My Shahada in the Shadow of the State: How Anti-Conversion Laws Criminalize a Convert’s Conscience 

In this personal narrative, Indian convert Srishti Lakhara argues that anti-conversion laws, specifically the recently passed Rajasthan bill, represent a profound threat to her identity and conscience by criminalizing her voluntary choice to embrace Islam. She contends that the legislation, which mandates advance notice and government approval for conversion, is less about preventing coercion and more about state-sanctioned humiliation and the delegitimization of certain faith choices, particularly Islam.

This is evidenced by a stark double standard where “Ghar Wapsi” to Hinduism is celebrated while conversions to Islam are stigmatized as “love jihad.” Lakhara concludes that by policing this deeply personal act of faith, the law fundamentally violates her constitutional right to conscience and transforms her spiritual rebirth into a life of suspicion and fear in her own country.

My Shahada in the Shadow of the State: How Anti-Conversion Laws Criminalize a Convert’s Conscience 

By Srishti Lakhara 

My journey to Islam was not a sudden leap, but a quiet homecoming. Four years ago, when I recited the Shahada, the Islamic declaration of faith, it felt less like adopting a new religion and more like finally speaking a truth my soul had always known. It was a rebirth of the spirit, a profound realignment of my heart and intellect with the oneness of God. I believed I had chosen a path of peace and meaning. I didn’t realize that in the eyes of my own country, I had simultaneously chosen a life of suspicion. 

The recently passed Rajasthan Prohibition of Unlawful Conversion of Religion Bill, 2025, is not merely a piece of legislation; it is the legal codification of this suspicion. For converts like me, it doesn’t feel like a law—it feels like a state-sanctioned dehumanization of our most private choices. It transforms a sacred, personal awakening into a bureaucratic crime scene, threatening the very core of our identity. 

The Legal Straitjacket: When Faith Requires a Government Permit 

The mechanics of the Rajasthan bill are where the assault on personal autonomy begins. The bill mandates that anyone wishing to convert must submit a declaration to the District Magistrate 90 days in advance. Following this, the individual must appear before the magistrate to “confirm” the sincerity of their belief. The conversion is then publicly notified, inviting societal scrutiny and potential backlash. 

Imagine this: a deeply personal, spiritual conviction, often born of years of private study and introspection, must now be announced to the state three months in advance. Your most intimate thoughts become subject to public record and a government official’s approval. This process is not protection; it is humiliation. It operates on the chilling presumption that you are incapable of rational choice, that your faith is inherently suspect until proven otherwise. 

The penalties are draconian and wildly disproportionate. The bill proposes imprisonment for up to life and fines as high as ₹1 crore for those accused of facilitating “unlawful” conversions. The vague definitions of “allurement” and “force” mean that a religious leader answering questions, offering a book, or even providing moral support to a seeker can be recast as a criminal act. This creates a chilling effect, silencing the very communities that should provide guidance and fellowship to new believers. 

The Political Scandal of Choosing Islam 

In today’s India, conversion is never just a spiritual event; it is a political act. To choose Islam, in particular, is to be instantly politicized. You are labeled a traitor to your birth community, a pawn in a global conspiracy, or a victim of the bogeyman of “love jihad.” 

I have been told I “ruined my bright future.” My intellect has been dismissed; my agency denied. The state’s own data from Rajasthan shows no proven case of “forced conversion,” yet the narrative of deceit is so powerful that it justifies a law with life imprisonment. This political panic has tangible, everyday consequences. It’s in the landlord’s hesitant pause when he learns your name, the colleague’s sudden distance, the neighbor’s whispered remarks. The law doesn’t just exist in statute books; it validates and emboldens this social hostility, turning private prejudice into public policy. 

The Hypocrisy of “Ghar Wapsi” and the Hierarchy of Faith 

Nothing exposes the discriminatory intent of these laws more starkly than the contrasting treatment of “Ghar Wapsi” (homecoming) ceremonies. When an individual reconverts to Hinduism, it is celebrated as a return to ancestral roots, a glorious homecoming free of suspicion or bureaucratic hurdles. The Rajasthan bill itself exempts “re-conversion” to one’s “ancestral religion” from its stringent procedures. 

This creates a legally enshrined hierarchy of faith. The state effectively declares: your journey back to Hinduism is a natural, legitimate homecoming. Your journey to Islam, however, is a potential crime that requires state surveillance. This double standard is a deep, personal wound. It tells me that the faith I found through years of questioning and study is less legitimate than the one I left. It communicates that my conviction is an aberration, not a conscious choice. The underlying message is clear: you are free to believe what the state approves, not what your conscience dictates. 

The Gendered Gaze: When a Woman’s Agency is Erased 

As a woman who chose Islam, I face a unique, double-layered scrutiny. The pervasive myth of “love jihad” portrays every female convert as a naive, vulnerable victim—deceived by emotion, incapable of intellectual or spiritual autonomy. Our choices are systematically infantilized. 

The haunting case of Hadiya in Kerala is a national monument to this erasure of female agency. A grown woman, a medical student, had her marriage annulled and was confined to her parents’ custody by a High Court that treated her conversion as evidence of brainwashing. Her life was dissected on national television, her voice silenced until the Supreme Court intervened. When I see Hadiya, I see a reflection of my own struggle for the right to be heard and trusted. The gaze that doubted her now falls on me and countless others, questioning our intelligence and our right to self-determination. 

The Weaponization of “Forced Conversion” 

Let me be unequivocal: I am against any form of forced conversion. Coercion, intimidation, or manipulation in matters of faith is a violation of human dignity and is unacceptable. 

However, in India, the term “forced conversion” has been weaponized. It has been stretched to encompass any voluntary conversion to Islam or Christianity. High-profile cases, like those of Umar Gautam and Maulana Kaleem Siddiqui, illustrate this terrifying blurring of lines. They were accused of facilitating forced conversions, yet evidence and testimonies pointed to consensual, voluntary acts of faith. They were arrested under draconian laws like the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA), branding them terrorists for the “crime” of guiding spiritual seekers. 

For converts, these are not distant news items; they are dire warnings. They tell us that the people who helped us on our journey—who answered our questions with patience and compassion—can be branded criminals overnight. It makes the simple act of seeking knowledge feel perilous. 

Faith, Freedom, and the Unassailable Right to Conscience 

At its core, this is a battle for the right to conscience. The Indian Constitution, under Articles 25 and 26, guarantees the freedom of conscience and the right to freely profess, practice, and propagate religion. Voluntary conversion is the ultimate exercise of this right—a private, sovereign act of intellect and spirit. 

The Rajasthan Anti-Conversion Bill, and others like it, represent a fundamental trespass by the state into this sacred realm. By demanding that we justify our beliefs to a magistrate, by subjecting our spiritual choices to public scrutiny and criminal suspicion, the law does not protect freedom; it suffocates it. It delegitimizes conviction. 

The tragedy for a convert in modern India is this cruel paradox: to be born again in faith, only to feel your freedom dying a little each day. We embraced a religion that promised us peace and connection to the divine, only to find our very identity being criminalized. The challenge for India is to look beyond political narratives and see us for who we are: individuals who have exercised our fundamental right to choose, to believe, and to belong. Until it does, the promise of constitutional liberty will remain unfulfilled for millions like me.