The Doctrine of Sindoor: India’s red line against terror

 

ON the evening of May 10, a hush fell over the battlefield. For the first time in almost a week, the borders between India and Pakistan experienced a semblance of tranquillity, following one of the most intense and devastating confrontations in recent memory.

Operation Sindoor, India’s bold and precise military response targeting terrorist strongholds in Pakistan and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (POK), signifies a pivotal moment in the evolving security strategy of the subcontinent.

Although hostilities have ceased, a new strategic framework for India has emerged, one that Prime Minister Narendra Modi has articulated with both clarity and decisiveness. It is imperative to formally recognise this new doctrine as the Doctrine of Sindoor.

A red line reimagined

Codenamed Operation Sindoor, which symbolically invokes the sacred red mark representing dignity and honour for Indian women, was a direct military response to the terror attack in Pahalgam on April 22.

Within a fortnight, India executed a coordinated strike on May 7, targeting locations described by PM Modi as ‘global universities of terrorism’ in Bahawalpur and Muridke.

Reports indicated that over 100 terrorists were neutralised. This led to a near-war scenario, with both nations engaged in a perilous missile and drone confrontation.

The escalation was alarming; however, the subsequent request for a ceasefire from Pakistan just 100 hours later validated India’s objective of establishing deterrence through decisive retaliation.

The three pillars of the Doctrine of Sindoor

(Image: Bloomberg News)

Central to this doctrine is a transformative triad, as articulated by Prime Minister Modi and emphasised by the Indian Director General of Military Operations, which signifies a strategic evolution in India’s approach to addressing terrorism and threats sponsored by states.

Decisive retaliation at a time and place of India’s choosing

India will no longer adhere to a reactive or defensive posture. As PM Modi stated, terrorist attacks on Indian soil will invite direct action against their origins.

No longer will geography or political pressure dictate India’s hand; retaliation will be swift, coordinated, and tailored on India’s terms.

Rejecting the spectre of nuclear blackmail

The second pillar dismantles a long-standing psychological barrier the fear of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. India’s leadership has made it clear that nuclear threats will not deter military action against terrorist infrastructure.

This is a bold and calculated declaration, signalling India’s readiness to call Pakistan’s bluff.

Equating terrorist groups with their patron states

The third tenet of the Doctrine of Sindoor erases the artificial distinction between terrorist actors and the governments that shelter them, with Modi saying terror and state cannot be separated when states line up to bury terrorists with honours.

This perspective calls for a global re-evaluation of how Pakistan is dealt with diplomatically not as a victim of terrorism, but as its enabler.

Symbolism and strategic clarity

The designation of Operation Sindoor is imbued with intentional cultural and emotional significance.

Modi’s statement, “Terrorists erased our women’s Sindoor, we dismantled their stronghold” conveys not only a sense of retribution but also the restoration of national dignity.

It resonates with a shared historical trauma, recalling events from Pulwama to Uri, and recontextualises India’s counter-terrorism strategy in a manner that is both tactical and symbolic.

Furthermore, this operation highlighted the advancement of India’s military-industrial sector.

Modi underscored the achievements of ‘Made in India’ defence technologies, illustrating the capabilities of domestic missiles and drones.

This initiative transcends mere military pride; it represents India’s aspiration to reshape 21st-century warfare through self-sufficiency and innovation.

A diplomatic challenge for the world

Prime Minister Narendra Modi (Image: ANI Photo)

In Modi’s own words: “Terror and talk cannot go together, terror and trade cannot happen together, and water and blood also cannot flow together.”

These aren’t rhetorical flourishes they form the boundaries of India’s future diplomatic engagement with Pakistan.

The message to the international community is unambiguous: India’s willingness to engage in dialogue is now strictly conditional on verifiable action against terrorism.

By declaring that any future talks will be solely about terrorism and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir, India has narrowed the field of diplomacy with a surgical precision matching its military strikes.

The new normal

The Doctrine of Sindoor transcends mere retribution; it seeks to reformulate deterrence theory within the subcontinent.

This approach advocates for a shift from a reactive to a proactive posture, transitioning from diplomatic appeals to military enforcement, and from mere symbolic outrage to tangible repercussions.

Detractors may contend that such assertiveness could exacerbate instability. However, this perspective presupposes that the existing conditions were stable from the outset.

Operation Sindoor has effectively introduced a level of unpredictability not regarding India’s vulnerabilities but concerning its responses.

For the first time in many years, the repercussions of supporting terrorism against India have escalated to a perilously high level for Pakistan.

The Doctrine of Sindoor transcends a mere military strategy; it embodies a national doctrine focused on deterrence, dignity, and decisiveness.

