Battle for Identity: Caught in an Ethnic Divide

“Who am I in the land I call home?”

This question has haunted me for as long as I can remember.
I was born in Tripura, raised in its capital Agartala, breathed its air, walked its streets, and yet, my belonging here is constantly questioned. Identity is a deeply personal yet inherently political construct. For someone like me, born and raised in Tripura, the question of identity has always been more than just a matter of lineage or geography—it has been a battleground of history, politics, and collective memory.

For years, I have watched my identity be debated in political rallies, contested in government policies, and dissected in conversations where I have no voice. Am I a Bengali or a Tripuri? A settler or a native? An insider or an outsider? The answer, I have realized, depends not on history but on who is in power and what narrative serves them best.

I was participating in an international art fair in 2024, representing my state and northeast with a sense of pride, for we were the first ever organization from Northeast India, let alone Tripura to be invited to take part in the fair. A man in his 50s walked up to me and asked where I was from?
He was not convinced with my answer of me coming from Tripura. This led to a series of offensive questions asking about my heritage, ethnicity and lineage. As much as I tried to avoid a conflict and established that I am a son of Tripura, the man in his condescending tone stressed on why wasn’t I referring to myself as a Bengali immigrant! It turned out that his Assamese roots were a sense of pride to him, something he wanted to rub on my face saying ‘he is an ORIGINAL Assamese’ from Assam and I am NOT from Tripura. I brushed him off and tried not to give into his ethnic bias and racist remarks. He walked away feeling ignored while I was left with my inner identity turmoil and a battle of belonging!

My great-grandfather migrated from what is now Bangladesh to Tripura in the early 1940s, seeking refuge and stability; long before Partition severed the land into nations, before identity became a reason for exclusion. My family belongs to the Patni Dalit community, a group of people who indulged in the occupation of fishing and boatsmen, formerly considered ‘Untouchables’!
We are Sylheti, a label that carries its own weight, often used to alienate or otherize those of us who have lived here for generations.
As political tensions and ethnic clashes escalate in Tripura, I find myself caught between histories, identities, and the constructed narratives of who belongs and who does not.

Tripura’s past offers crucial context to this crisis. Before the Partition, and even before the British Raj imposed its arbitrary borders, the region was a fluid space where communities moved, settled, and coexisted. The Manikya kings of Tripura ruled over vast stretches of land that now include parts of modern-day Bangladesh. The history of Tripura mingles with waves of migration, movement, and assimilation. In fact, it was the kings themselves who actively invited Bengalis—scholars, traders, and workers—to come to Tripura, bringing with them their language, culture, and traditions. This migration was not an act of intrusion but of integration, a historical precedent that many conveniently ignore today in favor of divisive identity politics.

The state, once a princely kingdom, saw a dramatic demographic transformation following the partition of India in 1947 and later during the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971. The influx of Bengalis, including my own ancestors, altered the demographic balance, leading to ethnic tensions between the indigenous people and Bengali settlers.

Historically, the indigenous communities of Tripura saw themselves as the rightful heirs of the land, while the Bengali migrants were often viewed as outsiders despite their deep-rooted presence. Over the decades, this demographic shift fueled resentment, sometimes erupting into violent ethnic clashes. In the late 20th century, groups like the Tripura National Volunteers (TNV) and later the National Liberation Front of Tripura (NLFT) spearheaded insurgencies that sought to reclaim Tripura for the indigenous people, further alienating the Bengali-speaking population.

Being Sylheti in Tripura comes with a layered identity crisis. The Sylheti people, who migrated from present-day Bangladesh, have often been perceived as a separate linguistic and cultural entity from mainstream Bengali society. While we speak Bengali, our dialect, customs, and even food habits set us apart. This dual marginalization—being seen as both an outsider among Bengalis and a ‘settler’ among indigenous people—creates a fragmented identity, neither fully accepted nor completely rejected.

Being part of the Dalit community adds another layer to this crisis. Even within the Bengali-speaking population, caste discrimination exists, and the Patni community, though historically agrarian and self-sustaining, has often been marginalized. The intersection of caste, migration history, and linguistic identity creates a sense of perpetual uncertainty about one’s place in society.

But history is rewritten when it becomes inconvenient. The Partition of 1947 and the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971 turned migration into an “issue,” a reason to separate “us” from “them.” Those who had been part of Tripura’s fabric for generations were suddenly labeled as encroachers. And now, decades later, my very identity is a contested subject, dictated by census reports, political manifestos, and policies that fail to see the lives behind the labels.

