“We don’t know how long we’ll have a roof over our heads. My heart sinks every day with the fear that our lives and memories will soon be turned i🧸nto rubble,” says Kulsum*, 56, who has lived in Delhi’s Khyber Pass for almost 30 years, ever since she moved into the neighbourhood after marriage.𝔍 It’s the only place she has ever called home since then.
On July 13, Khyber Pass witnessed the demolition of at lea♓st 250 homes by the Land and Development Office, which comes under the Union Ministry of Housing and Urban Affairs. 🌸While Kulsum’s house survived the first phase of the demolition drive, the threat of eviction looms large. She says, “Since the demolition, we’ve forgotten what it’s like to sleep in peace. It feels like we lose our house every day.”
In Ahmedabad’s Santosh Nagar, 60-year-old Abida Biwi Abdul Rehman Sheikh lives in a state of constant anxiety. Her sleep has🅘 been disrupted ever since the Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation pasted an eviction notice in her colony. Abida moved here nearly 10 years ago, after being relocated by the state from the 🎀floodplains of the Sabarmati River for the construction of the Sabarmati Riverfront Project.
The notice warns that the rehabilitation flats, already in a state of severe disrepair, could collapse any moment, urging residents to vacate as soon as possible. “They gave us houses of such poor quality, and now when our flats are crumbling, they expect us to make our own arrangements. How are we supposed to do that🅺 when we can’t even secure a decent livelihood?” asks Abida. Sultana Banu,♓ another resident of Santosh Nagar, says, “The fear of the building collapsing over our heads is smaller than the fear of losing the only shelter we have.”
The residents of Santosh Nagar filed a case in the High Court of Gujarat, but it has brought little relief. “Every time there’s a hearing, my heart sinks. What if we’re ordered to vacate the flats? I don’t even know if we should trust 💖the courts. When you’re both poor and a Muslim, it becomes hard 🍬to trust anyone,” says Sultana.
According to data from the Housing and Land Rights Network, a Delhi-base🦹d non-governmental organisation, over 17 million people across India live under the constant threat of eviction and displacement. These threats stem from various causes, including slum clearance drives, infrastructure projects, environmental conservation efforts, disaster relief measures, court orders and tourism development, among others. This means that nearly one in every 100 people in India faces the fear of being forcibly evicted or displaced by the government.
Reports say that in recent years, government action targeting people’s homes—particularly those from the most marginalised groups—has only deepened the anxiety these comm✅unities are already experiencing. According to a recent report on evictions and displace♓ment, 446,254 homes have been demolished by the state since 2017.
The constant threat of demolition often overrides any sense of logic. Shakeel Abdul, from the Basti Suraksha Manch, an organisation advocating for the housing rights of slum dwellers in Delhi, has been working with these people for over two decades. He explains, “Even the sight of a small police patrol or an officer near the basti triggers a sense of fear in the community. They immediately call us, worried about an imminent demolition. Much of this anxiety stems from 🌃the numerous eviction drives they have experienced in Delhi.”
These fears often manifest in t🌟he daily lives of the people. Families stop cooking meals as eviction dates approach, avoid going to work because they never know when the bulldozers will come and even decisions like sending children to school become fraught with uncertainty. These are not merely choices but survival tactics in a reality where safe living seems out of 🎐reach.
Raj Mariwala, director of the Mumbai-based Mariwala Health Initiative, a funding agency that supports mental health non-profits in India, explains, “The physical impact of a demolition or living under constant threat has a clear connection to homelessness, stress, anxiety and increased exposure to violence. This, in turn, affects other basic ൲rights, such as the right to livelihood, employment, education and food. In mental health terms, it also leads to adverse childhood experiences.”
The anxiety and fear surroundi🌠ng displacement do not easily fade. In Mathura’s Nai Basti, people have been living amid the rubble of the homes they once cherished for years. “My mother moved to this colony after her marriage, and I too got married within the same neighbourhood,” says 50-year-old Sakeena, who now finds her life reduced to ruins. “I raised my children here and spent my entire life constructing the house. And now, it’s all gone.”
Her two-storey house was demolished by the state government between August 9 and August 14 last year. Since then, people like S♉akeena have built makeshift living arrangements at the demolitioꦉn site, yet the fear of the police lingers. “I feel scared. Terrified. There’s a constant anxiety that the police will return and demolish these temporary shelters and walls we’ve put up. But what else can we do? There’s no escaping this fear. It has become the norm in our lives.”
Fa🎉had Zuberi, a columnist and doctoral scholar at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, says, “We need to recognise that demolishing someone’s house is a form of violence. Even legally, we don’t acknowledge it as such—we see it only as the des🃏truction of structures. In doing so, the home is dehumanised, and by extension, so are its inhabitants.”