The effectiveness of this doctrine in preventing future attacks or instigating a fundamental change in Pakistan’s approach to terrorism is yet to be determined.

However, it is evident that a clear boundary has been established, symbolised by the colour of Sindoor.

R. Paneir Selvam is the principal consultant of Arunachala Research & Consultancy Sdn Bhd, a think tank specialising in strategic national and geopolitical matters.

The views expressed are solely of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of  MMKtT.

- Focus Malaysia.

“Tanah Melayu” could become legally binding if Sabah and Sarawak were to leave Malaysia, provided constitutional amendments are made

 

THERE have been recent calls to reinstate or rejuvenate the idea of “Tanah Melayu” by certain quarters, including former premier Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad.

Since the formation of Malaysia in 1963, the term “Tanah Melayu” has primarily been used in historical or cultural contexts, not as a political or geographical term encompassing all of Malaysia.

Modern Malaysia includes both West (Peninsular) Malaysia and East Malaysia (Sabah and Sarawak).

Evolution of Malaysia

West Malaysia, or Peninsular Malaysia, was historically referred to as “Tanah Melayu” meaning “the land of the Malays”.

This region comprised various Malay sultanates under British protection before 1946. The term “Tanah Melayu” was culturally and ethnically used to signify the Malay homeland.

After World War II, the British formed Malayan Union, which was deeply unpopular among Malays as it reduced the powers of the Sultans and granted equal citizenship to non-Malays.

In response, the Federation of Malaya (Persekutuan Tanah Melayu) was established in 1948, restoring the authority of the Malay rulers and reinforcing the political status of the Malays.

(Image: Facebook/446)

In 1957, the Federation of Malaya gained independence, retaining the official name Persekutuan Tanah Melayu.

In 1963, Malaysia was formed through the union of Malaya, Sabah, Sarawak, and initially Singapore. From then onward, Malaysia became the official name.

Today, “Tanah Melayu” is not an official name. It is mainly used in historical, cultural, or nationalist contexts.

Some political groups or individuals may still refer to West Malaysia as Tanah Melayu to emphasise Malay ethnic identity, but it is not recognised in official governance or legal documents.

Legal and political context

The term “Tanah Melayu” holds cultural and emotional significance, particularly in relation to Malay identity and nationalism. However, it has no legal or constitutional standing in modern Malaysia.

The Federal Constitution of Malaysia does not mention “Tanah Melayu”. The legal name of the country is Malaysia. Although the Federation of Malaya (1948–1963) was known in Malay as Persekutuan Tanah Melayu, this changed after the formation of Malaysia in 1963. Legal documents and laws today refer only to “Malaysia,” “the Federation”, or “the States of the Federation.”

Malay nationalist and conservative political groups—such as UMNO and certain factions of PAS—sometimes invoke the term “Tanah Melayu” to assert Malay political dominance.

This is often used to justify policies like Ketuanan Melayu (Malay supremacy) and to frame non-Malay citizenship and rights as conferred rather than inherent.

Such rhetoric influences affirmative action policies, notably Article 153 of the Constitution, which protects the special position of the Malays and Bumiputera communities.

Policies such as the New Economic Policy (NEP) and its successors, which grant preferential treatment in education, business, and employment, are often tied to this narrative.

For many ethnic Malays, Tanah Melayu represents a historical homeland, cultural pride, and Islamic heritage.

However, for non-Malay communities, the term may feel exclusionary, reinforcing the perception that they are perpetual guests or outsiders despite generations of citizenship.

In East Malaysia (Sabah and Sarawak), the term is often met with unease. It may be perceived as Peninsular-centric and potentially marginalising to the unique identities and autonomy of East Malaysians.

Symbolism vs legality

Though not legally binding, the term “Tanah Melayu” remains politically and culturally potent. It is frequently used to assert Malay supremacy, justify affirmative action, and frame national identity either uniting or dividing, depending on the context.

Recent citizenship amendments (2024–2025) have stirred constitutional debates on what it means to be “truly Malaysian”, particularly concerning stateless children and automatic citizenship rights.

During debates on citizenship laws, some lawmakers warned against “eroding the Malay core,” subtly referencing the symbolic weight of Tanah Melayu, even without explicitly naming it.

Can “Tanah Melayu” legally return?

If Sabah and Sarawak were to leave Malaysia, could Tanah Melayu become legally binding once more? Technically, yes—but not automatically.

(Image: AP)

It would require a major constitutional overhaul.

Malaysia’s current legal structure was created in 1963, when the Federation of Malaya was joined by Sabah, Sarawak, and Singapore. The Constitution defines “Malaysia” as comprising 13 states, not just Peninsular ones.

Should Sabah and Sarawak leave the Federation, the existing political and legal framework would collapse, requiring amendments to the Federal Constitution. Only then—if politically desired—could the name Persekutuan Tanah Melayu be reinstated.

