Progeny in politics

When a journalist’s son becomes a journalist, it is no news. When a lawyer’s daughter follows suit, it is considered legit. When a doctor’s child also aspires to become one, it is a family tradition. When a businessman’s heir takes over the family empire, it’s just business as usual. So why the fire and brimstone when a politician’s progeny ventures into politics?

Thus spoke Omar Abdullah sometime back when responding to a journalist’s query about the imminent entry of his sons into politics. The question was prompted by their presence alongside state government officials on the sidelights of a cabinet meeting. By their own account, they’re helping their father oversee his constituency and other related matters. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. Still, it’s evident to everyone that they are being weaned in and groomed for leadership roles.

If they follow their father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, they’d be fourth generation “dynasts” in the Abdullah family. This prospect fuels the BJP, the new opposition in J&K, which has made “dynastic family rule” the centre piece of its critique of Kashmir politics, vowing to dismantle it. Yet, the Valley’s electorate resoundingly rejected this narrative, giving the “dynasty driven” National Conference an unquestioned majority.

Even so, “family rule” remains a legitimate issue, widely discussed but seldom confronted squarely. To his credit, Omar responded with his trademark candour and disarming simplicity. In the process raising critical points, debatable opinions, and expressed views that invite scrutiny. There was, of course, a rhetorical flourish to his response. But Omar’s comparison of dynastic politics to other professions is particularly troubling.

A doctor’s son doesn’t become a doctor simply because his father is one; he needs years of education and certifications. A politician’s daughter, however, can, and has entered politics without such barriers. An illiterate or semi-literate daughter cannot become a journalist just because her mother was one, but a politician’s daughter can. A lawyer’s son requires a law degree to practice; a politician’s son faces no such requirement.

The comparison to business families is also flawed. Business inheritance involves private wealth passed to heirs, sanctified by property rights and market dynamics. Even then, corporates handling public money must adhere to governance codes and regulatory compliance, backed by legal safeguards. No such framework exists for politicians. The broad point being that in other professions, entry is restricted by professional standards, certifications, or market competition, which mitigate risks and limit systemic harm.

By remarking that “dynasty politics [is] not a lifelong ticket -- we are glorified daily wagers”, Omar Abdullah may have acknowledged the fragility of political careers, it perhaps reflects his current state of mind, not the state of affairs. Importantly, it tries to sidestep the deeper implications of inherited power.

What his analogy ignores is the unique nature of political power: politics operates in the public domain, not the private sphere. Treating political power as a family inheritance-- akin to a business empire -- privatizes what should be a public trust. Even when voters choose political heirs, systemic advantages like name recognition, established networks, and access to resources decides the selection. This betrays public trust and carries profound societal implications, eroding the democratic ideals of representation and accountability.

Politics, rooted in the social contract, demands that leaders prioritize the public good over family ties. Inheriting political roles fosters a sense of entitlement, undermines meritocracy, and risks eroding institutional legitimacy. Philosophically, governance hinges on the principle that competence, not bloodlines, should determine leadership. The family inheritance system subverts this, prioritizing lineage over ability and fostering a culture of privilege.

Yet, the issue isn’t black-and-white; it demands a nuanced understanding. The Abdullahs’ legacy, for instance, represents a form of “political capital” that National Conference as a party is leveraging. At its core, it reflects how Sheikh Abdullah’s individual legacy – his anti-monarchy movement, land reforms, and autonomy advocacy – is the NC’s institutional bedrock. The party has been built as an extension of his persona.

The trouble starts only when the personal legacies – built on charisma, historical struggle and inherited symbolism -- become institutionalized in the party’s charter and cadre. It is this that turns political parties into extensions of family enterprises by prioritizing bloodlines over ballot. In the National Conference the boundary between Sheikh’s individual legacy and institutional legacy is not just kept blurred but deliberately porous, often to the detriment of broader political pluralism.

The way these two are intertwined, it is difficult to say where the individual legacy ends and where does the institutional legacy start. Over time the ideological legacy of National Conference has become diffused resulting in the loyalty getting shifted from issues to individuals, from the party to the party leadership.

Omar Abdullah, a 28-year-old trained in hospitality gets para trooped from the lobby of a hotel to the corridors of the Parliament representing Kashmiris in the highest forum of the land. Farooq Abdullah’s entry though more dramatic, was no different. This ease of entry -- unburdened by qualifications or experience -- highlights the problematic nature of dynastic succession.

Contrast this with Mehbooba Mufti. She built the Peoples’ Democratic Party from the ground up under her father’s guidance, braving ghost towns in the 1990s after every carnage. It’s hard to label her a “dynast” in the pejorative sense; she earned her place through grit. The same cannot be said for her brother or her daughters, whose entry attracts the negativities of nepotism.

Mehbooba Mufti also illustrates the double-edged nature of political inheritance. After her father’s controversial alliance with the BJP, she lost both elections she contested. The PDP’s vote share plummeted from 24 per cent to 8 per cent, a devastating blow to three decades of political toil. One misstep—some call it betrayal, others compromise—nearly wiped out her party’s relevance, showing that hereditary political capital can be as fragile as it is powerful.

The dynastic narrative is getting furthered by the emergence of intra-party “sub-dynasties.” Many young Turks from Sheikh Abdullah’s 1970s cabinet, and later associates of Farooq and Omar Abdullah, have passed the baton to their sons. This inert-generational continuance has the makings of a political cabal, with some members tied by familial links, further entrenching power within select circles.

Community-based sub-dynasties also thrive. Among the Gujjar community, a few families dominate political leadership. The Larvis of Ganderbal, a long-time NC stronghold, and the Chaudhris of Pir Panchal are prime examples. Mian Altaf, the current National Conference MP from Anantnag-Rajouri, is the son of Mian Bashir Ahmed Larvi, whose father founded the Gujjar-Jat Conference in 1932. These are sub-plots within the larger National Conference story. The Chaudhris of Rajouri and Poonch are another fascinating tale of concentration of political representation and control

Just as feudalism endured for centuries through the mutual obligations of the lord-vassal relationship, “family rule” persists by seemingly offering stability and security in a fragmented polity. It thrives on reciprocal loyalty, binding leaders and followers in a cycle of mutual dependence, much like feudalism’s economic structure.

The author is a Contributing Editor of Greater Kashmir.