The soldier as political branding

India’s Constitution mandates civilian control over an apolitical military. Yet increasingly, politicians across party lines wrap themselves in militaristic imagery, language, and symbolism to project strength, nationalism, and legitimacy. Public reverence for the armed forces is neither new nor partisan, but the constant political invocation of ‘the soldier at the border’ has blurred into a form of political branding.

The line woh jawan jo sarhad par khada hai (that soldier who stands and defends the borders) is frequently deployed to reframe unrelated debates — whether on demonetisation, expressing a dissenting view, or election campaigns — creating emotional leverage to defend governmental action or delegitimise criticism. Beyond mere rhetorical deflection, this repeated use of military imagery normalises a combative political culture that discourages healthy dissent, both within public discourse and political parties themselves. Democratic disagreement increasingly risks being portrayed as disloyalty to the nation.

Even military vocabulary is routinely borrowed to signal virtue: party ka sipahi (soldier of the party), anushasit sainik (disciplined soldier) and similar phrases seek to cultivate unquestioning loyalty under the romanticised metaphor of the ‘good soldier’. Conveniently ignored, however, is a central military principle: professional dissent strengthens command structures. In the armed forces, disagreement within institutional boundaries is often essential for accountability and operational effectiveness. Political usage selectively strips away this nuance, preserving only the aspects that reinforce obedience and centralised authority.

The contrast becomes even sharper when it comes to political defections. Politicians frequently appropriate the moral weight of military loyalty, yet switch parties—often to yesterday’s fiercest rival. It is not only accepted in politics but also rewarded. In military life, such conduct would represent a profound collapse of integrity. Desertion, betrayal, or aiding the opposing side are considered among the gravest breaches of honour because they violate the oath, cohesion, trust, and dignity that underpin the profession of arms.

The Indian Armed Forces are guided by values encapsulated in the inviolable codes of Naam, Namak, Nishan— honour, duty, and loyalty to the flag. These are treated as sacred and non-negotiable. The three-encoded layers of loyalty — Naam (honour of the Paltan/Regiment/Individual), Namak (literally the salt that stands for the bond of service and obligation to the Paltan), and most importantly in this specific context, the Nishan (the ‘flag’ for which the combatant is willing to pay the ‘ultimate price’) — are sacred. Clearly, in the unhinged field of partisan politics, the Nishan is contestable and replaceable. By contrast, politics often functions through transactional and shifting allegiances, where the ‘flag’ itself is readily replaceable. 

Terms like Namak Harami (betrayal of trust) are commonly used to condemn political opportunism, but their moral force originates from deeper civilisational, cultural, and militaristic codes of fidelity and obligation. Yet politics routinely reframes defections as acts of courage, virtue, or patriotism. Leaders switching parties are described as yodhas or sainiks joining a supposedly nobler cause. Supposedly, the literal betrayers assume a veneer of respectability. In the military ethos, however, personal comfort and safety come last — as reflected in the Chetwodian motto of the Indian Military Academy. In politics, self-preservation and expediency often come first.

This culture persists in part because Indian politics frequently revolves less around ideology and more around identity — caste, religion, ethnicity, personality cults, and local loyalties. As long as a politician continues to represent a voter’s preferred identity, past statements, affiliations, or ideological reversals are often forgiven. Hatred of the political ‘other’ can become a stronger electoral currency than consistency or loyalty.

The armed forces cannot afford such fluidity. An Aya Ram, Gaya Ram culture would destroy military cohesion and trust. Politics normalises and incentivises it. Politicians do so readily with no honourable exception. No major party leader has taken a principled stand or spoken about this fickle spirit that takes the electorate for granted and, by extension, the nation. Across parties, ‘horse-trading’ and ‘resort politics’ have become accepted instruments for making and breaking governments. Few leaders meaningfully challenge this culture because it benefits all sides at different times.

This is precisely why a clear boundary between politics and the military must be maintained. The authority and credibility of the armed forces depend on their separation from partisan struggle and passions. Excessive politicisation and reckless appropriation of military ethos, language, and symbolism risk weakening that distinction and altering public perception of the institution itself.

The military is the nation’s sword arm. Its strength lies not merely in its weaponry, but in its institutional distance from political and partisan opportunism. Preserving that distance is essential for both democracy and the integrity of the armed forces.

(The writer is the former Lt Governor of Andaman & Nicobar and Puducherry)