Opinion | A Journey to My Village

“They call it the Village of Widows, but I call it the village of waiting, where mothers still listen for footsteps that will never return and children grow old wondering about fathers they barely remember.”

The journey began in Srinagar, about 90 kilometers away from Dardpora. But this is not just distance measured in numbers. It is a journey through time and history, growing heavier with every mile. The road winds north through Baramulla, then into Kupwara town. Here, the mountains grow taller and the presence of security forces becomes increasingly visible. From Kupwara, I travelled another 25 to 30 kilometers deeper into the foothills. The road narrowed. Villages scattered and shrank. I passed through Kralpora, and then finally, I reached Dardpora.The road to Dardpora is not just a path of stones and dust, it is a road back into memory. As the vehicle moved slowly toward the foothills of Kupwara, I felt an old ache returned, a mixture of belonging and pain. Dardpora ,my village, once my world lay ahead like a closed chapter waiting to be opened .I was born in Dardpora, Kralpora, a village that the world now knows as the “Village of Widows.” During the 1990s, when militancy spread like wildfire across Jammu and Kashmir, this peaceful village became one of the worst-hit places. I was only seven or eight years old when it all began. At that age, I did not understand politics or war. All I knew was fear ,fear of gunshots echoing in the night, fear in my mother’s eyes, and fear when the men of the village left home and did not return.Because Dardpora lies close to the border, it became a route to cross over into Pakistan. Many young men from the village took this path, seeking training, hoping to fight for something they believed in or simply because they saw no other option. Beyond our village lies POK, and from there, only mountains separated us from Pakistan. This path, though dangerous, was the shortest, and so many chose it. Some returned. Many did not. What remained were their mothers, wives, and children ,left behind with nothing but memories and silence. By the late 90s, the situation grew worse. Almost every household had lost someone. The village began to be called “village of tears,” and later, “village of widows.” More than 280 widows lived there, young women whose lives had stopped before they had even begun. We too lived under the same dark clouds. Every day was uncertain. Every night was restless. In the year 2000, my family decided to leave. For education, for safety, for survival, we shifted to Baramulla. I was still young, but I remember looking back at the village as we left, not knowing when or whether I would ever return. Years passed. Life moved on. But memories of Dardpora always lived quietly inside me. Recently, when I read in the newspapers that the Lieutenant Governor of Jammu & Kashmir, Shri Manoj Sinha, had visited Dardpora to meet the militancy-affected families, something stirred within me. The village was back in the news, just like it was in my childhood. I couldn’t ignore the call of my roots. I decided to return. The journey back was emotional. As I reached Sadaboin, a part of the village, it felt like time had stopped. Dardpora is not just one place; it is divided into two parts,Kashmiri Dardapora and Gujar (Pahadi) Dardapora. Gujar Dardapora is the last stretch of the village and the most affected during the militancy period. Most of the men who crossed the border, most of the houses that faced raids, and most of the widows are from this area. In recent years, the government has taken steps to bring Dardpora, especially Gujar Dardpora, out of isolation. Roads have been laid, electricity has reached many homes, and basic facilities are slowly improving. These efforts deserve appreciation, because for decades this village lived in silence and neglect. Yet, as I walked through the lanes, it was clear that much more still needs to be done. The people of Dardpora have lived with misery and sorrow for so long that development for them should not stop at the basics. They need proper healthcare, clean drinking water, schools, livelihood opportunities, and above all, a sense of stability and dignity. The work that has been done is a hopeful beginning, but their journey toward peace and comfort is still unfinished. Women still walked kilometres to fetch water from springs . Fields were dry, only small patches of maize swayed in the breeze. There are no big agricultural lands here. People struggle for every grain. The village still faces drought-like conditions in summer and isolation in winter. I met people who remembered me as a child. Their faces had aged, but their pain remained fresh. Standing there, I felt a deep silence inside me. I remembered my childhood, the laughter of my friends, the sound of the river flowing, the smell of burning wood in winter. And now, all that remained was the weight of loss.Dardpora is not just a village. It is a story, of sacrifice, of suffering, of survival. A story that cannot be forgotten. My journey to my village was not just a visit; it was a return to my own history. I left with a heavy heart, but also with a hope, a hope that one day, this village will not be known only as the village of widows, but as a village of resilience and revival.

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