As the NDA government marks eleven years in power, one of its most commendable achievements has been its sustained outreach to the Janjatiya Samaj, the tribal communities of Bharat. From preserving cultural identity to ensuring access to welfare schemes, the government’s efforts have not only been inclusive but also transformative. The very presence of a tribal Chief Minister in a tribal-dominated state like Chhattisgarh reflects the seriousness of this commitment. The message has been consistent: Bharat’s tribals are not just included, they are at the centre of national development.
So why am I telling this now?
Because what I saw in Jhabua, a predominantly tribal district in Madhya Pradesh, demands to be told.
The Paradox of development and conversion
In this district, where over 90 per cent of the population is tribal, mostly Bhils. This region is a living example of how government schemes are reshaping lives. Families here live in homes built under the Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana. They have tap water connections through the Nal Jal Scheme. Pucca roads now connect villages, thanks to the PM Gram Sadak Yojana. Women receive Rs 1,200 every month under the state’s flagship Ladli Behna Yojana, while girls are granted Rs 1.5 lakh at birth under the prestigious Ladli Lakshmi Yojana. Farmers benefit from the PM Kisan Samman Nidhi. The government has not stopped there. From the Vanbandhu Kalyan Yojana to Pradhan Mantri Adi Adarsh Gram Yojana, from Eklavya Model Residential Schools to the Pradhan Mantri Janjatiya Vikas Mission, tribal-focused schemes are creating waves of change. Events like Aadi Mahotsav bring national and regional focus to tribal art, cuisine, and culture. Janjatiya Gaurav Divas instils pride in tribal heritage.
Yet, when one steps deeper into the interior villages of Jhabua, a different reality emerges, a reality that is difficult to ignore. Entire villages have houses marked with crosses, some bastis as small as twenty or thirty homes have as many as three churches. These are not just structures; they are symbols of a systematic and ongoing transformation.
Three churches, for a handful of families. What does that tell us?
I want to clarify that I am not sensationalising the issue, but what I witnessed was deeply unsettling.
Many of the converted tribals continue to identify officially as tribal to retain benefits. They have undergone baptism, attend Sunday prayers, follow Biblical teachings, and still carry their Scheduled Tribe certificates. This duality is not a statistic; it is a silent compromise of identity. And it needs to be spoken of.
I visited one such church. The irony hit me immediately. It stood on land owned by tribals. A place of conversion rooted on the very land of those being converted.
But before we go further, let us ask, who are tribals?
Guardians of the forest
They are the children of the forests, worshippers of nature, people who find god in the wind, trees, rivers, and crops. Their festivals are harvests, their temples are trees, and their lives are defined by a harmony with nature that modern society is only beginning to appreciate. Their gods, Budha Devta, Bara Devta, reside in groves. They offer the first grain, the first fruit, the first drop of water to their deities. Their ancestors led sustainable lives long before the term became fashionable. Until recently, they lived in the lap of nature, drawing everything they needed from it.
All of this began to shift when Christian missionaries arrived. Not with violence, not with armies, but with institutions. With schools, with hospitals, with quiet offerings of help. Their arrival came wrapped in compassion. But slowly, and silently, they began to weave a different fabric. The message was simple: ‘Your problems can go away, but only if you change your faith.’
This is not a story from one village. This has played out across Jharkhand, Chhattisgarh, Odisha, the Northeast, and Southern India. Organiser has been on the ground, documenting how missionary activities are changing the cultural and religious landscape of tribal Bharat. And Jhabua is no different.
My recent visit to a village near Jhabua began with a story about a Hindu woman who discovered post-marriage that her husband and in-laws were crypto-converts. She left and returned only after the family reconverted to Hinduism after 20 years. She had told me they used to attend a church in Nawagaon, a nearby village. That set me on my next path.
So I went to Nawagaon.
Bhil but Christian
As I travelled to Nawagaon, I noticed several homes with crosses painted on doors. I stopped and asked an elderly woman if she identified as a Bhil or a Christian. Her answer: “I am a Bhil, but Christian also.” She introduced herself as Bunki Bhil. When asked how long she had been attending church, she said, “Twenty years.” She had undergone baptism (referred to as “dubki“) and wore a cross around her neck. Inside her home, she showed me posters of Jesus and a Bible provided by the Shalom Diocese Church of Nawagaon.
I proceeded to the Nawagaon church. The road was difficult, a narrow lane past a brick kiln and an empty pond led to a village of about thirty families. Many were clearly converts.
As I entered Nawagaon, the church stood tall with a large cross visible from a distance. It was locked. A passerby pointed to a house behind the church. That’s where the caretakers lived.
