Recently, New Delhi unveiled “Prahhar,” its National Counter-Terrorism Policy, framing it as a “whole-of-government” doctrine anchored in human rights, the rule of law, and the mitigation of structural “root causes.”
The seven-pillar framework, prima facie, reads like a liberal democratic manifesto centered on intelligence-led prevention, judicial oversight, community engagement, and societal resilience. Yet in contested regions like Jammu and Kashmir, where this strategy is stress-tested on daily basis, Prahhar reveals itself not as a shield against terrorism, but as a smokescreen for an enduring occupation.
The policy is sophisticated political theatre, designed to placate international observers while normalizing a digital and legal siege of a civilian population.
The dissonance between doctrine and reality is stark and unmistakable. Prahhar’s “human rights” pillar claims adherence to constitutional protections and “multiple legal redress mechanisms.” On the ground, this manifests in the form of the Jammu and Kashmir Public Safety Act (PSA) 1978—a law that permits detention without trial for up to two years based solely on the “subjective satisfaction” of a magistrate.
Following the unilateral abrogation of Article 370 in August 2019, thousands of Kashmiris—including elected representatives, lawyers, and journalists—were caged under the PSA. When courts intervene to quash such detentions, the administration simply issues fresh orders, turning the PSA into a “revolving door” of incarceration, as noted in the case of Mehbooba Mufti v. Union Territory of J&K.
This is not counter-terrorism; it is purely administrative lawfare, intended to suppress political dissent and dissenters who challenge the status quo.
Its so-called “zero-tolerance” framework, in effect, operates within a regime of zero-accountability, masking the pervasive system of impunity.
Similarly, the Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act (AFSPA) 1990 grants security forces immunity from prosecution for killings, torture, and enforced disappearances in “disturbed areas,” requiring only central government sanction to proceed—a permission that is almost never granted.
The Justice Jeevan Reddy Commission recommended repealing AFSPA as far back as 2006, yet it remains the cornerstone of India’s Kashmir policy, rendering Prahhar’s “rule of law” rhetoric hollow. When security forces operate with legal impunity, “counter-terrorism” becomes indistinguishable from collective punishment.
The AFSPA enables physical impunity, the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) 1967 provides the legal vocabulary to criminalize thought while Prahhar cites the UAPA as its “principal anti-terror law.” However, the statute’s sections 15, 17, and 18, which define “terrorist act” and “unlawful activity,” have been weaponized against activists, journalists, and students.
The Bhima Koregaon 16, journalist Siddique Kappan, and anti-CAA protesters have all been imprisoned under the UAPA’s reverse burden of proof and stringent bail provisions, creating a pre-trial detention regime that the Supreme Court has criticized yet failed to restrain.
When organizing a protest or posting critical commentary online qualifies as “terrorism,” the strategy is not neutralizing militancy—it is annihilating democratic opposition.
The “resilience” pillar promises the protection of critical infrastructure, but in Jammu and Kashmir, resilience means enduring the world’s longest internet shutdown, braving state repression peacefully, and refusing to surrender political and democratic rights.
From August 2019 to March 2020, and through recurring throttling thereafter, Delhi imposed a digital blackout that the Supreme Court in Anuradha Bhasin (2020) affirmed violated fundamental rights. Rather than heed the court, the state weaponized Prahhar’s “cyber-counterterrorism” provisions to justify mass surveillance—most infamously through the Pegasus spyware revelations—turning the entire population into suspects.
A policy that severs millions from the global digital commons while infiltrating their devices with military-grade spyware is not building resilience; it is constructing a panopticon.
India’s engagement with international human rights mechanisms exposes this duplicity. While enthusiastically implementing UN Security Council Resolution 1373 and FATF standards to combat terror financing, Delhi systematically denies access to UN Special Rapporteurs on torture, extrajudicial executions, and minority rights. During Universal Periodic Review cycles, India “accepts” recommendations on counter-terrorism cooperation but merely “notes” (rejects) calls to repeal AFSPA, reform UAPA, or investigate civilian killings in Kashmir. This bifurcation—embracing the security architecture while rejecting the human rights architecture—reveals Prahhar as a diplomatic instrument to deflect scrutiny, not a genuine commitment to rights-based governance.
Legally, the strategy relies on conflating self-determination with terrorism. By refusing to distinguish between armed combatants (who may have rights under international humanitarian law) and civilians (protected under the ICCPR), and by treating all opposition to Indian sovereignty as “terrorism,” Delhi securitizes political dissent.
The UN Special Rapporteur on Counter-Terrorism has warned that such overbroad frameworks violate the principle of legality and the distinction between civilian and combatant. Yet India persists, denying that IHL applies to Kashmir while simultaneously rejecting the applicability of human rights law, leaving Kashmiris in a legal vacuum where any speech can be terror, and any soldier’s bullet is legal.
Prahhar in essence succeeds not in preventing terrorism, but in legitimizing a permanent state of exception. Until Delhi repeals AFSPA, narrows the UAPA to exclude peaceful dissent, allows UN monitors unfettered access, and ceases using the PSA as a tool of political containment, Prahhar will remain what it truly is: not a strike against cross-border militancy, but a calibrated strike against the Kashmiri people’s right to self-determination and India’s own constitutional soul. When examined critically, Prahaar’s seven pillars are merely seven bars of the same cage.
