Srinagar (Ginkgo Gulzar)
In Kashmir, questions of life and death are never abstract—they are woven into the everyday fabric of existence. For decades, the valley has witnessed conflict, unrest, and uncertainty, leaving its people with an intimate, often painful, awareness of mortality. The line, “No one forces someone to die unless the person dying is ready for it,” resonates deeply here, not as a philosophical musing but as a lived reality. It is a reflection on the fragile boundary between survival and surrender, on the moments when life insists on continuing despite overwhelming odds.
Why do some lives end suddenly while others persist in the same circumstances? In Kashmir, the answer is never simple. Death comes to some with startling immediacy, while others navigate the same streets, face the same checkpoints, hear the same echoes of gunfire, and yet survive. There is no universal logic, no divine decree clearly written in the skies. Instead, survival often depends on a complex mix of timing, presence, instinct, and inner readiness. In a region where young lives are interrupted by violence or accidents, and families are left wondering why their loved ones lived or died, this question—why didn’t I die, and you?—is as pressing as it is personal.
Living in Kashmir demands more than courage; it requires an acute awareness of life’s precariousness. Ordinary routines—a walk to school, a visit to the market, even tending a small garden—are acts that carry unseen risk. Yet, the people of Kashmir continue to live, to dream, to build families, and to nurture hope in ways that outsiders may not fully understand. Each day survived is a quiet defiance, an assertion of will against circumstances that could just as easily claim a life. This does not romanticize survival—it acknowledges its weight. To live in Kashmir is to carry memory and possibility simultaneously: to remember the losses and to continue moving forward despite them.
The idea that one must be “ready” for death does not mean passivity or resignation. Rather, it is an acknowledgment of the agency and the subtle interplay of acceptance, circumstance, and fate. Those who survive do so not merely by luck, but often by a combination of presence of mind, preparation, and the unspoken refusal to yield to fear. In Kashmir, this readiness to face mortality is not something taught—it is absorbed from the environment, from the stories of neighbors and friends, and from personal encounters with danger.
Ultimately, the question—why didn’t I die, and you?—is also a meditation on the resilience of the human spirit. In Kashmir, survival is a statement: a testament to endurance, courage, and the capacity to navigate uncertainty with quiet strength. Life, here, is both fragile and stubbornly persistent. It refuses to be taken for granted. And for those who continue to live in this valley, every day is a reminder that while death is inevitable, it is not always immediate—and that surviving, against all odds, is itself a profound act of defiance.
No one forces someone to die unless the person dying is ready for it. I have carried this line in my mind for years, whispered it to myself when the gunfire echoed through the valley, when the curfew stretched beyond the sun’s patience, when the world seemed to forget that life continued here. And yet, I survived. Why didn’t I die—and you?
In Kashmir, life is always on the edge of a question. The valley’s beauty—its snow-capped mountains, saffron fields, and meandering rivers—contrasts sharply with the reality of checkpoints, raids, and sudden violence. Every day, people live with the knowledge that survival is both fragile and arbitrary. Some disappear in an instant; others, like me, continue, often without understanding why fate—or perhaps some inner readiness—spares them.
But it is not just fate. There are those who shape our reality: India, Pakistan, and China. Each of these nations has played a part in the lives that end prematurely and those that continue. Borders, militarized zones, and political posturing determine who survives and who perishes. And yet, we are left with questions that echo unanswered: Why did they not protect us? Why did they allow us to become casualties of a conflict larger than ourselves?
And then there are the leaders—the ones whose names we hear in speeches, debates, and news headlines: Rahul Gandhi, Farooq Abdullah. They speak of democracy, development, and dialogue, but in the valley, their words feel hollow when lives are lost quietly, in alleys, in schools, in homes. Why did their decisions fail to prevent the tragedies? Why do political maneuverings take precedence over human life? I wonder if they ever pause to consider the question that haunts the living: Why didn’t I die—and you?
I cannot forget the international dimension. The UN, the so-called guardian of human rights and peace, observes from afar, issues reports, and passes resolutions. But resolutions cannot hug a grieving mother or bring back a brother who never returned from a protest. It is easy to talk of accountability and justice when one is far removed from the valley’s daily struggles. Yet, the question must be asked: How many more must survive only to witness suffering before action is taken?
In the quiet moments, when the valley’s mists roll over the rooftops and the sounds of life—birds, distant prayers, children’s laughter—fill the air, I ask myself another question: What does it mean to survive in a place that constantly reminds you of mortality? Survival is no victory; it is a burden, a responsibility, a living testament to the randomness and cruelty of circumstance. It is also an act of defiance, of insisting that life matters, even when politics, power, and indifference seem determined to say otherwise.
I ask these questions not only to God and the Angel of Death, but to those who have power over our lives: nations, leaders, and global institutions. I ask, not to find immediate answers, but to ensure that the question is heard, carried, and remembered. Perhaps then, survival will no longer be a silent, solitary act. Perhaps then, those who live will not have to wonder if it was luck or neglect that spared them, and those who die will be honored not as forgotten casualties, but as reminders of human responsibility.
In Kashmir, life continues in fragile beauty. And so do the questions. And so do we—the living, the witnesses, the ones who ask why.
