Bengal’s unending dance with violence

The recent attack on Bharatiya Janata Party MP Khagen Murmu and Siliguri MLA Shankar Ghosh in Jalpaiguri district has once again lifted the veil on an old wound that never heals in West Bengal — the persistent culture of political violence and intimidation.

Murmu and Ghosh were assaulted during a visit to flood-affected areas; their vehicles were vandalised, and several accompanying journalists were injured. The BJP accused Trinamool Congress (TMC) workers of orchestrating the attack, while the ruling party dismissed the charges as “baseless”.

The episode, though shocking, is hardly unprecedented. It fits into a disturbing continuity that stretches back decades — one where politics in Bengal has too often played out in the streets, not just at the ballot box. 

To understand this recurring cycle, one must go back to the 1960s and 1970s, when ideological fervour and political rivalry turned increasingly militant. The Naxalite movement, born in the rice fields of Naxalbari, inspired both revolution and repression.

The 1970s and 1980s saw a spiral of political violence as the Left Front government, dominated by the Communist Party of India (Marxist), consolidated its power. The Left’s rise in 1977 brought stability at the top but also cemented a cadre-based system. Local party workers controlled rural administration, police access, and welfare benefits -- blurring the line between governance and coercion.

When the TMC displaced the Left in 2011, the players changed, but the pattern persisted. Rival parties accused the new regime of replicating the same machinery of control and intimidation under a different banner.

West Bengal's elections have long stood out for their intensity — and bloodshed. The 2023 Panchayat polls saw at least a dozen deaths. In the 2021 Assembly elections, widespread clashes before and after voting left several dead and hundreds displaced.

Post-poll violence has become almost ritualistic, marked by revenge attacks and arson. Each election deepens old hostilities and breeds new ones, leaving villages and towns polarised along party lines.

The tragedy is that violence has been normalised. It is no longer an aberration—it is part of the political culture, a language through which power is asserted.

Observers point to a mix of historical, structural, and social factors that sustain this culture of confrontation. Over decades, political parties built dense networks of local cadres who acted as gatekeepers to state resources. Controlling a panchayat seat or municipal ward means control over contracts, welfare schemes, and influence. Violence becomes a means to maintain or seize that control.

Police and local administration often find themselves entangled in political loyalties. The lack of swift and impartial investigation emboldens perpetrators and fosters impunity. Since the BJP’s rapid rise in Bengal after 2019, the stakes have soared. Both TMC and BJP treat each contest as existential. In such a climate, even a slogan, a flag, or a rally can spark clashes.

Bengal’s layered social fabric — with tensions over religion, caste, and migration — adds further volatility. Northern districts such as Jalpaiguri, Cooch Behar, and Alipurduar, where the BJP has gained ground, have become flashpoints.

Bengal prides itself on its intellectual and cultural heritage — the land of Rabindranath Tagore, Raja Ram Mohan Roy and Swami Vivekananda, and the cradle of the Bengal Renaissance. Yet this intellectualism has long coexisted with a visceral politics of domination and fear.

Some sociologists see this contradiction as rooted in Bengal’s ideological vehemence. Whether under the Left, the Congress, or the TMC, politics here has always been framed as a moral struggle between good and evil — leaving little room for compromise. In many ways, Bengal thinks in political terms, lives through politics, and, tragically, often bleeds because of it.

With the 2026 Assembly elections less than a year away, the omens are worrying. The recent assaults on opposition leaders, the aggressive tone of political rallies, and the sharpening rhetoric on social media suggest the ground is already heating up.

The BJP hopes to expand its base in the state; the TMC is determined to defend its stronghold. Both parties accuse each other of unleashing violence — and both, critics say, benefit from the narrative of victimhood that violence creates.

Unless the Election Commission acts early, deploying central forces and enforcing strict neutrality, Bengal risks sliding into another cycle of bloodletting. Civil society groups, too, have a role to play in promoting dialogue and protecting the vulnerable during campaigns.

Ultimately, Bengal’s democracy will be judged not by voter turnout but by whether its people can vote without fear. To achieve that, the state must break with its past — to see political opponents not as enemies to be crushed, but as rivals in debate.

Until then, as the 2026 election drums grow louder, Bengal may continue to waltz uneasily to its oldest tune — one composed in equal parts of passion, pride, and violence.

(The writer is a Delhi-based journalist)

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.