Kashmir Refuses To Be A Hashtag Of Hate

By Mahoor Haya Shah

In the fanatic fall of 1947, as the subcontinent bled from its borders, Mahatma Gandhi stood before a restless Delhi and pointed quietly northward, and said:“I see a ray of hope in Kashmir.”

The country had been torn apart by communal riots. Trains arrived full of corpses, and refugee camps swelled with sorrow.

But Kashmir, largely untouched by the fury, offered a different image. Not of perfect peace, but of people still holding each other's hands.

Back then, in the valley's lanes and fields, Kashmiri Muslims and Pandits lived as families, rather than as neighbours. They borrowed salt from one another, celebrated weddings together, and mourned under shared roofs.

Faith did not sit on anyone's sleeve. It sat quietly in the heart, like the snow on the Chinars: present, but not intrusive.

Even when things fell apart in the 1990s and fear hung in the air like smoke, many Kashmiri Muslims pleaded with their Pandit neighbours not to leave. Some Pandits did stay, and their Muslim neighbours stood by them, guarding their homes during the night, attending their affairs, and offering shoulders at their moments.

Those stories don't make it to primetime, but they're still whispered in alleyways and village courtyards.

It is from that memory - one of companionship, not conflict - that many Kashmiris reacted to the recent violence in Pahalgam. The killings were brutal and senseless. But what followed was telling: ordinary Kashmiris, Muslim men and women, took to the streets in grief and protest. Not to defend or explain, but to say clearly:“Not in our name.”

There were solidarity marches, candlelight vigils, and social media flooded with condemnations. It was not a display for the world. It was for themselves, for their conscience, and for the idea of Kashmir that they still believe in.

Yet even that was not enough. In the days that followed, some Kashmiris, especially those studying or working outside the valley, reported facing suspicion, slurs, or worse. Their faith, not their actions, became the lens through which they were seen. Once again, they were asked to account for something they didn't do.

This is not new. And it's not just about Kashmir.

Across India, the space for ordinary people to live without the burden of religious identity has narrowed. It's not because communities have suddenly grown intolerant, but because religion is being pushed into spaces where it never used to belong: workplaces, voting booths, college campuses, housing societies. Slowly, it stops being a private belief and becomes a public badge.

And once that badge is on, people stop asking who you are. They just ask what you are.

In this climate, reconciliation feels far-fetched. But perhaps the idea of Kashmir as Gandhi saw it - not perfect, but possible - still holds.

The valley has its wounds, its political history, and its share of anger. But it also has something else: a deep, almost stubborn memory of what coexistence once looked like.

You still find Muslim shopkeepers who keep packets of prasad for their Hindu customers. You still find Pandit elders who remember the taste of harissa on cold mornings, shared with their Muslim friends. And in recent years, some Pandit families have quietly returned - not because conditions are ideal, but because someone from their old mohalla called and said,“Come back, your house is waiting.”

These aren't grand gestures. They don't undo history. But they hint at something durable: the idea that the ordinary is stronger than the ideological. That if left alone, most people choose familiarity over fear.

The problem is, we're rarely left alone.

Religion, when weaponized, becomes a perfect distraction. It takes complicated problems - unemployment, inequality, corruption - and simplifies them into“us” versus“them.”

The narrative is tempting, especially when repeated often and loud enough. But it's false. And deep down, most people know it.

Karl Marx once wrote that religion is the opiate of the masses. In today's world, it's less a sedative and more a stimulant. It's a tool to keep tempers high and questions quiet.

But it doesn't have to be that way.

Religion, at its core, is a language of care, not control. It was never meant to draw lines in the sand. It was meant to lift people up, not push them apart.

Kashmir, for all its troubles, has not entirely forgotten that. It remembers the years before turmoil, when the loudest sound in a neighborhood was not a slogan, but a wedding song drifting over rooftops.

Those memories matter. Not because they make us sentimental, but because they show us what is still possible.

We are not condemned to suspicion. We are not fated to fight. But we do need to choose better, and keep choosing, even when it's hard.

So the next time someone tries to sell you a story built on fear, ask them: who benefits from this? Who gets the votes, the headlines, the power?

It's rarely the ones lighting candles in the dark.

• – The author is a noted columnist/editor based out of Srinagar.

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