Opinion | Our Kashmir Now: How My Generation Chose Books Over Stones

The Indian government’s massive infrastructure push—new highways, AIIMS, IITs, IIM, and shopping malls—has made development tangible. “You can’t radicalize a generation that’s busy swiping right on Swiggy,” a young restaurateur in Srinagar joked.

I was twelve when I first saw a school shut down for a hartal. My teacher hurried us out, whispering, Chalo, chalo, ghar jaldi jana hai. Outside, the air smelled of burnt rubber and fear. That was 2010—the year Kashmir’s streets became battlegrounds, and boys my age disappeared into protests, some returning with pellet scars, others not at all. Back then, our futures felt like hostages to a war we didn’t start. But today, at 24, I sit in a Srinagar café with my laptop, working on my career plan. Around me, students debate stock markets, not strikes. A tourist at the next table asks the waiter, Yahan ka WiFi password kya hai? —a question unthinkable a decade ago. The Kashmir of my childhood, defined by funerals and shutdowns, is fading. In its place, my generation is building something fragile but fierce: normalcy.

The Silence After the Storm
For decades, Kashmir’s narrative was hijacked by violence. Young boys, barely in their teens, were often seen on the frontlines—faces masked, hands clutching stones. The imagery was seared into the world’s consciousness: Kashmir as a warzone, its youth as casualties or combatants. But today, the same hands that once hurled stones are typing business proposals, stitching cricket bats, and crafting artisanal goods for export. The shift didn’t happen overnight. It was a slow, deliberate rewiring of aspirations—a mission to replace the culture of conflict with a culture of opportunity. I met Aamir, a 24-year-old from Pulwama, once dubbed the epicentre of militancy. He runs a thriving organic saffron export business, supported by a government-backed startup grant. “Five years ago, my cousins were either in hiding or in graves,” he told me, stirring salt tea in a tiny shop near Lal Chowk. Now, my WhatsApp group is flooded with investment tips, not protest plans. His words stayed with me. The psychological shift wasn’t just about economics; it was about reclaiming identity.
Classrooms, Not Curfews
In downtown Srinagar, I visited a bustling coaching centre where students hunched over laptops, preparing for civil services exams. Among them was Sana, a 21-year-old journalism student who aspired to report on Kashmir’s progress, not its pain. “My father spent his youth in mourning processions,” she said. “I spend mine in libraries.” Her generation’s hunger for normalcy is palpable. Government initiatives like Super 50 (free JEE/NEET coaching) and skill-development schemes have diverted youthful energy from street protests to career-building. Enrolment in higher education has surged by 40% since 2019, and universities are buzzing with debates on AI, not Azadi.
Entrepreneurship as Emancipation
The most visible change is Kashmir’s startup boom. From tech hubs in Srinagar to women-led cooperatives in Budgam, young Kashmiris are choosing innovation over insurgency. At a cafe near Gulmarg, I met Rizwan, who left a Dubai job to launch “Kashmir Box,” an e-commerce platform for local artisans. “Earlier, boys here idolized militants,” he laughed. “Now they idolize Elon Musk.” His joke carried truth—government schemes like the JK Youth Entrepreneurship Program (with 50% subsidies) have birthed 3,000+ startups since 2020. Even former stone-pelters, like Arif from Sopore, now run mushroom farming units, earning ₹50,000 a month. “Pellets paid nothing,” he shrugged. “My mushrooms pay for my sister’s MBA.”
Tourism: The Unlikely Peacemaker
The real barometer of change? Tourism. In 2023, Kashmir welcomed 2.1 crore visitors—a record. Houseboats that once gathered dust are now booked months in advance. At Dal Lake, I shared kahwa with Gull Kaak, a shikara operator. “Before 2019, I’d ferry journalists covering funerals,” he said. “Now I ferry Instagrammers shooting reels.” His income had tripled, his sons were learning hospitality management, and his grievances had shifted from India to GST on boat repairs. The streets of Pahalgam, once dotted with paramilitary bunkers, now teem with Gujarati honeymooners and Israeli backpackers. Hotels, guides, and taxi unions—once reliant on conflict-era clientele (journalists, NGOs)—are now thriving on leisure travellers.).
Letting Go of the Ghosts
Not everyone has embraced this shift. The remnants of radicalism linger in pockets, peddling nostalgia for armed struggle. But their influence is waning. Social media, once a tool for separatist propaganda, is now flooded with reels of Kashmiri chefs, trekking guides, and techies. Religious hardliners who once dictated shutdowns are struggling to recruit. Even Friday sermons now talk about solar panels, not jihad, quipped a university professor in Anantnag. The Indian government’s massive infrastructure push—new highways, AIIMS, IITs, IIM, and shopping malls—has made development tangible. “You can’t radicalize a generation that’s busy swiping right on Swiggy,” joked a young restaurateur in Srinagar.
Our Kashmir, Our Terms
The world calls this normalization. To us, it’s survival. We’ve seen enough blood to know no Azaadi is worth losing another Aatif or Saima. The Indian state’s investments—IITs, malls, airports—aren’t altruistic, but we’ll use them anyway. “They gave us roads, we’ll build our own destinations,” says my mentor at the startup incubator. Last month, I visited the SP College campus, where in 2017, students clashed with forces. Today, its walls display NASA competition posters. A professor tells me, “Yahan potential hai, bas propaganda band karo.” He’s right. My generation isn’t naive—we know politics isn’t solved—but we’ve chosen to thrive despite it. As I write this, my phone pings: a notification for a government-funded AI workshop. Ten years ago, that same phone would’ve buzzed with strike calendars. Progress here isn’t a fairy tale; it’s messy, uneven, and fiercely contested. But for the first time, we’re authoring our own storyline—not as victims or terrorist, but as students, entrepreneurs, and above all, survivors who refused to let Kashmir’s future die with its past.
The Writer is a student activist and can be reached at soulofkashmir1@gmail.com