If there is one place in India that needs no reminders about patriotism or the constitutional principle of ‘unity in diversity,’ it is the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Few other regions reflect the idea of India so vividly—a nation forged not only in struggle but also in coexistence and pluralism.
Home to nearly five lakh people, this remote archipelago is a living repository of the freedom struggle. Many residents are descendants of revolutionaries and political prisoners exiled to the infamous Cellular Jail—Kala Pani—by the British. These freedom fighters came from Bengal, Punjab, Bihar, and Uttar Pradesh. Alongside them are settlers who arrived after Independence, and indigenous tribes like the Negrito groups—Jarawas, Onges, Great Andamanese, Sentinelese—and the Mongoloid tribes like the Shompens and Nicobarese.
The islands aren’t just remote outposts; they are reflections of what India can be at its best. Here, a unique Hindustani dialect—blending Hindi with Bengali, Tamil, Bhojpuri, and Punjabi—serves as a unifying thread. Despite differences in ethnicity, religion, and language, the people live together with remarkable harmony. Unlike the mainland, which has seen rising polarization, the islands have remained relatively immune to divisive politics. Diwali, Eid, and Christmas are celebrated collectively. Mosques, temples, and churches stand side by side. Ironically, it is the very remoteness—1,200 kilometers from the Indian coast—that has shielded the islands from much of the toxic rhetoric that plagues the mainland.
Local identities and historical memory
However, the islands have their own social dynamics. The key divide is not communal but cultural—islanders versus mainlanders. Long-time residents often see recent migrants from the mainland as outsiders unfamiliar with local sensitivities, ecology, or history. It’s a sentiment rooted in identity and self-preservation, not exclusion. Local historical memory is also distinct. Consider Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose—a revered figure nationally. While his raising of the tricolour in Port Blair in 1943 is celebrated, the Japanese occupation that accompanied it is remembered here for its brutality. For many islanders, that period brought suffering worse than under British rule. Such nuance often gets lost in broader nationalist narratives.
Tribute or oversimplification?
It is against this backdrop that the renaming of Port Blair to Shri Vijaya Puram must be understood. On the surface, it appears a fitting tribute to Bose and the INA’s symbolic assertion of Indian sovereignty. The name—meaning “City of Victory”—feels emotionally resonant, especially to those who revere the freedom movement.
Yet, it raises questions. Does the name reflect the island’s full identity? The history of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands is more layered than a single wartime episode. It includes stories of indigenous communities who predate colonialism, of settlers from across the country who found common ground here, and of multiple traditions coexisting. While the name change may instill pride, it risks flattening a rich, complex past into a singular narrative. The islands have always stood for inclusion, resilience, and lived unity. That legacy deserves to be upheld not just in names, but in policy and practice.
In today’s India—grappling with division and identity politics—the Andaman and Nicobar Islands offer a lesson. Here, patriotism isn’t performative; it is lived in the quiet dignity of coexistence. It’s embodied by families who carry the legacy of resistance, but choose dialogue over division. It’s visible in schools where children learn not just about Gandhi and Nehru, but also about Azad, Tilak, and the many unsung heroes of the Cellular Jail. These islands, isolated yet integrated, stand as both a metaphor and a mirror—reminding us that true unity is built not by force, but by shared struggles, shared spaces, and shared stories.
