I am probably the one person you would never expect to be political. In fact, most people I know are the same, and those who engage in constant political discussions are rarely part of my inner circle. I have never believed in calling anyone an andhbhakt, because I respect people’s beliefs and their right to express their opinions, even when I strongly disagree with them. In fact, until a few days ago, I felt strongly opposed to using this term, as I considered it highly derogatory.
But the recent youth protests in India made me reflect on something far more profound.
P.S. None of this is directed at anyone in particular, but if, while reading this, you feel that the answer to some or all of these questions is “yes,” then maybe it’s for you. Either way, don’t take it personally, it’s just my perspective. Peace out in advance. ✌️
So here goes…
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The word andhbhakt (literal translation – blind follower), often used in India to describe someone who blindly follows a politician or political party, is hardly an Indian phenomenon. Blind loyalty exists everywhere; both in religion and politics, and it becomes more potent when both are mixed. Across countries, ideologies and political systems, human beings have always found ways to defend the people they support, dismiss the people they oppose and, sometimes, bend reality to fit their beliefs.
The uncomfortable question is not whether we have political biases. We do. Bias has always been part of the human brain. The real question is: when does bias become so powerful that it makes us complacent about reality?
When did the words of one politician, or one political party, become the Bible of truth?
When did stories, explanations and excuses become more important than facts?
And when did the political identity of the person asking a question become more important than the question itself?
If you are still wondering what all this means, perhaps you should pause for a moment. Because if you automatically reject a perfectly legitimate question simply because it was asked by someone you politically dislike, you may already understand what andhbhakti looks like.
Consider a young political leader recently raising a pertinent question about private schools in India: why is there no effective upper limit on the miscellaneous charges that private schools can impose on parents?
You don’t have to support this young leader. You don’t even have to like his politics.
But shouldn’t the question itself deserve an answer?
There have been other instances where anyone questioning rising unemployment, a failing economy, corruption, and poor infrastructure in newly inaugurated projects has been labelled “anti-national” by leaders. The general public is then either expected to accept that narrative, or, worse, the failures are blamed on a previous government. There is no accountability, just labelling critics and blaming others for their own failures.
Much of the criticism directed at such questions often seems to begin with the political identity of the person asking them. If the politician belongs to the opposition, the conversation quickly shifts from “Is this a valid concern?” to “What did your party do when it was in power?”
And there it is, the great escape route of the politically devoted.
Someone raises a question about corruption, and instead of addressing the allegation, the response is: “They did it too.”
Someone talks about unemployment, and the response becomes: “Your government didn’t solve it either.”
Someone questions inflation, and suddenly we are discussing what another government did fifty years ago.
Someone points out a failure, and the answer is not an explanation but an accusation about a previous failure.
Since when did another person’s wrongdoing become a justification for our own?
Imagine applying this logic outside politics.
A student cheats in an examination. When confronted, the student says, “But another student cheated last year.”
A company mistreats its employees. When challenged, management responds, “Our competitor did the same thing.”
A person breaks the law and says, “Someone else broke it before me.”
Would we accept these explanations?
Of course not.
Yet politics seems to operate under an entirely different moral framework.
For the andhbhakt, the standard is often not “Is this right?” but “Did my side do it?”
If the answer is yes, it is defended.
If the answer is no, it is condemned.
That is the paradox.
A person may sincerely believe they are defending their country, their ideology or their political principles, while actually defending a politician from accountability. The political leader becomes more important than the principle.
And once that happens, facts become negotiable.
The human brain is remarkably good at protecting beliefs. We tend to notice information that confirms what we strongly believe and, throw down the trash, any information that challenges it. Politics simply gives this psychological tendency a massive playground.
Social media has made the problem even worse.
We can now surround ourselves almost entirely with people who think like us. Algorithms keep feeding us opinions that reinforce our existing worldview. Eventually, a political narrative can become so familiar that familiarity begins to feel like truth.
But repetition is not evidence.
A million people repeating a claim do not make it a fact.
A politician saying something confidently does not make it true.
A television channel repeating a talking point for seven days does not transform it into reality.
And a social-media post with thousands of likes is still not a substitute for evidence.
The danger of blind political loyalty is not merely that people support the “wrong” politician. Democracies are supposed to accommodate disagreement. The real danger is that citizens stop demanding accountability from their own side.
A healthy democracy needs people who can say, “I support this party, but I disagree with what it is doing.”
It needs voters who can say, “I voted for this leader, but this decision is wrong.”
It needs citizens who can acknowledge that the opposition can occasionally raise a valid point.
And, perhaps most importantly, it needs people who can condemn wrongdoing regardless of who committed it.
Otherwise, politics becomes a football match.
Your team scores? Brilliant.
Your team fouls? Look at what their team did last year.
Your team loses? The referee was biased.
Your team breaks the rules? At least they are better than the other team.
But a country isn’t a football match.
Governments make decisions that affect real people. School fees affect parents. Employment policies affect workers. Taxes affect families. Healthcare decisions affect patients. Corruption affects citizens regardless of which political party is responsible.
The consequences don’t carry a party logo.
This is why the question we should ask ourselves is remarkably simple:
Would I consider this wrong if my political opponents did it?
If the answer is yes, then perhaps we have discovered a principle.
If the answer is no, perhaps we have discovered a bias.
Being politically aware does not mean blindly supporting the people we agree with. In fact, it may mean doing the opposite.
The strongest supporter of a political party should arguably be the person willing to question it the most.
Because loyalty without accountability isn’t really loyalty to a principle. It is loyalty to a person.
And that is where the paradox of the andhbhakt lies.
They may believe they are defending their ideology.
They may believe they are defending their country.
They may believe they are defending truth.
But if their definition of truth changes depending on who is speaking, then they are not defending truth at all.
They are defending a side.
And perhaps we should all turn the lens on ourselves and ask; not just of those on the other side of the political divide: If someone I dislike says something that is true, am I still willing to accept it?
If the answer is no, the problem may not be the politician.
It may be us.
Pic source – CreativeCanvasShop on Pixabay
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