In Kashmir, Mental Health Still Means Madness

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational Photo

By Musaib Bilal

When I first told my mother I was seeing a therapist, she went quiet. After a long pause, she asked,“Are they going to give you electric shocks?” Her view of therapy was shaped by old Bollywood films: people locked up in asylums, their heads shaved, chains rattling as they screamed.

That moment said everything about how we treat mental health. We talk about it a lot more now. On social media, in schools, and even in workplaces. But when someone in Kashmir breaks down in front of us, when they reach out for help, we often freeze. We want to support, but we don't know how.

I've seen it happen too often. I've been the person offering help and then retreating when it was needed most. I've also been on the other side, reaching out for support only to hear“Snap out of it,” or“You're overthinking.”

These words, meant to soothe, only made the pain worse. They make you feel as if your struggles are invalid, as if your mind isn't allowed to be in pain.

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In Kashmir, mental health is still something we don't talk about openly. The word Pagal often comes up in casual conversation. People still see mental illness as something shameful, something that only happens to others, far removed from us. We've grown accustomed to living in a state of conflict, yet we rarely address the psychological toll it takes on our society.

The lack of open dialogue is especially damaging. Growing up, I saw people around me push through immense stress, without ever talking about it. Depression was dismissed as weakness and anxiety as“overthinking.”

Yet, the mental health statistics in Kashmir are alarming. According to a recent study, over 50% of the population in Kashmir has experienced some form of mental illness due to the region's long-standing strife.

Mental health isn't something that can be fixed by a few comforting words or a quick social media post. It's an ongoing battle, much like physical health. If someone had a chronic illness, we'd offer support without hesitation, making sure they got treatment, time off work, or just some company.

But when the illness is invisible, when it's in the mind, we tend to dismiss it as unimportant.

The problem is even more pronounced in Kashmir's professional spaces. Admitting mental health struggles can be seen as a career-limiting move, as vulnerability is often equated with weakness. Men, especially, face a stigma that labels them as“soft” or“unfit” for leadership if they admit they're struggling.

The result is that people bottle up their pain, and it only intensifies. Many of us cope in unhealthy ways, whether by overworking, turning to substances, or isolating ourselves from others.

The pressure to keep up appearances while struggling on the inside can lead to even darker paths, including self harm. The National Crime Records Bureau recently reported an alarming increase in suicides among young people in Kashmir, but we still don't have the infrastructure to help them.

Social media may be making it easier to discuss mental health, but it's often just a surface-level conversation. Sharing a quote about healing is far different from showing up for someone when they're at their lowest. Listening, without judgment, without trying to fix, is the real challenge.

Empathy isn't just about saying the right words. It's about being present. It's about offering support, not just when it's easy, but when it's uncomfortable.

Mental health requires ongoing care, just like any physical ailment. We need to stop pretending that mental health struggles are rare or shameful and start treating them like the very real issues they are.

Until we act on these conversations, until we turn awareness into genuine care, too many of us in Kashmir will continue to suffer in silence. And the consequences, as we're learning, can be deadly.

Musaib Bilal is a student at Amar Singh College, Kashmir. He writes on social issues and mental health in the region.

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