The Property Moguls

When I think about the Waqf Board’s immense control over land, I can’t help but see an irony in how far it has strayed from its supposed purpose. Originally established to protect and preserve land for religious and charitable causes, the Waqf Board today feels more like a powerful real estate empire, managing vast properties as if it were some divine real estate agency. This is a body that claims to protect heritage, yet its approach often results in pushing small farmers, shopkeepers, and villagers out of the land they’ve called home for generations.

Imagine being a farmer in a country where holding onto even a small patch of land is a struggle. Then, one day, you receive a notice from the Waqf Board, a body you probably haven’t thought much about, except perhaps as a guardian of charitable values. But now, this very organisation is telling you that your land is theirs, that you’re living on “sacred ground,” as if that label somehow makes your decades of hard work irrelevant. For many, this notice isn’t just a bureaucratic document; it’s a sudden threat to their very livelihood, uprooting generations of connection to the soil.

This situation is not isolated. Thanks to a 1974 gazette notification, the Waqf Board was granted sweeping control over properties far and wide. In theory, this power was meant to protect religious lands. But in practice, it has allowed the Board to operate with little accountability, often enforcing land claims that seem to ignore the people who live and work there. A charitable body acting as a landlord? It feels less like protection of heritage and more like an iron grip over real estate.

The Board’s justification for these actions usually centers around “preserving heritage,” as though the plough of a farmer or the work of a shopkeeper might desecrate the land. But I find it telling that this “preservation” often involves claiming ownership, issuing legal notices, and asserting authority over lands that are the lifeblood of ordinary people. There’s a deep irony here, as if charity has become synonymous with hoarding—hoarding land, control, and power.

This raises an important question: is the Waqf Board still a charitable trust, or has it become a business model with a moral veneer? Because from where I stand, it seems like the Board’s mission has turned into a power play rather than a public service. Instead of acting as a custodian for the public good, it has come to resemble an untouchable landlord, wielding authority that impacts lives without much regard for the consequences.

In the end, the Waqf Board’s original purpose of charity and public welfare feels overshadowed by its pursuit of control. While it once might have existed to safeguard the community, today it seems more like a high-stakes player in a real estate game. And that is a sad departure from what a public trust should be—a support system, not a force that threatens the livelihoods of those it was meant to serve. Until we address this imbalance, the Board will continue to walk a troubling line between public trust and private fiefdom.