Opinion | Under LG Sinha, Kashmir’s Forgotten Families Found Recognition

Teachers were recruited as recruiters. The clerks used office spaces to push propaganda. Children grew up learning to hate their own army and police. It was never just about bullets. It was about the slow poisoning of trust. That is why this moment matters, because now, the narrative is changing. Families that once had no voice are being heard. They are being employed. They are being brought back into the fold of governance.

Nothing pierces my heart more than the story of Suhail Yousuf Shah from Kupwara. In 2002, terrorists killed his mother and uncle. He told the Lieutenant Governor in Baramulla how his mother was blinded before she died. “So many governments came and went, but no one cared about us,” he said. For him, that appointment letter was not just a job offer. It was an acknowledgment that he, and his family, finally mattered. I feel the weight of stories like his. For decades, terror in Kashmir was not just violence. It was a well-funded structure. It was designed, sponsored and nurtured to destroy generations. Its support came from across the border. Pakistan backed this terror factory with weapons, ideology, training and cash. The goal was never just disruption. It was destruction. Slowly, methodically, one family at a time.

That is why the decision by Lieutenant Governor Manoj Sinha to appoint 40 next of kin of terror victims to government jobs is not just a gesture. It is a statement. I watched it unfold at the University of Kashmir, North Campus in Baramulla. And for once, I saw policy rise to the level of pain. Fayaz Ahmad Sheikh from Sheeri stood beside the LG and spoke plainly. His father was shot and killed. His family lived through years of silence. In that moment, his voice carried something larger than grief. He asked for reserved quotas for terror victim families, just like Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes. He did not ask for pity. He asked for justice that is structured, legal and lasting.

Another voice that stayed with me was Irshad Ahmad from Vilgam. His brother, an SPO, was taken from their home in 2004. The next day, they found his body in an orchard. He was tortured and left for dead. No one visited their home then. No official offered a word of comfort. “They took him in front of us, and we were helpless,” Irshad told the LG. I saw the tears behind his voice. I also saw the strength it took to speak after 20 years of silence. Then there was Asha Begum from Handwara. Her husband was murdered in 1994 by terrorists outside their home. She raised four daughters alone. No one remembered her struggle. When she received the appointment letter for one of her daughters, her hands shook. “We were forgotten. Today I feel seen,” she said. No headline can capture what that means for someone who has suffered for three decades without recognition.

In that room, the LG said something I will not forget. “I apologise it took three decades for justice to reach you.” Those words matter. And the five promises that followed matter even more. Government jobs. Compensation. Special helplines. Revival of old FIRs. Restoration of seized properties. For once, families who lost everything to terror were told that they too belong to this land, not as victims but as citizens with rights. This is a shift I have waited years to see. For too long, the state ignored these families. Instead, we saw funerals of terrorists with hundreds in attendance. We saw soft words used for those who carried guns and bombs. And we saw silence for those who died refusing to give shelter to terrorists. The imbalance was sharp and painful. Terror destroyed not just lives but truth. Teachers were recruited as recruiters. The clerks used office spaces to push propaganda. Children grew up learning to hate their own army and police. It was never just about bullets. It was about the slow poisoning of trust. That is why this moment matters,because now, the narrative is changing. Families that once had no voice are being heard. They are being employed. They are being brought back into the fold of governance.

Take the story of Wali Mohammad Lone from Fatehgarh. He lost three sons. One was shot after prayers. Two were abducted and disappeared in 1992. For years, he did not speak to anyone about it. On that day in Baramulla, he spoke to the LG and to all of us. His loss was enormous. His strength was even more. Raja Begum from Lilam village. In 1999, five of her family members were murdered because they refused to give shelter to terrorists. They paid with their lives. No one paid attention. Until now. After 26 years, her family received acknowledgment from the state. For someone like her, that moment was not political. It was personal. It was overdue. According to official data, over 40,000 civilians and security personnel have lost their lives in Kashmir since the 1990s. Most of those deaths were never followed by justice. Most families did not even file FIRs. Many did not have the strength. Some were warned not to. So this is not just about forty jobs. It is about what they stand for. They represent a break in the silence. They show that the state can listen. That it can correct its own indifference. When the LG said that the narrative of glorifying terrorists must stop, he was not speaking just to a crowd. He was drawing a line. A line between those who destroy and those who defend. Between those who hurt and those who heal.

It reminded me of Maqbool Sherwani, the young man who misled invading tribal raiders in 1947 to help the Indian Army reach Baramulla. He was crucified for that act. He stood for Kashmir. For the idea of India. And his story is echoed in the lives of every family that said no to terror and paid the price. I do not write this as a politician or a bureaucrat. I write this as someone who believes that healing only begins when justice is not delayed and not denied. I believe in this land and in its people. And I believe that if we are to build a future for Kashmir, it must start with those who have lost the most.

The appointment letters given this week are more than policy. They are a signal. They tell every family still grieving that you are not alone. Your pain is not invisible. Your sacrifice is not forgotten. This is not the end. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, who still wait. But something has begun. And it began not with speeches or promises but with action. That is how trust is built. That is how peace is sustained. That is how a new Kashmir is shaped.

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