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Silence in Kashmir often thrives in the shadow of lockdowns, communication restrictions, arrests, and an uncertain future. When the cost of speaking is too high, when even a single sentence makes life difficult, people turn to silence as a shield. This silence is actually an attempt to protect themselves, not an endorsement of a decision.
History is witness that silent nations are not insensitive, but are often the most sensitive. In Kashmir, people see, understand, and remember—they just cannot speak. The worry for their son in the eyes of a mother, the uncertainty on a farmer’s face, and the fog of the future in a young man’s questions—all these are the language of silence. Words are few here, but the feelings are deep.
The problem is that silence is presented as a powerful narrative. It is said that since there is no voice, everything is fine. However, the real question should be why there is no voice? Have the problems really ended, or are the channels of expression simply closed? If silence were peace, there would be no fear in hearts, and if there was consent, questions would have been buried.
Kashmir’s silence is actually a wait—for those days when speaking is not a crime, disagreement is not treason, and asking questions is not considered a threat. This silence will one day be broken, because history shows that repressed feelings always find words.
Therefore, mistaking Kashmir’s silence for acceptance is a grave mistake. This silence speaks, just in a different way. It requires not noise, but the courage to hear the truth.