One cannot ignore the struct𓆏ural factors behind these experiences. If we look closely at the psychosocial stresses caused by the🌼 demolitions and evictions, a number of symptoms will emerge as a knock-on effect.
Tahir, a 60-year-old construction worker from Nai Basti, not only lost his home in the demolition, but a deep sense of fear has also taken hold of his son. “My son is an e-rickshaw driver, but since the demolition, he rarely goes to work. Most days, he refuses to step outside, afraid the police will stop him and put him behind bars,” he says. “There’s no sense of safety left for us. If our identiꦡty as Muslims can turn our homes to dust, it can also push us into trials for crimes we never committed,” he adds.
In a reality where anxiety, stress and fear of demolition are as tangible as the struggle for basic survival, legal protection and security remain inadequate and limited.
But who will ensure one’s security when the courts themselves are ineffective? The sadness and stress intensify when a person’s very identity comes into question. Bilal Khan, convener of the Ghar Bachao Ghar Banao Aandolan, a people’s movement in Maharashtra, says that when those being rendered homeless are ♚Muslims, it becomes easier for others to withhold/withdraw sympathy by labelling them as “others”. “When Muslims were displaced in Shivaji Nagar, Mumbai, not only officials, but even neighbouring communities, quickly labelled them as Bangladeshis or Rohingyas,” he says.
“When the question of resettlement is generally tied to eviction, it becomes invisible in the context of p𒉰unitive demolitions. Those🍒 affected aren’t even deemed worthy of rehabilitation or resettlement,” says Zuberi.
The constant stress of f💫acing persecution solely due to their religious beliefs has created what Sara Ather, an activist and write🌟r, calls a “crisis of belonging” for Muslims. This ongoing threat has had a profound impact on the mental health of the community.
In December 2022, the Bebaak Collective, an informal network of grassroot activists primarily advocating for Muslim women’s rights, published a report on the mental health of Indian Muslims, based on research across six states in India. It examines the ways Muslims have been forced to alter how they live, what they wear and what they eat, among other changes. The report highlights that in many cases, there is no “post” in PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), as survivors of communal violence are often still living in areas of chronic to political conflict, where the trauma keeps recurring꧃. The Bebaak study notes tha☂t the architecture of targeted violence against Muslims fosters an environment where they face victimisation through economic boycotts, vigilante violence, property destruction and displacement, unjust arrests and imprisonment.
In a reality where anxiety, stress and fear of demo♑lition are as tangible as the struggle for basic survival, legal protection and security remain inadequate and limited. Today, Indian Muslims and other marginalised groups are experiencing what can be termed an “institutional betrayal”, marked by the erosion of reason and expectation from the legal system. The expectation is th✱at the law should operate based on universal morality, rather than a distorted interpretation of “Muslim guilt” and “Savarna innocence”.
On September 17, the Supreme Court (SC) criticised authorities for carrying out arbitrary or illegal demolitions across the country. Through an interim order effective until October 1, all demolitions have been halted by the SC, which stated, “Nothing will be done without the peℱrmission of the Court.”
While a temporary halt on demolitions has been imposed by the SC, determining long-term relief in curbing such actions remains unanswered. Anand Lakhan, a Dalit housing rights activist from Madhya Pradesh and leader of the Madhya Pradesh Nav Nirman Manch, says, “The state knows how to manipulate orders and interpret them for its own benefit. For instance, the upcoming guidelines stipulate that at least 30 days’ notice must be given prior to a demolition. However, similar provisions have been mentioned earlier in many landmark judgements, such as in the Sudama Singh vs Government of Delhi. This raises the quest🌠ion: how will the situation change?”
To address their anxieties, some individuals are adopting other methods to ensure their security. Khan explains, “These people often end up spending considerable amounts of money on middlemen to obtain essential documents like voter IDs, ration cards, Kisan cards or E-Shram cards. They believe that having at least some of these docꦕuments will help prove their tenancy. Spending money on land mafias, other intermediaries or even lawyers has become a common strategy to seek security.”
Shakeel Ahmad, who has led the Basti Suraksha Manch—a civil society group working for housing rights in Delhi for nearly two decades— echoes this sentiment. “For the residents of bastis, tenure security and access to legal land titles depend on being included in💙 multiple ꦫgovernment surveys that promise such protections. These assurances often surface during elections.”
However, while the documents produced through these surveys promise clarity and certainty for the urban poor and marginalised, they are par﷽t of a convoluted process that remains opaque to both—those being documented and those conducting the documentation. The people do not clearly know why t🎉hey are being surveyed or whether it will enable them to get any sense of tenureship. A lingering question persists in their hearts: “Will we be evicted? And, when?”
(*name changed) (Views expressed are personal)
Anuj Behal is an independent journalist and urban researcher focusing on urban justice, gender, and migration in India
(This appeared in the print as '‘We Lose Our House Every Day’')