Growing up in Tripura, I have always considered this land my home. The landscapes, the festivals, the shared laughter of neighbors, the friends I made irrespective of their religion, caste, creed or race—all these aspects form the foundation of my identity. But as I grew older, I realized that my Bengali surname carried weight.

I saw how politicians spoke about “illegal immigrants” and “demographic imbalance” with a thinly veiled reference to people like me. I heard how some indigenous leaders blamed Bengalis for the loss of their land and culture. I understood that while my home was here, my acceptance was conditional—something I would have to fight for, prove, justify.

At times, it was subtle—a question in school, an offhand comment about “too many Bengalis in government jobs.” Other times, it was blatant—rallies calling for Bengalis to “go back,” social media debates that erased the complexities of our shared history.

Every time I was asked, “Where are you really from?” the answer felt more complicated than before.

The rise of political opportunism in Tripura has fueled a dangerous game of identity politics. While the legitimate struggles of Tripura’s indigenous communities must be acknowledged and addressed, political leaders have manipulated these grievances to deepen the divide between communities. Parties have systematically used historical wounds to mobilize support, often vilifying Bengali settlers as outsiders, invaders, or even illegal immigrants. The Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA) and the National Register of Citizens (NRC) debates have only intensified these divisions, creating an atmosphere of suspicion and hostility. While the central government’s stance has been to provide citizenship to persecuted Hindus from Bangladesh, the indigenous communities see this as another attempt to dilute their claim over the state. For many like me, whose families have been in Tripura for nearly a century, our belonging is constantly questioned, as though the land we were born on does not recognize us as its own. While the indigenous Tripuri population fights for rightful recognition, the Bengali population—many of whom have been here for generations—struggles against being cast as outsiders. The tension is real, the fears legitimate, but the battle is often manipulated for political gains.

This is not just my story; it is the story of countless others whose sense of belonging is constantly challenged by the constructs of history, politics, and community. The struggle for identity in Tripura is as much about personal history as it is about collective memory, governance, and the ever-changing narratives of who is an ‘insider’ and who is an ‘outsider.’

The rise of regional parties championing the indigenous cause has, in many ways, been necessary—Tripuris have suffered displacement, loss of land, and cultural erosion. But this fight has been twisted by political leaders who stoke division rather than seek reconciliation. On the other hand, national parties exploit these ethnic rifts, shifting allegiances depending on the vote banks they wish to secure.

In 2019, while I was working as an editor for a multi-media agency based at Tripura, I had interviewed several political figures. The politics of power is such, when there is a camera in sight, everything is fine and all words are honey coated! While I was shooting for a documentary on one of the indigenous tribes, another self proclaimed village head poised a question that I couldn’t answer properly back then.
He asked me since I was from Tripura, how good is my Kokborok?
I replied that I knew basic phrases and had very basic proficiency in the language (thanks to all the students my father taught and the friends I had made).
He wasn’t convinced with my answer and went out to say that we want OUR people and OUR representatives to speak only OUR language!
Now, in 2025, I often reflect on that moment. A prominent indigenous party leader, someone whose fluency in Kokborok is no better than mine, stands at the helm of representation. A man who spent years away from the state, returning only to step into politics, now claims the mantle of leadership—not for his deep connection to the land, but through the careful crafting of identity politics, the mastery of digital narratives, the power of vote banks. Meanwhile, despite my roots tracing back through generations, despite every chapter of my life unfolding in the soil of Tripura, I remain an ‘outsider.’ And so, I wonder: in the grand theatre of politics, is belonging determined by lineage, by language, or by the ability to shape perception? Quite the irony, indeed

One of the most haunting aspects of this identity crisis is the constant need to prove one’s legitimacy. Citizenship in India is no longer just a legal document; it has become a tool of exclusion. The Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA) and National Register of Citizens (NRC) have only deepened my dilemma. If CAA grants citizenship to persecuted Hindus from Bangladesh, does that mean my family was once a refugee and not a rightful citizen? If NRC seeks to weed out “illegal immigrants,” do I need to prove my identity yet again, despite being born here? The laws contradict each other, leaving people like me in a limbo of political convenience. The NRC process in Assam has left thousands of Bengali-origin people stateless, a fate that many in Tripura fear could soon be theirs. If one’s ancestors migrated during a time of political turmoil, if one belongs to a community that is not in the dominant discourse, if one speaks a dialect that is often dismissed—does that make one any less a citizen?
The fact that these questions even arise is a proof to the deep fault lines in our social and political structures.

