Opinion | Six Years of Sanity, Security, and Stability

Ask a father who once had to bring his son’s body home, zipped in a bag, killed by mindless violence he never understood. He knew his son would be buried in his village, but not that his death would be sold across platforms in the name of a cause that gave nothing back. That father will tell you what has changed since 2019. What achievement can be greater than this?

Ten years ago, when I introduced myself as a Kashmiri to someone from Delhi, Bangalore, or Kerala, something always shifted. Not in their words, but in their eyes. It wasn’t distrust. It was hesitation. The kind that comes when a name carries more than just geography. Kashmir, to them, meant violence, shutdowns, curfews, and stone-pelting. Not because they were wrong, but because that’s all they had seen. And truthfully, that’s all we had lived. If you were born in the 2000s or earlier, you grew up with a question buried deep inside. Where do we belong in this country we call home? It wasn’t just confusion. It was a strange kind of silence that lived in our classrooms, our streets, our homes. We didn’t grow up with playgrounds and festivals. We grew up with crackdowns, sirens, empty school benches, and shuttered markets. Our childhoods were filled with the smell of tear gas and the sound of news that never seemed to bring good news. What we inherited was fear. What we carried was memory. And what we missed out on was peace.

Coming to the political landscape of Kashmir before 2019, it was always full of surprises. It never resembled any other state in the country. It wasn’t like Delhi, Karnataka, or Uttarakhand, where there is one Chief Minister, an opposition, and a central government shaping the political space. Kashmir had an additional force in play. Some called it ‘separatist politics’ in polished English. I call it ‘soft-line terrorism’. I’m not here to name and shame, but facts can’t be pushed aside. We always had two governments. One operated from the Civil Secretariat in Srinagar, and the other from the Hurriyat office in Rajbagh. A Kashmiri by nature is humble, emotional, and vulnerable. That made us easy targets for manipulation. Both the official mainstream and the unofficial separatists emotionally blackmailed us whenever they needed public support for their agendas. There was a group that openly stood against the idea of mainstream politics. They never missed a chance to vilify India and its security forces, yet they moved freely in Kashmir. They enjoyed government perks, held offices, stayed in official accommodations, had VIP airport access, pulled strings across institutions, issued press releases, and ironically walked with DSP-level security while ridiculing the same police force protecting them. They told us to pick up stones, to shut down the Valley with Hartal calendars, while their children quietly settled into government jobs or moved abroad. A similar question was once raised by a columnist, I believe Shabnam Qayoom, either in his article or his book ‘Ye Kis Ka Lahu Hai Kon Mara’. He was beaten up inside Srinagar’s Ahdoos restaurant, and no FIR was registered against the attackers. Kothi Bagh Police Station is barely a one-minute walk from the restaurant. That was the extent of their power, even while calling themselves “Hum Mazloom Qoum Hai”.

In all this chaos, it was never the sons of elites living in Gupkar bungalows who suffered. It was the common Kashmiri, the son of Lass Kaak, Amm Kaak, and Sull Kaak, who bore the brunt. But who would listen to them? They were voiceless. Anyone in the past who dared to speak of peace was either silenced or threatened into submission. The education sector in Kashmir had already taken a massive blow in the 1990s after the exodus of our Kashmiri Pandit brethren, many of whom were experienced teachers and professors. On top of that, the endless Hartal calls rubbed salt into already open wounds. Education became the most deeply affected casualty of this unrest. Schools were shut, colleges remained deserted, and universities lost their rhythm. Children missed crucial years of learning, and it showed. Basic education was disrupted to the point where competing in national examinations became nearly impossible. We have lost countless innocent lives to street unrest, and we cannot afford to lose more. Kashmiri students are brilliant, talented, and possess remarkable potential. Their intelligence has never been the issue. The problem was how that intelligence was misdirected. A young Kashmiri was fed lies, radicalized for someone else’s political gain, and turned into a tool. Whether through money, fear, or forced loyalty, his mind was hijacked with false narratives and planted stories.

