Nepali Times

Unusual things are happening in India, but it can’t get more bizarre than this: a lieutenant general heading a central university in India.

The Aligarh Muslim University (AMU) is now presided over by renowned army commander, Lt Gen (retd) Zameeruddin Shah. The historic university now resembles the headquarters of a military formation: the pro-vice-chancellor is a retired brigadier and the registrar a former group captain.

Army officers aren’t the only non-academic VCs to descend upon AMU and Jamia Millia, which are popularly but erroneously called ‘Muslim’ universities. From the time Jamia became a central university in 1988, it has had six VCs of whom three belonged to either the Indian Administrative Service (IAS) or the Army.

Since 1980 the AMU has had eight VCs of whom six belonged to the IAS, Indian Foreign Service (IFS) or the Army. By contrast, most central universities of the same vintage and eminence as AMU and Jamia have rarely had a non-academic heading it.

What explains the surfeit of non-academic VCs in the so-called Muslim universities? The Indian state invoked a warped notion of secularism to appease Muslim community leaders who assert that it is their right to determine the working of these two universities, particularly AMU. The Aligarh Muslim University Act was amended in 1981, replacing the existing procedure for the appointment of AMU’s VC with a new system.

Until 1981, a three-member search committee would list three names as possible candidates to the university visitor, who is the president of India, who then chose the VC. Under the amended Act, however, a 27-member Executive Council of AMU prepares a list of five names as possible candidates for VC. This list is sent to the 183-member University Court, which whittles down the list of five to three, with each member casting three votes. The visitor of AMU usually appoints the candidate with the highest number of votes as VC.

There are differences between VCs who are academics and those who are not. AMU’s experience testifies that the former demonstrated a propensity to plan for its educational enhancement and are more accepting of student politics and dissent. By contrast, non-academicians tend to stress on the development of physical infrastructure and put undue emphasis on order and discipline.

More worryingly, this process has turned AMU into a playground of community leaders who are Sunnis, often illiberal, having foggy ideas of modern education. Thus, for the post of VC, count out Hindu or Shia professors, however brilliant. Leftists, atheists, liberals, or women? You got to be joking. It isn’t surprising that AMU has become a playground of Islamic Right following the 1981 amendment.

Nevertheless, AMU’s flawed system can’t absolve the Indian state of playing games in the shadow. For instance, Jamia follows the system of the search committee, yet 50 per cent of its VCs have been non-academics in its 24 years of being a central university. This hints to the manipulative powers of the state and the susceptibilities of Muslim academics to play its game.

AMU’s tragedy is greater, lulled as it is into believing it has elected its VC. It’s a classic case of the state applying gloss to its intent of controlling politically conscious AMU through conservative community leaders who are willing to do its bidding.

AMU and Jamia need to introspect. Hopefully, their introspection will lead them to understand that their plight is directly linked to that idea of secularism which empowers community leaders whose notions of education lack the imagination befitting the 21st century. Indian Muslims should not want this sort of secularism, good neither for their education nor for the country.

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