Soon, a man in a green shirt appeared. He introduced himself as Jam Singh Macchar. His son, Chhenu Macchar, joined along with other villagers. They all belonged to the Bhil tribe. They told me the church has been operating for 25 years. “We built this church with donations,” Chhenu said. It belongs to the Shalom Diocese network. “We only celebrate Christmas. We do not celebrate Diwali, Dussehra, or worship our ancestors anymore. We have left it all behind.”
I asked if people came for healing. “We don’t give medicines. We pray, and people get healed,” Chhenu said firmly. “The Bible says if we return to our old ways, our illnesses will come back. That’s why we don’t go back.”
The story of their conversion is deeply personal. “My father was suffering from asthma. When we started praying to Jesus, he was cured,” said Jam Singh. That healing became the seed of faith. From home prayers to a permanent church, the transition was gradual but steady.
Today, 30 to 40 people attend Sunday prayers. On Christmas, around 200 gather, and they set up a tent. Baptism is conducted in a local pond under a bishop named Devdas from Dahod. “He teaches us how to fast, how to pray, how to lead a holy life,” said Chhenu. Baptism, he explained, is not instant. “It takes five or six years. Only those who are healed and strong in faith are baptised.”
Despite embracing Christianity, they retain their tribal status. “We are adivasi, but we follow Christ,” Chhenu maintained. When asked about their Scheduled Tribe certificate, Chhenu said, “If the government takes away our certificate, we will still choose our faith over land.”
Children are taught Bible verses and activities like colouring at the church. Hymns are sung in the Bhili language. One of them translates to, “Jesus is our God, we are His sheep, His children. He protects us, saves us from sins, and heals our diseases.”
But not everyone has welcomed this change. “Some tore our Bible and said, ‘Why are you following Jesus?’” Jam Singh recounted, describing the resistance they faced 25 years ago. Some families still stay away from the church.
Marriage customs have changed. “We marry in the church now, according to the Bible. No sindoor, no mangalsutra,” Chhenu said. His marriage was in Hindu tradition, but the younger generation has shifted completely.
When I asked Chhenu what he would do if his tribal status was revoked, his answer was: “Our faith saved us from pain. How can we abandon it now?”
This is not just a report about conversions. This is a mirror to a larger question: What happens when identity, faith, and welfare collide?
In Jhabua, I saw development and dignity. But I also saw a slow erasure of ancestral belief, replaced by a borrowed one.
Rising call for delisting
From the lush hills of Chhattisgarh to the forests of Jharkhand, from the plateaus of Odisha to the rugged terrains of Madhya Pradesh and Maharashtra, a debate is quietly intensifying. It is not merely a matter of faith. It is a question of identity, rights, and the future of Bharat’s most rooted communities.
Can someone who has embraced Christianity, a religion with beliefs, practices, and cultural roots entirely different from tribal traditions, still claim the constitutional status of a Scheduled Tribe? Should the benefits reserved for India’s most ancient, nature-worshipping communities be extended to those who have consciously turned away from their ancestral deities, customs, and way of life?
These are not just theoretical questions. They challenge the very foundation of India’s affirmative action policies, raising difficult but necessary doubts about whether religious conversion erases the cultural and civilisational identity that Scheduled Tribe status was meant to protect.
In recent years, the demand for delisting, the removal of Scheduled Tribe (ST) status from individuals who have converted to religions such as Christianity or Islam, has grown stronger and more vocal across India. Leading this campaign are organisations like the Janjati Suraksha Manch, which have taken the issue to public platforms, government offices, and even the courts, calling for urgent policy correction.
Their argument is not merely administrative or legal, it is deeply civilisational and cultural. They assert that India’s tribals are not just a socially and economically backwards community deserving of special rights. They are, in fact, the living embodiment of the subcontinent’s ancient spiritual traditions. Tribals, according to this view, are the original nature worshippers, those who revere forests, rivers, mountains, and ancestral spirits. Their faith is rooted in prakriti (nature), not in organised, foreign religious ideologies.
For these groups, tribal identity is inseparable from Sanatan Dharma, or what is often referred to as the eternal cultural and spiritual tradition of India. The deities worshipped by tribal communities, such as Bara Deo, Budha Dev, Gram Devta, and Van Devi, are not found in temples but in sacred groves, riversides, and mountain caves. Their festivals revolve around harvests, rains, and the cycles of the moon and sun, all of which reinforce a deep ecological and spiritual bond with the land.
So when conversion takes place, especially under the influence of missionaries, this connection is severed. Converts are often taught to abandon the worship of trees and rivers as superstition, to stop participating in ancestral festivals, and to erase their traditional customs. As a result, those who convert, claim these organisations, no longer live as tribals in the cultural sense and thus, they argue, they should not continue to claim tribal benefits meant to preserve a distinct indigenous way of life.
For these groups, delisting is not a punishment; it is a measure to protect the soul of India’s tribal culture from being diluted, erased, or replaced.