The violent clashes in Tripura in 2021, when protestors demanding NRC implementation clashed with Bengali-speaking groups, exemplify the fragile nature of identity politics here. The rise of regional parties like TIPRA Motha, which has been vocal about securing ‘Greater Tipraland’ for the indigenous people, further fuels these anxieties. For people like me—Bengali by language, Dalit by caste, Sylheti by heritage, son of Tripura by birthright—these shifting political landscapes leave us questioning where we truly belong.

This phenomenon is not unique to Tripura—it is a template used across India, and indeed the world. Leaders weaponize historical pain, reinforcing the idea that one community’s progress comes at the expense of another. In Tripura, this has led to violent clashes, political unrest, and an unsettling erosion of shared history. Recent incidents, from attacks on communities during political rallies to social media campaigns that spread misinformation, have created an atmosphere where identity is no longer just about culture but about survival.

Yet, despite this climate of division, I refuse to accept that my identity must be framed solely through the lens of exclusion. I am a child of this land. My ancestors tilled its soil, contributed to its economy, and participated in its growth. The rivers, the hills, and the markets of Tripura are as much a part of my heritage as they are of anyone else’s. My sense of belonging is not conditional on political rhetoric but on lived experience. The struggle, then, is not just about demanding recognition—it is about reclaiming the right to exist without question, without fear, and without the need to prove my allegiance to the land that raised me.

In an era where identity is wielded as a weapon, we must ask ourselves: who profits from our divisions? The answer is as old as history itself—those in power. If the past has shown us anything, it is that borders, both real and imagined, have always been drawn by those who stand to gain from them. But the greatest victories are not won by fortifying these divides; they come from breaking them down. The real challenge ahead is not just about fighting for a singular identity, but about dismantling the forces that seek to erase, manipulate, or commodify it for political gain. Tripura—our Tripura—deserves better. And so do we.

The politics of exclusion thrives on binaries—‘insider’ versus ‘outsider,’ ‘native’ versus ‘migrant’—but lived realities are never that simple. Identity is not just about ancestry, official records, or linguistic proficiency. It is about lived experiences, cultural contributions, and the deep, unshakable ties people form with the land they call home.

Tripura has always been a land of migration, adaptation, and confluence. Once, its rulers invited people from the lands that are now Bangladesh, recognizing that diversity strengthens rather than weakens. Yet, today, history is rewritten to serve political narratives, and communities that have coexisted for centuries are being turned against each other. The same leaders who claim to champion indigenous voices often remain disconnected from their own people, while those of us who have spent our entire lives in Tripura are made to justify our place here.

So, the question is not just about whether we belong—it is about who gets to decide that. Is it the government? The political parties? The loudest voices on social media? Or is it the people who have tilled this land, built their homes here, raised their children here, and carried its history in their hearts?

The story of identity in Tripura is still being written, and perhaps it always will be. But for those of us caught in its folds, the struggle is not just about proving our place—it is about ensuring that the narratives of exclusion do not erase the undeniable truth: this land is ours too.

How long must one live in a place before they stop being a guest? How many generations must pass before we are no longer labeled migrants, but simply… people?

I have lived this question my entire life, and I may never find a satisfying answer. But I do know this: I will never stop asking. Because despite the uncertainty, despite the politics, despite the exclusion, one truth remains unshaken—Tripura is my home. And that is not up for debate.

Identity, I have come to realize, is not just about history or geography. It is about acceptance. It is about the right to exist without having to constantly explain why. My love for Tripura is unquestionable—I know its streets, its rivers, its festivals, and its struggles. I celebrate its indigenous heritage, honor its history, and see myself as part of its future.

And yet, every election cycle, every government policy, every divisive speech reminds me that my place here is still contested. But I refuse to let others define my identity for me. I am a Bengali, a Tripuri, an Indian. I am not an outsider in my own home.

Tripura is my land, just as it belongs to the indigenous communities who have lived here for centuries. Our histories are entwined, our struggles shared. It is time we stopped letting politics dictate who belongs and who does not.

I do not seek to erase the past—I seek to acknowledge it, to learn from it, and to move forward. But moving forward requires a shared vision, one built not on exclusion and fear, but on unity and understanding. Whether Tripura will embrace this vision remains to be seen. But as someone who has spent a lifetime proving his right to belong, I hold onto hope.

Because this is my home. And no one—no policy, no politician, no rhetoric—can take that away from me.