Degrees in Dust and the Collapse of Hope

Summer has returned to Kashmir not with celebration, but with a cruel sun and quiet ache. The Chinars stand still, their shadows long and heavy, as if burdened by what they’ve seen. The light lingers longer but not brighter. There is warmth, yes, but not the kind that nurtures. There is silence not of peace but of resignation.

The silence lives in the rooms of Kashmir’s most educated youth. It lingers in spaces once filled with the scribbles of ambition and the buzz of preparation. Once, there were highlighters, notes, lectures, library corners filled with the scent of hope. Now, in those same corners, there are folded CVs, unopened admit cards and shelves that no longer carry dreams but dust.

Not long ago, I walked into a clothing store in Baramulla. It was an ordinary visit until I recognized the salesman behind the counter. We had met often at university of Kashmir, where he would passionately speak about economics and public policy. He has a Master’s degree in Economics. Today he stands folding shirts, adjusting price tags, taking orders from someone who doesn’t even have a school diploma. His eyes met mine - moist but proud. There was no shame, only sorrow. A quiet mourning of what could have been. I had waited too long for recruitment lists,” he said softly. “JKSSB, JKPSC—they never moved. So life did.”

His words echoed louder than any news bulletin. The pain is not just in being unemployed. It’s in being forgotten. In being invisible to the system that once asked you to study hard, sacrifice everything and believe that merit would find its reward.

Further from South Kashmir, a PhD scholar now sells dry fruits from a wooden cart. His almonds are placed neatly, like the research articles he once presented. Each scoop he hands out is measured with the precision of someone who once worked with data, not dates. He doesn’t talk about his degree unless asked. And even then, only briefly. His real answers are in his eyes that once searched research gate and academic journals and now search the road for customers.

Not far from his cart is another disheartening sight - a NET and JRF-qualified man selling juice in a dusty chowk. They call him “juice wala bhai,” unaware that his hands once turned the pages of thick texts, annotated margins, and crafted research proposals that were meant to shape futures. He stirs pulp with the same fingers that once scribbled academic brilliance. He laughs when you ask why. “Time passed,” he says. “Government didn’t. Age moves forward. Exams don’t. Now, this stall is my only result.”

These stories aren’t rare. They are everywhere. In homes, in markets, in gardens, on buses. They are stitched into the very fabric of Kashmiri society now these young men and women who were told to believe in education, who trusted the process, who walked through shutdowns and crackdowns to make it to classrooms, believing that their struggle would be honored with opportunity. Instead, their struggle is met with silence.

Vacancies are announced, then paused. Examinations are delayed, postponed, sometimes cancelled altogether. Selection lists take years. By the time they’re declared, candidates have either crossed the age limit or lost the will. The ones who don’t qualify at least have closure. The ones who do—like the juice seller and the dry fruit vendor - are left isolated, their reward nothing but waiting.

You won’t find them on the front pages. They’re not trending hashtags. Because their suffering doesn’t explode. It seeps. Quietly. Relentlessly.

There’s a young woman in Pulwama who cracked not one, but two PhD entrance exams. But there was no scholarship. Her father is a labourer. Her dreams now sit beside her as she makes noon-chai and helps her mother with chores. “Lagta hai waqt chala gaya,” she says. She’s only 28. But her words are older than she is.

In neighborhoods across Kashmir, parents now speak less about their children’s degrees. Not because they are ashamed but because they are afraid. Afraid of the judgment. Afraid of the questions. “Aapka beta kya karta hai?” cuts deeper now. For many, it has become a sentence more than a question.

In these homes, the degrees hang like portraits of lost hope. They were not printed to decorate walls. They were earned through candle-lit nights, borrowed money, silent tears and relentless belief. What is that belief worth now, when systems have stopped responding?

There is no shame in honest work - be it selling fruits, clothes or juice. But when the most qualified are forced into these roles because of governmental neglect, it is not dignity - it is defeat in disguise. They did not choose these paths. They were pushed. Slowly, subtly, over years of waiting, being promised, being forgotten.

You hear about schemes, about “Naya Kashmir,” about self-employment and startups. But where is the ecosystem for that? Who gives loans without collateral? Who mentors them? Who protects their ideas? What support can one expect when even the basic right of employment is kept hanging?

And then there are the mental wounds - far deeper than the economic ones. These young scholars carry a burden heavier than joblessness. They carry the weight of feeling worthless. Their worth was once measured in grades and achievements. Now it’s measured in silence.

There’s a fresh graduate from Kupwara with postgraduate and B.ed degree in his hand working in a shoe store. A NET-qualified woman earning Rs. 6000 a month from private school. A young man, once an academic topper now quietly withdrawing from all social gatherings because he can’t bear the questions anymore.

Some try to leave Kashmir. But financial barriers, immigration roadblocks and cultural isolation make it harder than ever. Those who remain live in a loop of guilt and confusion - unable to move forward, unable to turn back. Some start preparing again but with less hope. Others abandon their studies but with even more pain.

They wear smiles at weddings. They say “Alhamdulillah” when someone asks about life. But inside, there’s a storm - one of frustration, anger, helplessness and above all, betrayal. They did everything right. Yet, the system rewarded them with silence.

And while time moves on - age increases, family pressures grow, responsibilities mount—the policies remain stagnant. Recruitment boards issue notifications like rituals. Selection lists disappear. Complaints go unheard. Resolutions take years. By then a generation is lost.

Some stop studying altogether. Others, out of sheer defiance, continue. Not because they believe but because that’s all they know. Their education is not a skill anymore—it is their identity. Losing that means losing themselves.

You meet them in hushed moments. A girl writing a thesis by torchlight. A boy teaching under the open sky. A father spending his last savings on another application form for his son. These are not just stories they are acts of resistance, of endurance. But resistance without recognition becomes erosion.

Government may talk of reforms. But how do you reform what you refuse to see? How do you speak of youth development when the very youth who followed your every guideline are now broken? How long before another PhD sells walnuts? Another post graduate arranges kurtas in a shop? How long before even hope surrenders?

This is not just a crisis of employment. It is a crisis of identity. A crisis of belonging. A slow funeral of potential.

And still - still - they hope. Because that’s the last thing they have. Hope that maybe the next list will be fair. The next exam timely. The next policy sincere. But hope, too, has an expiry date.

Let this summer not pass like the last one. Let the state not hide behind technicalities and excuses. Let the government see what is happening beyond the files and official statements. Let there be urgency - not just in statements, but in actions. Because every day that passes is a dream wasted. A future missed.

Let no more degrees gather dust. Let no more toppers cry in silence. Let no more scholars hide behind stalls. Let us not lose this generation.

Because they are not just statistics. They are Kashmir’s greatest minds. And if we do not act, their silence will be the loudest verdict against us.

Let the dry fruit vendor be seen as the scholar he is. Let the juice seller be remembered as a researcher lost. Let the salesman in Baramulla be recognized, not for his folded shirts, but for the brilliance once carried in his mind.

Let us, finally, look at our educated youth.

And truly, deeply, see them.