Constitutional rights vs. cultural erosion
The charge is a serious one. And so is the counterargument.
Supporters of Christian Adivasis, often aligned with Church institutions and rights-based NGOs, argue that Articles 25 to 28 of the Indian Constitution grant every Indian the fundamental right to profess, practice, and propagate their religion. They contend that tribal status is based on ethnicity and geography, not on what god someone worships. “You cannot ask a tribal to give up their land rights and identity just because they changed their faith,” says a member of the Christian Adivasi Mahasabha. “That is not just unconstitutional, it is dehumanising.”
But this is where the crux of the debate lies: Can you enjoy the rights of a minority and a Scheduled Tribe simultaneously? Can you be both a Christian and claim the benefits reserved for communities that have historically been part of indigenous, nature-worshipping traditions?
The push for delisting is far deeper than a political demand, it is a cultural call to preserve identity, and in many ways, a battle for survival. Tribal leaders who uphold Sanatan traditions argue that religious conversions, particularly to Christianity, have done more than replace one set of beliefs with another. They say the process has disrupted centuries-old ways of life, severing communities from their roots.
“These conversions are not just about changing gods,” says a tribal elder from Jhabua with quiet anguish. “They make our people abandon their festivals, their marriage rituals, even the language they once spoke with pride.” For many in the tribal heartland, the concern is not only about lost faith, it is about losing the very essence of who they are.
Indeed, the shift is visible. Traditional festivals like Karma, Sarhul, or Bhagoria are disappearing from converted villages. Sacred groves lie unattended. Instead, churches are multiplying, in some places, three or four in a hamlet of twenty houses.
Opponents argue that the Christianised tribals continue to retain their Scheduled Tribe certificates, availing reservations in jobs, education, and land rights, even though their lifestyle, customs, and belief systems no longer align with the tribal ethos.
They point out that the Constitution provides 7.5 per cent reservation to Scheduled Tribes, and under Schedules 5 and 6 of the Constitution, special provisions exist for tribal areas, particularly in the Northeast. However, there is no reservation based on religion in India.
A parallel is often drawn with the Scheduled Caste Order of 1950, which restricts SC benefits to Hindus, Sikhs, and Buddhists, excluding Christians and Muslims. Why, then, should Scheduled Tribes not follow a similar principle? This is the question being asked in courts and policy corridors alike.
And the fear is palpable. Leaders of Christian tribal groups know what is at stake. “If delisting happens, our political representation will suffer. Our children will lose seats in colleges. Our access to government welfare will shrink. This move is meant to divide us and break our unity,” says a Christian-tribal leader from Sundargarh, Odisha.
Identity at the crossroads
As the arguments fly, the numbers tell a deeper story.
According to the 2011 Census, Christians form 87.93 per cent of Nagaland, 87.16 per cent of Mizoram, and 74.59 per cent of Meghalaya. In Arunachal Pradesh, they are at 30.26 per cent, a significant majority in some districts. Manipur stands at 41.29 per cent, marking a sharp religious transition in its tribal belt. Goa, Andaman and Nicobar, Kerala, Sikkim, Puducherry, and Tamil Nadu all record between 6 per cent and 25 per cent Christian populations, many from tribal or backward communities. Even in Jharkhand and Chhattisgarh, the epicentres of this cultural churn, the Christian population is growing steadily, even if officially it hovers around 4.3 per cent and 1.9 per cent respectively.
In contrast, Christian presence is negligible in states like Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, Rajasthan, Gujarat, and Himachal Pradesh, all recording below 1 per cent.
A battle for the soul of Bharat’s first citizens
But demography, as the saying goes, is destiny. Even if the official figures remain modest, ground realities in parts of tribal India tell a different story. The increase in churches, missionary schools, and the rising influence of faith-based NGOs in tribal areas points to a trend that is too large to ignore. While the government continues to invest crores in preserving tribal heritage, from language and crafts to customs and festivals, missionary groups, well-funded and global, are investing just as heavily in reshaping it. The result is a deepening cultural transformation that has begun to blur the lines of identity.
And so, the dilemma remains.
Is a tribal still a tribal after conversion? Or does the act of changing one’s faith amount to a cultural exit from the community? Can faith and tribal identity truly coexist or does one ultimately erase the other?
India stands at a crossroads. It must uphold the constitutional right to freedom of religion, but it must also safeguard the original purpose of affirmative action meant to protect vulnerable and culturally distinct communities. Individual choice must be respected, but not when that choice becomes a tool for systemic exploitation. Above all, it must listen, not to political lobbies or ideological slogans, but to the voices of the tribals themselves, many of whom are caught in this quiet cultural war.
Because in those forests and hills, among the whispers of ancestors and prayers of children, the identity of Bharat’s first citizens is quietly being rewritten.
And the question remains: At what cost?
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