Such a move would carry profound legal and political consequences. Restoring the name “Tanah Melayu” would require parliamentary approval, including a two-thirds majority.

It would likely be perceived domestically and internationally as a regressive or ethno-nationalist shift.

Reverting to “Tanah Melayu” could be interpreted as transforming Malaysia into a Malay-centric state, rather than a multiethnic nation.

This could deepen divisions with non-Malay citizens, including the Orang Asli, and reinforce the notion of Malay-Muslim political supremacy.

Its resurrection would not be automatic and would carry significant political and social repercussions, both within Malaysia and globally.

KT Maran is a Focus Malaysia viewer.

The views expressed are solely of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of  MMKtT.

- Focus Malaysia.

The ones we feared: A Teachers’ Day story

 

I WAS eleven, sitting straight in a wooden chair that felt too big for my small frame, staring at the blackboard like it held the secrets of the universe—or at least the secret to avoiding a scolding.

My pencil was sharpened. My workbook was neat. And my heart was pounding. Standing in front of the class was Cikgu Aminah: tall, loud, and undeniably garang.

You didn’t talk when she entered the room. You didn’t laugh. You didn’t even breathe too loudly. You froze—not because you were told to, but because instinct told you that crossing her line came with consequences.

She didn’t need to shout to get our attention, but she often did anyway. Her voice carried — across rows of students, through the open windows, sometimes even echoing into the hallway. She didn’t tolerate laziness, nor did she entertain excuses.

And yet, I knew something else was there. Something deeper beneath that intimidating exterior.

Yes, I was terrified of her. Just like the rest of the school. But for students who could keep up with her expectations, there was a subtle shift in how she treated you. She didn’t become warm, but there was a kind of reserved respect.

She would call on you more often, trusting you to get it right. She would hand back your marked workbook with slightly less friction in her voice. And once—just once—I remember her glancing at my paper and saying, “Good.”

That one word meant more to me than a trophy.

Even as an 11-year-old, I sensed that her strictness wasn’t random. It was deliberate. There was a purpose behind every loud instruction, every stern correction, every moment of silence that followed a wrong answer. Her garang-ness wasn’t a mask. It was a method.

Now, decades later, as Dr Adib—a lecturer, a researcher, a supervisor, a professor—I look back with much clearer eyes. And I see the truth that escaped me back then: she wasn’t trying to be feared. She was serious. Serious about the subject. Serious about discipline.

But above all, serious about our potential.

We often describe teachers like her as “strict” or “no-nonsense”, and we say it with a mixture of fear and nostalgia. But we forget that to be garang is not to be unkind—it is to care with such intensity that you refuse to settle for mediocrity.

She could have chosen the easy route: smile more, scold less, let things slide. But she didn’t. Because she believed we were capable of more.

Because when I think about the lessons that stayed with me the longest, they didn’t come from a slideshow or a textbook. They came from that sense of accountability.

From being taught that precision matters. That preparation counts. That every problem—no matter how complex—can be solved, if you try hard enough.

Cikgu Aminah saw something in us. And in me.

She didn’t need to praise us often. Her standards were the praise. Her discipline was the message. She held up a mirror to what we could become, if only we met her there.

And while I’ve spent years since then walking through the corridors of higher education—in Australia, in the UK, and now in Universiti Malaya—I still carry the imprint of that early formation.

Because real education doesn’t start in universities. It starts in classrooms like hers—where chalk meets challenge, and where children are treated like thinkers, not just students.

I meet young people today who are overwhelmed by pressure, unsure of their capabilities, and too quick to measure themselves against filtered perfection online. They want reassurance. They want approval.

And while kindness absolutely has a place in education, so does conviction. There is strength in being held to a high standard—in being told, not unkindly, that you can do better. And being expected to rise to it.

So this Hari Guru, I think of Cikgu Aminah—one of five teachers from my primary school whose names I still remember. Not because they were soft, but because they were present. Because they believed in us loudly—sometimes too loudly. Because they didn’t make things easy, but they made things matter.

She never saw me become Prof Adib. She never saw the research, the papers, the students I now teach. She passed on a year before I completed my PhD.

But the foundation of my academia journey was built in her class. Every equation she drilled into us, every wrong answer she didn’t let slide—they formed the scaffolding for a life of learning.

To all the garang teachers out there: thank you. You didn’t just teach us maths, science, or grammar. You taught us grit. You taught us focus. You taught us to take ourselves seriously.

Because you did, first.

Dr Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering in the Faculty of Engineering, and the Principal of Ibnu Sina Residential College, Universiti Malaya.

The views expressed are solely of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MMKtT. 

- Focus Malaysia.