Kashmir’s own film industry?

Mainstream films made in Kashmir by Kashmiris remain few, but the list is slowly growing. Films like Harud, Kashmir Daily, and Songs of Paradise show that a new cinematic voice from within the Valley is emerging, often centered around realistic portrayals, cultural identity, and conflict narratives, rather than commercial Bollywood formulas. Despite these efforts, we can safely say that Kashmir’s own film industry is yet to take a shape.

You’d think a place like Kashmir — wrapped in poetry, brushed with snow, and humming with ancient stories — would have birthed a thriving film culture by now. Not just as a pretty backdrop for someone else’s movie, but as a place with its own cinematic heartbeat, its own voice behind the camera. And mot nothing close to a real film industry has ever emerged here.

Across the world, even the smallest towns and forgotten villages are producing short films, documentaries, web series — anything to tell their stories. People are making movies on smartphones. Teenagers are editing films on their laptops. Independent cinema is booming in places like Kerala, Manipur, Iran, and even parts of Africa. And meanwhile, Kashmir — a place overflowing with texture and emotion — remains largely silent on the cinematic front, but yes Kashmir is producing new breed of V-loggers on daily basis. That is it.

Let’s start with an old misunderstanding. Too many people, even today, think of cinema as something superficial. Something loud, immoral, Western, or vulgar. They see glitzy Bollywood song-and-dance numbers and assume that’s all cinema can be.

But cinema, at its core, is storytelling. That’s it. It’s a way of telling a story through light, movement, sound, and silence. It can be as loud or as quiet as you want. Think of Iranian films — like Children of Heaven or The Color of Paradise. These aren’t loud films. They’re subtle, spiritual, deeply human.

In fact, good cinema is often like poetry — and if Kashmiris understand anything, it’s poetry. We know how to mourn, how to wait, how to remember. We have the soul of artists. What we don’t have — or haven’t built — is the structure to support it.

To understand why, we need to go back. The 1990s changed everything. As conflict intensified, cinema halls shut down. Public spaces for art and expression shrank. For many, survival became the only priority. Watching films — let alone making them — started to feel either dangerous or irrelevant.

And even now, decades later, the fear hasn’t quite left. People are still cautious about what they say, and how they say it. A film isn’t just a personal statement — it can be interpreted politically, culturally, religiously. In such a sensitive environment, taking artistic risks is hard.

But it’s not just about fear. There’s also a lack of infrastructure. Kashmir doesn’t have a single dedicated film school. There are no government grants for filmmakers, no screenwriting residencies, no proper studios, no post-production houses. Even basic equipment is hard to access. Most aspiring filmmakers have to leave the Valley to learn or practice their craft.

That becomes a privilege — only those who can afford to go outside and train get to dream. The rest stay behind, watching reels on Instagram and wondering if they’ll ever get to tell their stories.

Another problem is how Kashmir has been portrayed by others. Whether it’s Bollywood, news channels, or foreign documentaries, the Kashmiri story is usually told by outsiders — and often badly. We’ve been shown as either helpless victims or hardened rebels. Paradise lost, or paradise burning.

But the real Kashmir — with its quiet resilience, humour, contradictions, and ordinary beauty — rarely makes it to the screen.

This has caused deep distrust. Many Kashmiris feel exploited by how the region is used as a backdrop for profit. So, when someone here tries to pick up a camera, the fear is: Will I be misunderstood too? Will I be silenced?

It’s a valid fear. But silence helps no one — and if anything, we need more voices from within the Valley to change that narrative.

Change won’t come overnight. But it’s possible, and it starts small. First, Kashmir needs film education — not necessarily fancy degrees, but practical training. workshops, online mentorships, collaborations with indie filmmakers from elsewhere — anything that helps young people learn the craft. Even schools could introduce media literacy or storytelling projects. The spark needs to be lit early.

Second, there needs to be public and institutional support. Right now, even a small community film screening feels like a major event — or a risk. That has to change. We need safe, non-political spaces for art. Local administrations and cultural bodies must stop thinking of film as a threat and start seeing it as an opportunity — for expression, for employment, and even for healing.

Third, we must create alternative platforms. You don’t need a multiplex to show a film. A community centre, a school hall, even someone’s living room can host a screening. And online platforms have removed many old barriers. A Kashmiri film doesn’t have to wait for a theatre release. It can go straight to YouTube, Vimeo, or a festival abroad.

Fourth, we need to protect the right to tell uncomfortable stories. Not every film has to be cheerful. Cinema has always been a space to question things — systems, memory, identity. That doesn’t make it anti-national or anti-anything. It just makes it art.

Here’s what people forget: Kashmiris do have a film culture — just not an industry. People here love stories. We share them over kehwa, in whispered family gossip, in the songs we sing during weddings, in the silence of shrines, in the memories of grandparents. Our literature is rich. Our music is layered. Our sense of drama and rhythm is instinctive.

What’s missing is the bridge between that culture and the camera. And that’s the bridge we need to build — patiently, creatively, fearlessly.

A Final Thought

I keep thinking about this: for decades, all types of cameras have looked at Kashmir. Maybe it’s time we held the camera ourselves. Not to perform. Not to prove anything. But simply to witness. To speak. To remember.

A film industry here wouldn’t just mean movies or money. It would mean ownership of our own stories. And once you start telling your own story, it’s harder for others to twist it.

That’s the real power of cinema. Not the glamour. Not the box office. But the dignity of being heard.

Dr. Ashraf Zainabi, Teacher and Researcher Based in Gowhar Pora Chadoora J&K, and Advisor at The Nature University, Kashmir