The Invisible Labour That Holds Kashmiri Homes Together

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Kashmiri woman spins Pashmina wool. Photo Courtesy by David De Vleeschauwer

By Mohammad Arfat Wani

Before the roosters cry or the mosque loudspeakers crackle to life, she's already up. The stove is lit, the tea is boiling, the kids' uniforms are ironed.

Her husband still has an hour of sleep left. The rest of the family will wake to a warm house and a hot breakfast. No one asks how her night was.

This is not one woman's story. It's a pattern stitched into homes from Kupwara to Kulgam.

Women work constantly: cleaning, cooking, nursing, fixing, soothing. But no one calls it“work.” It's just what they do. Or more precisely, what they're expected to do. If she pauses, she's lazy. If she speaks up, she's disrespectful.

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She listens more than she speaks. She adjusts more than she resists. That's how many Kashmiri women survive their days. And their silence is not peace. It's pressure.

What happens when the only person holding a family together never gets a break?

She breaks. Not all at once, but slowly. In ways others can't see. Her anxiety builds. Her sleep fades. Her appetite shifts.

The clinics are full of women complaining of“body pain” and“weakness.” But listen closer, and the real issue is emotional: they're exhausted, unsupported, and lonely.

Marriage, for many girls, is the start of this long silence. She leaves her home and is told this new house is her“second home.” But that home often treats her like a guest. She watches her husband laugh with his friends while she stays back to care for his parents. He goes out to unwind. She stays in to serve.

Her friends? Gone. Her evenings? Swallowed by routine. And when the loneliness hits, she keeps it in. Crying silently in the kitchen, wiping her face before anyone notices.

And yet, society keeps repeating lines that sound nice but hurt deeply.“Aurat ghar ki zeenat hai”-a woman is the beauty of the home. But beauty doesn't ask questions. Beauty doesn't challenge. Beauty stays still.

This is not honour. This is restriction in disguise.

Even educated women don't escape. Families now push daughters to study, but not for themselves. It's about showing off:“Look, our daughter has a degree.”

But once she gets married, that degree gathers dust. The job offer is declined. The ambition is shelved. Her real test is how well she manages the kitchen and stays silent during family disputes.

It's a strange kind of math: more education, less agency.

And sometimes, the heartbreak comes full circle. A mother struggles her whole life, sacrifices everything for her daughter's success. That daughter, once empowered, leaves. The mother is left behind emotionally, and often physically.

It's not abandonment in a dramatic sense. It's just the cold distance that creeps in when care isn't returned.

Religion is often pulled in as an excuse. Don't go out too much. Don't laugh loudly. Don't talk back. But the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, treated women with dignity, encouraged learning, condemned oppression.

These aren't feminist slogans. They're historical facts. The problem isn't religion. It's the culture that distorts it.

So where do we go from here?

Start small. Ask her how she's feeling. Let her keep her friendships. Let her rest without guilt. Let her speak without fear. Share the chores. Share the pressure. Share the joy.

The cost of ignoring her pain is high. It doesn't just harm her. It ripples across the family. Children sense tension. Marriages suffer. Whole households operate under invisible strain.

Kashmir doesn't just need more empowered women. It needs more aware men. It needs homes where dignity isn't gendered. Where silence isn't demanded. Where healing begins with being heard.

Because when a woman is crushed, a whole society weakens.

• The author hails from Tral and can be reached at [email protected]

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