What Is the Voice from Kashmir Beyond Silence and Slogans?

Srinagar, Aug 5 (NationPress) There exists a father in Kashmir whose grief transcends words. He once brought his son home wrapped not in his embrace, but in a body bag. His child, a victim of an incomprehensible conflict, was laid to rest in the soil of their village.

Yet, the sorrow did not cease at the gravesite. The narrative surrounding his son’s demise was reshaped, politicized, and exhibited across various platforms under the guise of a cause that offered nothing to the grieving family.

When asked what has changed since 2019, that father will not reference policy papers; instead, he will express something much more profound - a lived experience. A decade ago, identifying oneself as Kashmiri outside the Valley came with an unspoken weight. Whether in Delhi, Bengaluru, or Kochi, self-introductions were marked by hesitation. This was not blatant suspicion, but a noticeable shift in demeanor.

Kashmir was more than just a location; it became a headline. Curfews, shutdowns, and stone-pelting were the images forever engraved in the national consciousness. And they were not without merit. They mirrored the reality of life in the Valley.

For those who grew up before the 2000s, childhood in Kashmir was devoid of vibrant festivals or playgrounds. Instead, it was defined by wailing sirens, closed schools, and the stinging sensation of tear gas.

Before 2019, Kashmir's political landscape was unique compared to other Indian states. Governance was multifaceted. In addition to the Civil Secretariat in Srinagar, there existed another power hub - the Hurriyat office in Rajbagh. Some labeled it separatism; others referred to it bluntly as soft-line terrorism, as reported by Global Kashmir on August 5, marking six years since the abrogation of Article 370.

The emotional depth and humility of Kashmiris made them susceptible to manipulation. Both mainstream politicians and separatist leaders capitalized on public sentiment. While denouncing India and its institutions, many separatist leaders enjoyed state privileges - having government housing, VIP access, and security. They urged local youth to pick up stones while their own children secured government jobs or settled abroad.

Journalist Shabnam Qayoom once highlighted this hypocrisy in his work, ‘Ye Kis Ka Lahu Hai Kon Mara’. For his efforts, he faced assault in a Srinagar restaurant, just steps away from a police station. No FIR was filed, and that silence spoke volumes.

In this conflict-ridden environment, it was seldom the elite offspring of Gupkar Road who faced the repercussions. It was the children of ordinary Kashmiris - Lass Kaak, Amm Kaak, and Sull Kaak - who endured the consequences. Their voices were drowned. Those advocating for peace were silenced or threatened.

The education system, already crippled by the 1990s exodus of Kashmiri Pandits, suffered further from the burden of relentless hartals. Among the many wounds inflicted by conflict, none ran deeper than the one carved into education. Schools closed, lecture halls went empty, and the rhythm of learning fell out of sync with the rest of India.

Generations of children missed crucial years that should have been devoted to learning alphabets and solving equations, instead evading curfews and chaos. National exams became distant aspirations, and the brightest minds in the Valley were dimmed not by lack of talent, but by a scarcity of opportunity.

Let it be stated clearly - Kashmiri youth have never lacked brilliance. Their potential is irrefutable. What has failed them is the environment. Their intellect, instead of being nurtured, was manipulated. Fed with half-truths and incendiary slogans, many were radicalized - not for their cause, but for someone else's advantage. Through coercion, fear, or deceitful promises, their potential was diverted into danger.

Yet, we shouldn’t linger in the past indefinitely. The narratives of loss could fill volumes. Let’s shift focus to what transpired post-August 5, 2019.

Regardless of agreement or dissent with the decision, one thing is evident: it transformed the everyday existence of the average Kashmiri. Not instantaneously, and not without struggle - but undeniably. This isn’t a celebration of flawlessness. Kashmir hasn’t turned into a utopia. However, something is stirring. A sense of momentum. A pulse of opportunity. And no, I won’t inundate you with statistics. Those can be found on various portals. What matters more is the lived experience.

Take Gurez, for instance. On November 27, 2023, it received grid-connected electricity for the very first time. This wasn’t due to a recent discovery or the terrain being insurmountable; it occurred because someone finally decided to take action.

The long-absent will has returned.

Look at Srinagar’s flyovers. Prior to 2019, the city had merely one major overpass - Jehangir Chowk to Rambagh - conceived in 2009 and completed a decade later. Today, five flyovers stand robust, constructed within five years, with two being completed during the pandemic. That’s not merely construction; that’s progress.

The Srinagar-Baramulla highway, once a symbol of bureaucratic stagnation, is now nearing completion. Flyovers at Sangrama and Delina are operational.

The Waqf Board, previously untouched by regulation, is now under scrutiny. Shop rents frozen since 2008 are now revised. Teachers, who once drew salaries without entering classrooms, are now held accountable. Offices are opening on time. Public servants are reporting for duty. The culture of impunity is gradually giving way to a culture of responsibility.

Today, when a subsidy is announced, it no longer disappears into bureaucratic obscurity or gets siphoned off by middlemen. It reaches your bank account directly, thanks to Direct Benefit Transfer. Schemes are not just political slogans anymore - they are real. Be it housing, food rations, or scholarships, they reach the intended beneficiaries.

Tourism is no longer just revived - it’s flourishing. Pahalgam, Gulmarg, and Sonamarg - previously seasonal destinations - are now year-round attractions. Visitors come not just for pictures but for cinema. Film crews, once hesitant, are returning. Film tourism is no longer a memory; it’s a movement.

Electricity is no longer a winter myth. Clean water flows into homes that previously depended on long walks and heavy buckets. Life, once suspended amidst curfews and crackdowns, is starting to feel livable. And when elections were conducted, people voted - not out of fear, but in freedom. No grenades. No ghost booths. The fear that once clouded our evenings is dissipating.

For the first time in our history, Kashmir’s academic calendar has run uninterrupted for four consecutive years. That’s not a minor detail; that’s a significant achievement. For families unable to send their children to Delhi or Pune, let alone abroad, watching them enter Amar Singh College or Women’s College is akin to witnessing them step into Oxford or Yale.

What transformed was the right to dream without being dragged into someone else's conflict. What changed was dignity, accountability, and the freedom to envision a future. This wasn’t a decision made in a distant office in Delhi for headlines. It was a rectification - bold, overdue, and rooted in the “Haqq” of Kashmiris. Authentic Kashmiris. The fruit sellers, farmers, and village teachers. The ones who lost children. The ones who never had a voice, power, or VIP privileges. This wasn’t for the elite of Gupkar or the architects of unrest.

It was for Lass Kaak, Amm Kaak, and Sull Kaak - for you, and for me. August 5 wasn’t merely a date. It represented justice. It was Azaadi from fear.