Kashmir: Between Beauty and Broken Trust

In the past two years, I’ve had the opportunity to travel to Kashmir three times. The first trip was rather spontaneous—about two years ago, eight of us friends suddenly decided to go during the Republic Day flag-hoisting period. While the tricolour fluttered over Lal Chowk, a stronger desire stirred within us—to finally visit Kashmir. Within a week, our trip was planned. A short seven-day journey covering Srinagar, Gulmarg, Pahalgam, and wherever else time would permit.

Unfortunately, the tour operator we chose was utterly incompetent. One wonders if he had even been to Kashmir himself. He gave us no advance information or guidance—typical of mediocre travel agents who believe their job ends with booking air tickets and hotels.

When our enthusiastic group arrived, it was September, just at the end of tourist season. Kashmir seemed ready to retreat into hibernation. Yet, most tourists were still absorbed in the golden hues of autumn and shopping.

Having visited Kashmir years ago, I immediately noticed a change—Kashmiris were no longer aloof or irritable like before. This wasn’t my first time there. Back in 1995-96, it always felt like the locals viewed Indian tourists with skepticism—wondering why “these Indians” kept pouring into their valleys. The word "Indian" to them referred to people from outside Kashmir, much like Americans, Europeans, or Iranians. They didn’t seem to consider themselves part of India.

But that was then. A lot has changed since 1996.

Now it was 2023.

The moment I set foot in Srinagar again, I sensed that the city was transforming. While Dal Lake remained iconic, its periphery was marred by unbearable filth. The roads, narrower and more chaotic due to growing traffic, suggested a changing Srinagar. The real marker of change, however, was the booming construction—new hotels, lodges, bungalows, and townships cropping up everywhere. Even Lal Chowk was brimming with traffic.

Still, it felt positive to us. The local taxi drivers, shopkeepers, and hotel owners all seemed genuinely pleased. Most of them spoke of newfound financial prosperity with evident pride.

My second visit came in March 2024, specifically to see the Tulip Garden—which only opens for a month. Even then, I observed nothing troubling—no uncomfortable behavior or incidents.

But the third trip in September 2024 was unique. It wasn’t just about ticking off tourist spots. This time, we ventured deep into the interiors of Kashmir.

We visited tiny villages where barely a dozen households lived. Places where people had to walk six hours to buy basic provisions. Yet the locals were calm and content. Calling them ‘modest’ or ‘satisfied’ doesn't fully capture their essence. Among ten households of a small tribe, there’s little room for pomp or politics. And for people who’ve never seen the world, concepts like ‘desire’ don’t really exist.

And yet—what happened recently?

Yes, foreign interference is undoubtedly involved. But such incidents cannot happen without the participation of local sleeper cells. That aligns with what I’ve come to understand about the region.

Most taxi drivers were genuinely happy—they had, for the first time, enrolled their children in English-medium schools. One driver shared how, earlier, his son would earn ₹500 by hurling a stone at the army. The driver who took us to Pahalgam in March used to serve in the military himself. Why did he quit a secure army job? Because he was pressured by local organizations run by political leaders—told that if he didn’t leave, his home and family would be harmed. He took a bank loan to buy a taxi instead. His dream? To educate his children in missionary schools and send them outside Kashmir. Government-run army schools exist, but people fear sending their kids there. Fear—not of the army, but of so-called religious gangsters and two particular dynastic families who consider themselves the rulers of Kashmir.

There’s also a class of intellectuals who keep misleading the undereducated masses.

During my last visit, I spoke with a waiter in Gurez, a border village. He shared that they once struggled to get even two proper meals a day. Gurez is stunning and fertile, but snowbound for eight months. All transportation halts, making poverty inevitable. But now, hotels have opened up. Locals can work for four months and earn enough to sustain small cottage industries during the rest of the year. Yet this waiter seemed dejected. When I asked why, he solemnly replied, “The Indian government took away our freedom. That’s not right.”

I wasn’t surprised, but I had questions. “Do you know about the Kishanganga Hydroelectric Project built just two kilometers from here?” He nodded. “Do you know the benefits it brings?” Another nod. “Do you know it was built by the Indian government, not the Kashmiri authorities or Gurez locals?” He agreed again.

“So then?” I asked.

He replied, “Yes, they gave us this, but did they have to take away our rule in return?”

I was stunned—not by his knowledge, but by the lack of awareness. This mindset of “take with both hands but claim we’ve been looted” has been deliberately sown—by our very own political parties. Those who thrived on divide-and-rule.

Everyone knows the names: the Abdullahs, the Muftis, and a third family not worth naming. They don’t even win a single seat but keep poisoning minds. They are the true root of this venom. And they’re backed by foreign-funded traitorous political entities from within our own country.

When islands are being sold, and not even a straw is allowed to sprout on our land, then such discussions seem trivial in comparison.

Many believe one should avoid Kashmir as a tourist destination altogether. That’s a personal choice. But if not for tourism, then maybe we should convert it into an Antarctica-style jumbo laboratory. Because handing it over to Pakistan or China, gift-wrapped with a bow, is certainly no act of wisdom.