A Conflict Told Halfway: The Missing Voices of Punjabi Hindu Victims
The Punjab militancy shaped modern Indian security policy, yet it is still not studied enough. It remains one of the most ignored parts of state policy and national memory. Between 1978 and 1995, more than 25,000 people were killed-policemen, paramilitary forces, militants, politicians, and thousands of ordinary civilians who were either caught in the crossfire or targeted deliberately.
Many of those killed were Sikh moderates, Nirankaris, village leaders, and government officials. They formed the majority of the victims. But within this large tragedy lies another, smaller story that is often forgotten: the story of Punjab's Hindus. They lived as a worried and vulnerable minority during one of the most violent periods in India's recent history. Their fear, loss, and displacement remain largely missing from public discussions and collective memory.
To acknowledge this story is not to create division between communities. It is simply to complete a history that has been told only in fragments. Today, Hindus make up about 38.5% of Punjab's population, while Sikhs make up about 58%. The militancy was not only a fight over nationalism or federal power. It also became an attack on Punjab's long tradition of religious diversity, and the Hindu minority was at the centre of that break.
During the peak of the insurgency, attacks on Hindus were not random. They followed a clear strategy and ideology. The aim was twofold: to change the region's population balance and to spread fear. Market bombings, bus killings, and targeted attacks on shopkeepers, journalists, teachers, and labourers created a situation where a person's religion itself put them at risk. The infamous bus attacks-where passengers were separated by religion before being shot-caused more fear than any speech or pamphlet could.
The numbers show how serious the violence was. About 11,690 civilians were killed, along with 1,769 Punjab Police personnel and around 1,700 paramilitary troops. Among the civilians, Sikhs were the majority of victims, often killed for being seen as "traitors" to the separatist cause. But Hindus, who lived mainly in towns and business areas, faced a different kind of danger. They were viewed not just as civilians but as obstacles to a proposed Khalistan.
This fear led to one of the least-discussed migrations in independent India. As threats increased, Hindu families began leaving villages in Gurdaspur, Batala, Ferozepur, and Tarn Taran, often at night. Entire neighborhoods became empty. Families who had lived in these areas for generations moved to Panipat, Ambala, Delhi, Surat, and the Terai region. It is estimated that between 200,000 and 350,000 Hindus left Punjab during this period. Many rural areas saw a permanent drop in their Hindu population, and some villages still have no Hindu families. What started as a slow trickle became a steady exodus, changing the demographic map of rural Punjab. Unlike the Partition or the Kashmiri Pandit exodus, this migration was barely recorded. There were no official refugee lists, no compensation, and almost no political recognition. It was a movement driven purely by fear.
The economic cost of this violence and migration was huge. Hindu traders and industrialists were a major part of Punjab's urban economy. As militancy grew, extortion became common. Many industrialists were kidnapped or killed. Small factories closed. Printing presses were attacked. Transport routes became unsafe because of ambushes. As a result, businesses moved out. Industries shifted to Haryana, Delhi, and Gujarat. Punjab, which had been one of India's most prosperous states in the 1970s, began a decline from which it has still not fully recovered.
The political and social effects were also deep. Militancy damaged Hindu-Sikh relations in ways that are rarely discussed today. For centuries, both communities shared festivals, language, and family ties. But the pressure of violence and propaganda strained this bond. Hindu families grew suspicious of Sikh neighbours. Sikh families felt unfairly judged
for the acts of militants. Communities that once lived together with ease began to drift apart.
There were also many confusing and competing claims about the causes of violence. There were claims of police excesses, political failures, and foreign interference. For the Hindu minority, these layers of doubt and mystery only made the situation more frightening. The State felt like both a protector and a source of fear. Militants acted partly as ideologues and partly as criminals. It was often impossible to know who was behind what.
One of the biggest long-term effects of this period is what Punjab faces today: narco-terrorism. After militancy declined in the mid-1990s, many smuggling routes and militant networks did not disappear. They simply changed shape. A powerful drug economy emerged, much larger than what a state like Punjab should normally experience. Its social impact-addiction, gang wars, and decline in rural life-affects everyone. But its roots clearly lie in the structures built during the militant era.
So why the Hindu experience is so rarely discussed? Because it does not fit easily into political narratives. It is too sensitive to be used openly, too scattered to be organised into legal claims, and too overshadowed by the larger suffering of Sikhs to be placed at the center. But history is not a contest of who suffered more. It is a record of facts. And to understand Punjab's militancy honestly, we must recognise that Hindus were not just witnesses. They were a group that faced deep, serious and systematic terror.
As Punjab today struggles with economic slowdown, drug problems, and new kinds of radicalization, it is vital to remember its entire past-not just parts of it. The lesson of the 1980s is clear: when the suffering of any community is ignored, the whole society becomes weaker.
Punjab's future depends on telling the full truth, not just the convenient parts.
(The author is an independent columnist)
Disclaimer: These are the persoanl opinions of the author
