent but as geopolitical subterfuge. And rightly or wrongly, it seems convinced that diaspora privileges like OCI cards come tethered to loyalty expectations—not legal rights.
The French too, for all their allegiance to liberté and égalité, have expelled imams and revoked asylum statuses citing threats to “republican values.” Germany has deported clerics under secrecy laws, citing security threats without providing public evidence. Australia has deported social media personalities and even revoked visas over public behaviour that “violates Australian character.” Canada—perceived by many as the liberal North Star—has acted against individuals supporting Khalistani sentiments, particularly when they interfere with bilateral ties.
In that context, India's step may no longer be seen as uniquely belligerent but as part of a broader geopolitical pattern of democracies policing their ideological borders with increasing aggression. What makes the Indian case stand out, however, is its unabashedness. Where the West often couches such actions in technocratic language or under the garb of procedural neutrality, India under Modi has no qualms about using political language and state muscle in equal measure to define the terms of engagement—even with its diaspora.
This development signals a recalibration of India's soft power approach. The diasporic Indian voice, once lionised for lobbying international sympathy, is now being interrogated for allegiance. The principle is clear: Indianness, even for those holding foreign passports, is no longer just an emotional or cultural tether—it is a political position. Step beyond the defined perimeter of acceptable criticism, and the symbolic bridges to Bharat may be set ablaze.
Yet, this transformation should not be simplistically vilified. It is, after all, the logical outcome of India’s growing economic and strategic heft. A nation confident in its global relevance is more likely to police its image with vigour. But therein lies the rub: how far can this tightening of ideological control go before it begins to resemble the very authoritarianism it seeks to repel in others?
As Nitasha Kaul finds herself out of India not just physically but symbolically, what emerges is not just an academic’s estrangement but a vivid testimony to the changing grammar of Indian nationalism. One that demands allegiance, not affection; alignment, not ambiguity. And while the West may scoff or sermonise, its own playbook has long endorsed such moves. India, it seems, is merely catching up—albeit with a saffron flourish.
