24/04/2025
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's_Cry
My name is . I was born in , a small town wrapped in snow, silence, and sorrow. The land that once sang with Sufis and spring now cries with every mother who’s lost a son.
The army came when I was just ten. My father was taken from our home on a freezing December night. No reason. No charges. Just a knock that wasn’t a knock—it was an invasion. He never came back. I still remember the sound of my mother’s sobs as she folded his shawl and whispered his name into empty air.
Since then, we’ve lived under boots. We don’t know freedom—we know frisking, fear, curfews, and crackdowns.
Our homes are not ours. Our nights are not safe. And our silence… is heavy.
Yesterday, some tourists were killed in Kashmir.
We didn’t even know who did it—yet we are all guilty in the eyes of this country.
In Delhi, Mumbai, Chandigarh, Punjab, and even Jammu—our Kashmiri brothers and sisters were slapped, dragged, cursed, beaten. Our sisters were called names. Our brothers were labeled terrorists. No one asked who we were. They just saw our faces—and hated.
Even in Jammu, which is our home too, our people are not safe anymore.
Do we matter less because we are Kashmiris?
Why is it that when one madman pulls a trigger, every Kashmiri everywhere must bleed?
Is this justice—or is this the slow, suffocating death of a people?
We watch the news and see Palestinians dying. We pray for them. But sometimes, in the silence of our homes, we wonder—
Are we next?
Is Kashmir already becoming the next Gaza—where every stone thrown brings a bullet, where every cry is buried under rubble and headlines?
This country demands our loyalty—but gives us fear.
It calls us citizens—but treats us like enemies.
We live like prisoners in our own land.
And outside it, we are refugees without refuge.
So I ask you—my Kashmiri brothers, my sisters—how long will we stay silent?
How long will we cry quietly while they beat our students, raid our homes, arrest our children, and insult our women?
If we do not unite now, if we do not speak, if we do not protect one another—we may not have a voice left to raise.
They don’t just want our silence.
They want our erasure.
But we are still here.
Still breathing.
Still remembering.
