The critique of the UAE’s culture as “pagan” by a subcontinental Muslim reveals a deeper tension that runs through the history of religious identity in the Indian subcontinent. It’s often the Muslims of the Indian subcontinent who express the most fervent zeal in policing Islamic orthodoxy. Why? Because they live in a land where the pre-Islamic past is never truly past but still present. India, with its ancient but still vibrant and resurgent Hindu civilization, stands as a constant living reminder of that pre-Islamic heritage that could not be erased. This enduring presence of Hinduism, with its temples, festivals, and philosophical depth, creates a unique pressure on subcontinental Muslims, fostering a defensive hyper-orthodoxy that seeks to assert Islam’s dominance in a landscape where it remains contested.
Contrast this with regions where Islam became near-totalizing, like parts of the Middle East or North Africa. In such places, pre-Islamic traditions—whether Zoroastrian or Bedouin—were often absorbed into the Islamic cultural framework once the “threat” of a rival faith receded. The UAE, for instance, proudly showcases its Bedouin heritage, falconry, and pre-Islamic poetry, weaving them into a modern Islamic identity. Egypt celebrates its Pharaonic past, with pyramids and sphinxes as national symbols, not as challenges to Islamic dominance. Why? Because these societies, having long since subdued or integrated their pre-Islamic rivals, face no existential need to deny their ancient roots. The past is no longer a threat; it’s a legacy that can now be shaped in the mould of the new faith.
In India, however, the story is different. The Hindu majority represents a continuous thread of pre-Islamic civilization—politically assertive, culturally prolific, and increasingly confident. This reality fuels an insecurity among some subcontinental Muslims, who respond by doubling down on displays of religious purity. It’s the convert’s zeal, the need to prove one’s fidelity to a faith adopted in a land where the older traditions never fully faded.
Historically, this dynamic has manifested in striking ways. When the Ottoman Caliphate fell in 1924, it was not the Arabs—closer to the heart of Islam—who mourned its demise most vocally. Instead, it was subcontinental Muslims who launched the Khilafat Movement, a passionate but ultimately quixotic campaign to restore a distant caliphate. The Arabs, having chafed under Ottoman rule, were often relieved to see it go, focusing instead on their own national aspirations.
This pattern repeats across history. Consider the Deobandi scholars of the 19th century, emerging in British India, who pushed for a stricter, more exclusivist Islam, wary of Hindu cultural resurgence under colonial rule. Even today, debates over “pagan” practices or cultural syncretism—like the veneration of Sufi shrines or the celebration of Basant—are fiercest in Pakistan and India, not in the Gulf or Levant or Iran, where local traditions are often embraced as folklore rather than heresy. Iranian Muslims celebrate their Zoroastrian Nowruz New Year, but Indian Muslims don't celebrate the Hindu New Year. Iranian Muslims are proud of the epic Shahnameh chronicling the achievements of their pre Islamic kings, but Indian Muslims don't feel any connection to the Ramayana or Mahabharata).
The subcontinental Muslim’s critique of the UAE, then, is less about the Emirates and more about a deeper anxiety: the fear that Islam, in its Indian context, remains in dialogue with a past it cannot fully subdue. This is not to say subcontinental Muslims are monolithic—some embrace India’s pluralistic ethos. But the loudest voices of Islamic or Christian puritanism often emerge from those haunted by the shadow of a civilization that refuses to vanish under them. Meanwhile, Hindus, secure in their ancient roots, continue to thrive, their presence a quiet but powerful rejoinder to those who would rewrite history in monochrome.
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