This Kashmiri Man Is Easing People's Pain With Simple Conversations

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational Photo

By Gowher Bhat

Zahid Ashraf lives in a modest neighbourhood tucked between the dusty roads of Zafran Colony, Sempora, a short drive from Srinagar. His home doesn't have a signboard, and he doesn't call himself a therapist. Still, people come.

They come with heavy hearts, scattered thoughts, and stories they haven't told anyone else. Zahid listens. That's where it starts.

“I'm not a doctor,” he says,“but I can sit with someone and say: what you're feeling, it's okay. It has a name. And it can get better.”

Zahid, 29, studied psychology in college but never pursued a clinical license. Instead, he made mental health his way of serving people. He talks to those who are hurting, gives them books, tells them they're not alone. And sometimes, when they're ready, he connects them to a therapist.

Read Also This Shift in Thinking Could Make Kashmiri Families Crisis-Proof Letter to Editor: 20 Years On, Rural Kashmir's Digital Workers Still Wait

One of them was Ubaid Manzoor, a 22-year-old who used to sit in silence for hours, lost in his own head.“I didn't know what was happening to me,” Ubaid says.“I would get angry without reason. I stopped talking to friends. I thought I was broken.”

Zahid noticed him during a neighbourhood gathering. They talked. Then they talked again.“He gave me a book on depression,” Ubaid recalls.“And he said, read just a few pages. I did. That's when it clicked. This is what I've been going through.”

For weeks, Zahid met Ubaid over tea. Sometimes they walked. Sometimes they cooked. Eventually, Zahid helped him book an appointment with a professional.“I was scared,” Ubaid says.“But Zahid bhai went with me the first time. He didn't have to, but he did. Now, I smile more. I talk. I feel lighter.”

This isn't a formal program. There's no funding, no office, no team. Zahid works alone, often out of his own pocket. He keeps a growing collection of books on anxiety, grief, trauma, and healing. He lends them out, always making sure the person knows they can return it anytime, or keep it.

In his own words,“A book can be the first friend that tells you: you're not crazy.”

Sometimes, he hands people a sketchbook. Or tells them to write a poem. Other times, he teaches them to cook.“Cooking helps you focus,” he says.“You cut vegetables, you smell the spices, you stay in the moment.” In Kashmir, where food is tied to memory and emotion, he finds it an easy doorway to peace.

His house smells of cardamom most evenings. The living room has more books than furniture. On the wall, there's a framed piece of calligraphy that reads: Sabak phir padh sadaqat ka, adalat ka, shujaat ka - lines from a famous poem about truth, justice, and courage.

Zahid doesn't speak in big statements. He speaks slowly, gently, often pausing mid-sentence to search for the right word. But his actions are clear. He volunteers at the local mosque, calls the azan, helps sweep the floors when no one's watching. Last winter, when heavy snow blocked access to a family's house nearby, Zahid and a few boys cleared the path with shovels.

“Kids in the area respect him,” says Imtiyaz, a neighbour.“He never preaches. He just helps.”

In recent years, Zahid started travelling to villages outside Srinagar with NGOs. He doesn't take a salary. He teaches children and parents about emotional wellbeing. He talks about what sadness feels like, what stress can do to the body, and why it's okay to cry.

In one session at a rural school in Pulwama, he asked students to draw what fear looked like. One girl drew a locked door. Another drew a shadow. When they talked about the drawings, some of the children started to open up.“One boy said his uncle died in front of him,” Zahid recalls.“He'd never spoken about it. Not once.”

Mental health services in Kashmir remain scarce. According to a 2015 survey by Médecins Sans Frontières, nearly 45 percent of the population shows signs of psychological distress. Self-harm cases have lately surged. Therapists are too few, and stigma keeps many away.

“People here don't use the word depression,” Zahid says.“They say, 'mera dil ghabraata hai'. They say, 'mujhe neend nahi aati'. We have to meet them where they are.”

He doesn't claim to fix anyone.“I'm not the solution,” he says.“I just help them see that there is one.”

What sets Zahid apart isn't just what he does, it's how he does it. There's no urgency, no saviour complex. He waits. He listens. He treats people like they matter, not like they're a case to be solved.

“I think of it like watering a dry plant,” he says.“You don't pull the leaves and say, grow. You give it sunlight. You wait.”

Back in his neighbourhood, more young people are following his example. A cousin of his recently started reading about trauma and wants to study counseling. A group of local boys have begun volunteering at old-age homes. Zahid doesn't call this a movement. But it's moving.

When asked why he keeps doing this, even with no money or formal backing, he shrugs.“It's just what makes sense to me,” he says.“I know how it feels to be lost in your head. If I can sit with someone for an hour and help them feel seen, that's enough.”

In a place like Kashmir, where stories of pain often go unheard, Zahid Ashraf is building an archive of hope. Not in files or statistics, but in faces that start to smile again. In hands that learn to write, or draw, or cook. In voices that say, for the first time,“I think I need help.”

He doesn't call it healing. He just calls it being human.

• The author is a Pulwama-based English language instructor.

MENAFN11062025000215011059ID1109659911