Growing up, Kashmir was always there — not just on the map, but in our conversations, in the silences, in the fears we inherited. I knew it through textbooks and television screens, through family discussions that always seemed to stop mid-sentence, and through headlines that made it sound like a place too complicated to be real.
It was always the border, the dispute, the tension, the “situation”. And yet, despite all the noise, there was always a pull — quiet but strong. Because it wasn’t just any place for me. It was mine. I was born and brought up in Jammu and Kashmir, but like many others from my part of the region, I grew up hearing more about Kashmir than experiencing it.
It wasn’t until my mid-twenties, when I had started venturing out to explore places on my own, that I finally made that journey — not just geographically, but emotionally. That was the first time I truly entered Kashmir. And I remember that moment so vividly.
As soon as we crossed into the Valley, everything that had only lived in my imagination came rushing into view. Army trucks rumbled past. Armed personnel stood at corners. Checkpoints dotted the roads. The landscape — as stunning as it was — felt watchful. Even the most serene meadows carried an undercurrent of unease, like they remembered too much. And in my heart, all those second-hand stories of conflict began echoing.
But then, somewhere along the way, something inside me softened.
I asked myself — what if I stopped looking at Kashmir through the eyes of everyone else? What if I let it speak for itself, instead of filtering it through assumptions, media headlines, or inherited fears? What if I listened?
So I did.
And that’s when everything changed.
Kashmir, the land I had always seen as distant and complicated, began to open itself to me — not through monuments or markets, but through people. Locals who treated me like one of their own. Friends I made there who felt more like family than most relatives ever had. They didn’t just host me — they held me. They made sure I felt safe, that I felt like I belonged. With them, the stories I had grown up with started to feel incomplete, even unfair.
I ended up visiting Kashmir again. Then again. Three times, maybe more. And with each trip, I grew more attached — not just to its postcard-worthy beauty, but to its stillness, to the quiet strength it carries beneath everything. There’s something deeply grounding about the Valley. Something sacred in the way time seems to slow down there.
But each time I returned home, I was met with the same question — Was it safe?
That question always unsettled me. Not because it was unjustified, but because it was so limiting. Is safety really the only lens through which we see Kashmir? Are we not curious about its stories, its culture, its everyday joys and struggles? Is that the only conversation we want to have?
Just a day before the recent heartbreaking news, I was talking to some friends about how magical it is to explore the interiors of Kashmir — the places untouched by tourist brochures, places that come alive only when seen with the help of locals. There’s a hidden Kashmir that most people don’t get to see — full of warmth, laughter, chai stalls, small shrines, childhood games, and breathtaking silence. And I was telling them just that — how Kashmir has so much more to offer than what we’ve been taught to expect.
And then the news came.
Suddenly, that subtle sense of normalcy I had started to believe in began to crack. I started questioning myself — Had I romanticized it? Had I fallen for a temporary calm that was never real?
Because I’ve seen the other side too. I’ve passed by encounter sites. I’ve watched heavily guarded villages from a distance. I’ve heard the silence after a gunshot — not on the news, but with my own ears.
Why are those realities not part of the mainstream narrative?
Why does it feel like Kashmir is an ongoing experiment — a testing ground for politics, power, and pain?
How long will this land remain divided by faith? How long will we continue to perpetuate this idea that Muslims belong to Kashmir and Hindus belong to Jammu? How long will we keep choosing sides instead of choosing each other?
The abrogation of Article 370 was meant to be a promise — of peace, unity, and development. But where is that peace? Where is that harmony? Because while major attacks are still happening in Jammu, countless incidents in Kashmir go unreported, unseen, and unheard.
And here’s the truth I’ve come to accept — Kashmir is not just land. It is a mirror.
It reflects not just who we are as a people, but who we’re becoming. It forces you to sit with your silence, to confront your beliefs. It makes you listen — not to the news, but to yourself.
Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of working with and connecting to some of the most incredible human beings — artists, musicians, radio jockeys, politicians, anchors, hosts — people who’ve poured their heart into their craft, their voice, their purpose. And every single one of them, regardless of where they’re from or what they believe in, has made me proud to call them mine. As proud as I am of anyone from my country. Because humanity should never be filtered through religion or region — it should just be.
I don’t know when I’ll visit again. Or if I even will. But I do know that I’ll carry those memories with me forever — the sweetest, warmest, most grounding memories I’ve ever made.
And what breaks me the most?
Watching friends — good people — turn on each other over opinions, over religion, over borders that live more in our minds than on maps.
This isn’t the Jammu and Kashmir I dreamed of living in.
This isn’t the story I wanted to tell.
But maybe, it’s the story that needs to be told.
And as I sit here, writing all of this with a heavy heart, there’s just one question echoing in my mind:
*We were meant to build nations with compassion, not divide them with identity. When will humanity reclaim its place above politics and religion?*
This isn’t just a story of a place — it’s a part of me. J&K is more than a conflict; it’s a memory, a melody, a reminder that humanity must always come before identity.
