Opinion | Seven Years of Sanity, Security, and Stability: A Common Kashmiri’s Story

A father who once waited for his son to return home, only to receive his body wrapped in a bag, understands the value of peace better than anyone. For him, the greatest achievement is not a statistic, it is seeing his child walk back through the door.

Seven 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. Seven years later, the debate around that decision continues, but beyond political arguments, there is one thing that cannot be ignored: Kashmir has witnessed a visible change in the everyday life of ordinary people. 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 only about 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.

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 flyover. It was conceived in 2009 and opened almost a decade later. Compare that to today. In the last seven years, Srinagar has witnessed a completely different pace of infrastructure development. Multiple flyovers and road projects have been completed, including the Sanat Nagar, Nowgam, and other critical traffic corridors, reducing the daily struggles of commuters. The Srinagar–Baramulla highway, which remained stuck for years, has moved towards completion with major structures like the Sangrama and Delina flyovers changing the travel experience for thousands of people.

The question that needs to be asked is simple: if these projects were possible today, why were they kept pending for decades? What stopped previous governments from addressing basic infrastructure needs of ordinary Kashmiris? What prevented them from ensuring accountability in institutions? Why were some systems allowed to continue where accountability was almost absent? For years, many people complained about government offices functioning through influence and personal connections rather than systems. Today, that culture has started changing. A common citizen increasingly interacts with a system where timelines, technology, and accountability matter. Is everything perfect? No. But is there a visible difference? Yes.

The biggest transformation has been connectivity. The dream of connecting Kashmir Valley with the rest of India through rail has finally become a reality. The completion of the Udhampur–Srinagar–Baramulla Rail Link, including engineering marvels like the Chenab Bridge and Anji Khad Bridge, has ended a decades-long wait. A Kashmiri travelling from the Valley can now look at a railway network that was once considered impossible. For generations, this was not just a transport project; it was a symbol of inclusion and connection. Let’s talk about how life has shifted at the ground level. Today, when a subsidy is announced, it does not vanish in layers of paperwork or middlemen. It reaches your account through DBT, direct and visible. Schemes are no longer just slogans. They reach the people they are meant for, whether it is housing, ration, healthcare assistance, or student scholarships.

Digital governance has changed the relationship between a citizen and the state. Online services, digital certificates, grievance portals, and electronic systems have reduced the dependence on personal contacts and recommendations. A common man can now access many government services without repeatedly visiting offices or searching for someone influential. Tourism is another story of transformation. Kashmir has always been called paradise, but for years conflict prevented the world from experiencing it fully. Today, tourism has not only returned but expanded beyond traditional seasons. Places like Pahalgam, Gulmarg, Sonamarg, Gurez, and other unexplored destinations have witnessed unprecedented attention. Millions of visitors have travelled to Jammu and Kashmir in recent years, bringing new opportunities for hotel owners, taxi drivers, guides, shopkeepers, artisans, and young entrepreneurs. The return of film tourism has added another dimension. For decades, Kashmir was one of the favourite destinations for filmmakers, before violence pushed the industry away. Today, the cameras are returning, not because someone forced them to, but because the environment has become more welcoming.

Electricity and water supply, two basic necessities that once became political slogans every winter, are also witnessing improvement. New power projects, transmission upgrades, and infrastructure expansion have strengthened the system. Clean drinking water through schemes like Jal Jeevan Mission has reached villages where women and children once had to walk long distances carrying buckets. The change is not only visible in government files. It is visible in ordinary conversations. A shopkeeper thinks about expanding his business. A student thinks about competitive examinations. A young person thinks about starting a company instead of picking up a stone. A family plans a future instead of worrying about the next shutdown.

And then came the elections. When people stepped out to vote, they did so with confidence. The participation of ordinary Kashmiris reflected a desire to engage with democratic processes without fear. The image of empty polling booths and terror threats that once defined elections in Kashmir has gradually changed. 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 have followed the academic calendar without interruption for several consecutive years. Is that a small achievement? Only someone disconnected from Kashmir’s past would say that. It is a historic win for us. And by us, I mean the common Kashmiris, the ones who cannot afford to send their children to Delhi, Pune, or abroad for education. For them, watching their children walk daily into Amar Singh College, Government College for Women, or any other educational institution without fear feels no less than sending them to Oxford or Yale. Ask a father who once had to bring his son’s body home, wrapped in a bag, killed by violence he never understood. He knew his son would be buried in his own village, but he also knew that his death would be used by people sitting far away, turned into a slogan for a cause that gave nothing back to his family. That father will tell you what has changed in Kashmir over the last seven years. What achievement can be greater than this?

Today, when I see parents happily sending their children to schools and colleges, I feel something settle inside me. Peace, maybe. Because I remember how it was during our time. Our parents sent us out with worried faces, unsure whether we would return home safely. We were told not to step out after Maghrib Azaan. We switched off lights early, avoided unnecessary movement, and lived with a constant fear that something could happen anytime. That fear ruled our lives. And now, that fear has reduced significantly. Did we not lose an entire generation of youth to violence? Young men who could have become doctors, civil servants, teachers, entrepreneurs, or professors? Young minds that should have been building their own futures were instead trapped in a cycle of anger, manipulation, and destruction.

For the last seven years, Kashmir has witnessed a major decline in the kind of street violence that once disrupted everyday life. The focus of our youth has shifted. They are appearing for competitive examinations, joining universities, building startups, creating businesses, exploring sports, and searching for opportunities beyond conflict. That is change. And this change is not only about security statistics. It is about the freedom to dream. A child growing up in Kashmir today should not have to inherit the same fears that shaped our childhood. He should not know shutdowns before he knows classrooms. He should not learn about violence before he learns about opportunities.

Seven years after 5th August 2019, the biggest achievement has been restoring the ordinary rhythm of life. The ability to go to school without interruption. The ability to travel without fear. The ability to run a business without wondering whether tomorrow will bring another shutdown. The ability to imagine a future without someone else deciding the limits of your dreams. Of course, Kashmir still has challenges. Unemployment remains a concern. Political aspirations and debates continue. Development has to reach every village and every section of society. Peace cannot only mean the absence of violence; it must also mean dignity, opportunity, and equal participation. But acknowledging progress does not mean ignoring challenges, just as discussing challenges should not mean denying progress. A society that has suffered decades of violence deserves the honesty to recognise every positive change.

So now when someone asks me what changed on 5th August 2019, I do not throw numbers at them. I do not cite government portals or lengthy press releases. I speak about what I have lived. I speak about what an ordinary Kashmiri has felt. Peace. Dignity. Stability. Accountability. And above all, the right to dream without getting dragged into someone else’s war. This was not merely a decision written in government documents. For many ordinary Kashmiris, it represented a turning point after decades of uncertainty. I am talking about the Kashmiris who sell fruits on roads, who work in fields under the sun, who teach in village schools, who run small businesses, who lost their sons, and who never had powerful voices or VIP tags.

This was never about the elite living in Gupkar houses or those who benefited from the politics of instability. It was about Lass Kaak, Amm Kaak, Sull Kaak, you, and me. It was about those who deserved peace long before they finally experienced it. Seven years later, 5th August is not just a date in a calendar for many people. It represents a period of transition, a period where fear gave way to hope, where uncertainty slowly gave way to stability, and where a generation that grew up surrounded by conflict finally began imagining a different future. And no matter who agrees or disagrees with it, I will say what I have witnessed: yeh faisla humare haqq mein tha.

Israar Shahid is a political analyst who writes on governance, public policy and society. He can be reached at soulofkashmir1@gmail.com