Opinion | Pir Vaer; Saints, Silence, and Sins: The Cry of a Dying Valley

A mourning from the heart of a Kashmiri and a grieving reflection on what Kashmir is becoming

Once upon a time, they called our home “Pir Vaer”, the garden of saints, the valley of love, of sufis, of peace that echoed in every corner and in every heart. The songs of the cuckoo at dawn, the fragrance of yemberzal in bloom, the rice fields swaying in rhythm with the wind, yes, it was beautiful. But even more beautiful were the people. Hospitable. Gentle. Spiritual. We opened our doors to strangers. We shared meals without asking names. We said “khodayas chhukh hawale” to those leaving and meant it with every bone in our body. There was something sacred in our simplicity.

But today, I ask with a heavy heart, what are we becoming? Today, it feels like we are unrecognisable. Living in Delhi, people often warned me, “Be careful, this city isn’t safe.” And I’d proudly say, “ i miss home, you know I come from a place where things like this don’t happen.” But what do I say to them now? Every few days, we wake up to another piece of horrifying news, murder, rape, betrayal, loss. It’s almost like pain has settled permanently into our soil. Like the silence of our lakes is no longer peaceful, but heavy with grief. What once was called jannat now trembles under the weight of its own tragedies. And it’s not just a few incidents. It’s a pattern. It’s a heartbreak that keeps repeating itself until you can no longer pretend that everything is okay. Let me take you through a few stories I wish weren’t true, but they are.

In March 2023, a son hanged his own mother in Sopore. A mother who once fed him with trembling hands, protected him in childhood. Her only fault? Raising someone who forgot what it means to love.

In the same month, in Budgam, a young woman left home for her coaching class and never returned. Her body was later found, chopped into pieces and dumped in different locations. She was someone’s sister, someone’s daughter. Today, she is only a case file. Her silence is eternal now.

In April 2024, a similar tragedy occurred, another son, another mother, in Rafiabad. A woman in her 40s, allegedly murdered with a sharp weapon by the very child she once held in her arms.

In May 2025, a 45-year-old nomadic woman was gang-raped and murdered in Nishat, Srinagar. Her body was brutally injured. The very land we once called heaven didn’t protect her.

And just this July, in Safapora, Ganderbal, a woman was found dead after visiting relatives. Initially presumed to have died of natural causes, a postmortem revealed a darker truth, she had been raped and murdered.

These are not just crimes. These are heartbreaks. These are families shattered forever. These are nightmares that don’t end when the news cycle moves on. These are pieces of our collective soul, gone forever. And yet, this rot is not limited to men. Yes, don’t be mistaken, violence is not just committed by men. The decay is deeper. It’s everywhere. There are stories of women poisoning families over inheritance, of young girls pushing their elderly mothers-in-law into isolation or mental breakdown, of wives framing husbands and of mothers turning a blind eye to their sons’ addictions and violence. People regardless of gender instigate, manipulate, take part in crimes behind closed doors, thinking no one is watching. But God is watching. And so is history.

This isn’t about man versus woman. This is about a society that is breaking. This is about us. All of us. We’re living in a time where drug addiction is swallowing our youth like a slow, quiet fire. Where gambling dens run in the shadows and people shrug off domestic abuse as ghar ki baat. Where neighbours no longer know each other’s names. Where love has turned into suspicion. Where trust has become dangerous. And the worst part? We have become numb. We read a rape case and scroll. We hear a murder story and say Allah reham. And then we move on. But the families don’t. The victims don’t. They stay stuck in that one moment forever.

What happened to Kashmir that once felt like an embrace? Where every home had a kangri in winter and a heart that stayed warm all year long? Where people cried for each other’s grief and shared even the smallest joys?Today, we are witnessing the slow death of Pir Vaer. Not because of one crime or one criminal, but because we, as people, have forgotten how to feel. How to protect. How to be human.

This isn’t just about justice. This is about waking up before it’s too late. Before our daughters grow up afraid. Before our sons grow up violent. Before love becomes a myth. Before God turns His face away. We must speak. We must feel again. We must look each other in the eyes and ask, is this who we are now?

But if we truly want to talk about solutions, we must also dare to talk about the uncomfortable truths. We are raising a generation that knows how to use smartphones before they know how to offer a prayer. Children are growing up learning from reels, not from role models. Technology, once meant to connect us, is now widening the distance between hearts and homes. Boys are watching violence on screens and repeating it in real life. Girls are taught to be quiet rather than to be brave. And in all this, where are the parents? Too many are looking the other way, brushing off red flags, calling them nakhray or the “new normal”. But by the time they realise what’s gone wrong, it’s already too late, their child is either lost to drugs, arrested, or buried under the weight of shame and regret.

And then there is the loss of our religious grounding, the distance we’ve created from the very faith that once made us humble, kind and accountable. Islam taught us to respect women, to honour mothers, to protect the vulnerable, to stand up for justice even if it is against ourselves. Yet today, we preach religion at weddings, but forget its essence in everyday life. The mosque is full on Fridays, but empty when someone is crying next door. We need to return, not just to rituals but to values. The akhlaq, the taqwa, the rahmat that Islam gave us was never meant to be left behind. Our valley does not just need political reform, it needs a spiritual awakening. And that awakening begins with us inside our homes, in our hearts, in the choices we make when no one is watching.

Because Kashmir was never just land. It was spirit. And that spirit is crying for help.

About the author:
Arooj Khalid is a post graduate student pursuing her Master’s in Social Work from Jamia Millia Islamia. She can be reached at aroojkhalidd01@gmail.com