Haunting Memory: Kashmir’s Broken Mirror

However deep the desire to erase the dreadful decade of the 1990s, its scars remain inscribed upon the historical conscience of Kashmir. It was a time when certainties collapsed, illusions shattered, and the centre of life itself began to drift. The 90s marked the last assault upon Kashmiri nativity—when its fragile tapestry of coexistence was torn apart thread by thread.

The Indian state, too, stood on trembling ground. Its financial sinews had weakened; social institutions were in disarray; the security apparatus, both internal and external, appeared orphaned of purpose. Politics at the centre had lost its moral compass—coalitions thrived on convenience, and accountability waned into ritual. Amid such fragility, a single rigged election in Kashmir proved combustible enough to unmake a people’s faith. Through that breach, Kashmir found its way to what was called jihad—a grim participatory theatre where revolt was mistaken for redemption.

Then came the roar of guns, the sermons that sanctified separation, and the daily life that learned to live with fear. From mosques to courtyards, the language of disavowal replaced that of belonging. Symbolic killings announced a new order and an ancient community—Kashmiri Pandits—was driven out en masse, exiled from the land they had helped to imagine. The youth, enthralled by dreams of purity, were taught to measure time not by seasons but by the Hurriyat calendar, where each date was a call to defy, each dawn an anthem of vengeance.

And yet, the irony that history conceals is unforgettable. It was the same ‘Subhan Saib’ who once drove young boys from classrooms to the border—urging them to cross over and return armed with promise—who, in another dawn, guided Pandit families through the tunnel: silent, burdened, and broken. The same vehicles and the same men would drive them out from their native place.

The difference was tragic and immense. The boys crossed over in feverish ecstasy, chasing a mirage of power; the Pandits crossed in subdued despair, clutching memories of hearth and hope, believing—perhaps naïvely—that exile would be brief.

The Pandits entered the realm of displacement and uncertainty, without light or assurance, sustained only by their alternate capital—the education of their children. It became their lamp in darkness, their bridge to dignity. The boys, meanwhile, who crossed the border in youthful zeal, remain trapped in the ruins of lost dreams, wondering what drew them there, and why they were made to lose all their cultural and social capital.

This, indeed, is the point of reflection: who, in the end, had a stake in scripting such a tragedy—and who continues to draw meaning from its unhealed silence?

Three decades have passed since that time. The families who were driven out have not returned. The boys and men who once crossed over in search of power, honour, or belonging have either perished or remained stranded in lands not their own. The picture of Kashmir is the same—only its shadows have lengthened.

The Pandits can now visit their abandoned homes, their estranged lands, and the neighbourhoods that once echoed with shared laughter. What they encounter is not simply ruin, but a disquieting sense of displacement—an estrangement from what was once most intimate. The Muslims who had crossed the border in a burst of idealism cannot come back either; they too are consumed by an unending desire for homecoming. Both sides—those who left and those who fled—belonged once to the same homes of Kashmir. The tragedy is not only in their exile but in the breaking of their shared strength, lost to the illusions of uncertain times.

A glimpse of this pain surfaces in ‘Rifat Khan’s brief, five-minute structured interviews across the border with those Kashmiri boys—now grown into middle-aged men—living across the border. In those few minutes, they speak only to introduce themselves, to say they miss their people. Yet behind those restrained words lies an untold metamorphosis—the full pathology of loss, longing, and disillusionment that history has neither recorded nor healed. The decade passed, but it left behind a valley haunted by its own echoes—where every silence still carries the weight of what was lost, and every return dreams of what might yet be reclaimed. The truth, however painful, is that Kashmir today is not prepared to welcome back its abandoned people. Their lands, possessions, and homes have turned into relics of a cherished past—symbols of belonging that now survive only in memory. The Pandits are, in words, welcome—but not to stay. Those who once crossed the border may remain nostalgic, yet they too are marked by estrangement, remembered by names that no longer find comfort in the Valley’s vocabulary.

In contemporary Kashmir, the moral spaces that once nurtured coexistence and dialogue have withered away. A new culture—driven by consumption rather than conviction—has replaced the old political discourse. The refrain of “China backing, Pakistan rushing, India leaving” has yielded to a pragmatic creed: educate the children, move abroad, buy land, build houses, expand business. The new generation is of a different disposition; the new India, a different kind of nation-state.

Globalization, technological advancement, and the diaspora experience have taught an enduring lesson—that economic progress does not automatically translate into social or moral renewal. True development lies not in accumulation but in the continuous evolution of nativity—a rootedness that sustains identity and community through change. And paradoxically, this evolution of nativity, this possibility of renewal, can now only unfold within the wider and plural framework of India. What are we to do now?
There is no doubt that peace along the borders is vital if people are to emerge from the frozen mind-set of the past seven decades. The path toward healing lies in the hands of the Kashmiri Muslims and Kashmiri Pandits themselves. When these two communities come to terms with one another, the deep wounds of Mother Kashmir will begin to heal.

Until that day, we must ensure that our children are taught the right histories. The narrative of compassion, mutual trust, and moral trusteeship must begin at home and find voice in our mosques. The old discourse of political religiosity and competing narratives must finally come to rest.

Our children deserve to smile again. That can only happen when families genuinely converse with their children and when homes and schools together nurture a shared sense of belonging.

What we need now is responsible citizenship — one that grows out of the accountability of every stakeholder: parents, teachers, imams, and the state. Let us build a new generation grounded in belonging and confidence — a generation that speaks from experience, not hearsay; from truth, not imagined illusions. We have already lost decades listening to voices that demeanour nativity and distort our sense of belonging. It is time we turn inward — to listen to ourselves, to our inherited wisdom — and set the course of our social evolution right, not in fragments, but as an organic whole rooted in the pride of a self-assured community. The transformation we seek begins with an inward gaze, a rediscovery of our moral and cultural strength.

Kashmir carries within it a rich and evolving cultural capital — a reservoir of harmony, creativity, and resilience. We must recognize and nurture it now, before it is too late.

Ashok Kaul, Retired Emeritus Professor of Sociology at Banaras Hindu University