If I keep narrating old stories, it might take me years. So let me shift to the post-2019 era. Whether people agree with it or not, the decision of 5th August 2019 has empowered the common Kashmiri more than anything else in recent memory. That doesn’t mean everything is perfect or what people call “Changga Bhalla,” but we have seen a new Kashmir starting to bloom. I’m not here to talk data. You’ll find that on websites and news portals. What I’m writing is what a common Kashmiri feels. Let me start with development. Some people still question it. Gurez received grid-connected electricity for the first time on November 27, 2023. Was Gurez not on the map before that? Was it technically impossible? The answer is no. There was never a lack of funds or resources. What was missing was the will to act. Until 2019, the only major flyover in Srinagar was the Jehangir Chowk–Rambagh one. It was conceived in 2009 and opened a decade later. Compare that to today. In just five years, including two years of COVID, nearly five flyovers are up and running in the city. What changed? Why was the old four-lane highway between Srinagar and Baramulla kept in limbo for so long? Today, it’s almost complete, with flyovers at Sangrama and Delina. What was stopping previous governments from regulating the Waqf Board? Why did some shopkeepers pay just one thousand rupees in monthly rent since 2008 and continue doing so without revision? What prevented our past regimes from holding teachers, officers, and employees accountable? Isn’t it true that many teachers used to stay home and still drew full salaries without question? And hasn’t that changed now? Don’t we see people rushing to reach offices on time across Kashmir? If that’s not change, then what is? As I said earlier, I won’t flood you with numbers. I’d rather leave you with something stronger: a sense of realisation.

Let’s talk about how life has shifted at the ground level. Today, when a subsidy is announced, it doesn’t vanish in layers of paperwork or middlemen. It hits your account through DBT, direct and visible. Schemes aren’t slogans anymore. They reach the people they’re meant for, whether it’s housing, ration, or student scholarships. Offices now work with systems, not sifarish. A common man walks into a government office and finds someone ready to listen, because that officer knows he’ll be held accountable. Internet stays on, even when there’s a strike in some district. Online services run round the clock. Tourism hasn’t just come back, it has grown beyond anyone’s expectations. Hotels in Pahalgam, Gulmarg, and Sonamarg are booked throughout the year. People are coming from across the world, not just to click pictures but to shoot films. Film tourism is back. Electricity isn’t just a winter-time promise anymore, and clean water reaches homes where people once walked miles with buckets. Life has started to feel liveable again. And when the last elections happened, people stepped out to vote without fear. There were no grenade attacks, no deserted polling booths. That fear is gone now. Something has changed, not just in policy but in the everyday dignity of living. Don’t you think that is a change?

Let’s now talk about the most important development, which is law and order. For the first time in our history, we’ve followed the academic calendar without interruption for four consecutive years. Is that a small achievement? Only a nincompoop would say that. It’s a historic win for us. And by us, I mean the common Kashmiris, the ones who can’t afford to send their children to Delhi or Pune, let alone abroad. For them, watching their children walk daily into Amar Singh College or Women’s College feels no less than sending them to Oxford or Yale. Ask a father who once had to bring his son’s body home, zipped in a bag, killed by mindless violence he never understood. He knew his son would be buried in his own village, but not that his death would be sold across platforms in the name of a cause that gave nothing back. That father will tell you what has changed since 2019. What achievement can be greater than this? Today, when I see parents happily sending their children off to school, I feel something settle inside me. Peace, maybe. Because I remember how it was during our time. Our parents sent us off with trembling hands, unsure if we’d return. Isn’t that true? Weren’t we told not to step out after Maghrib Azaan? Didn’t we switch off lights early, just to avoid being noticed? That fear ruled our lives. And now that fear is gone. Did we not lose half our youth to mindless violence? Young men who could have been doctors, civil servants, teachers, or professors? For six years now, we haven’t seen that street violence. And where are our youth today? In colleges. In universities. Running startups. Building businesses. That is change. And we don’t just accept it. We celebrate it.

So now when someone asks me what changed on 5th August 2019, I don’t throw numbers at them. I don’t cite government portals or lengthy press releases. I speak what I have lived. I speak what a common Kashmiri has felt. Peace, dignity, freedom, accountability, and the right to dream without getting dragged into someone else’s war. This wasn’t a decision taken in some air-conditioned Delhi office just for headlines. This was a bold correction made in the Haqq of Kashmiris. I mean real Kashmiris. The ones who sell fruits on roads, who till land under the sun, who teach in village schools, who lost their sons, who never had voice or power or VIP tags. This decision wasn’t for the elite of Gupkar or the contractors of chaos. It was for Lass Kaak, Amm Kaak, Sull Kaak, you, and me. It was for those who deserved peace long before they ever saw it. So yes, the 5th of August was not just a date. It was justice. It was azaadi from fear. And no matter who disagrees, I will say it as it is: yeh faisla humare haqq mein tha.

The Writer is a student activist and can be reached at soulofkashmir1@gmail.com