Kashmir Must Break The Syringe Cycle

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational Photo

By Prof. Jamsheeda Zaroo

There was a time when the biggest fear in Kashmir was getting caught in crossfire. That fear hasn't vanished, but something else has crept in, something less visible, yet just as dangerous.

The Valley is now facing a different kind of war, one that's unfolding inside its neighbourhoods, classrooms, and hospital wards. It doesn't involve slogans or standoffs. It involves syringes, pills, powders, and silence.

Drug addiction is tightening its grip across Kashmir. The shift didn't happen overnight, but its presence is undeniable now.

Walk into a de-addiction centre in Srinagar and you won't just see statistics. You'll see teenagers with sunken eyes, young women battling withdrawal, and parents who never imagined their child would end up here.

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Hospitals are seeing more cases than they can manage, and the numbers are rising with every passing month.

According to the J&K police, drug-related arrests have gone up dramatically in the last few years. More than 10,000 cases were registered under the NDPS Act in 2023 alone.

Healthcare professionals say heroin is now the most common substance among patients, and the majority of users are under 30. Many of them started using before they were even old enough to vote.

This isn't just about personal choices gone wrong. The crisis is deeply rooted in the circumstances young people are growing up in.

Kashmir has lived through decades of political uncertainty, frequent shutdowns, and emotional exhaustion. Those who came of age in the last two decades have seen more disruption than stability.

For many, drugs offer a way to feel numb. For others, they offer a break from boredom, anxiety, or the constant weight of expectations in a place that promises little and delivers less.

Unemployment makes things worse. Youth joblessness in Jammu and Kashmir is among the highest in India, hovering around 18.3%.

But that number hides the larger picture: thousands of educated young people waiting for job calls that never come.

In this void, frustration builds. Dreams shrink. Time becomes a burden. Drugs slip in, not as rebellion, but as relief.

The supply chain has grown more organized, too.

Heroin, synthetic opioids, and pharmaceutical sedatives now move across Kashmir with disturbing ease. Officials say much of it comes through smuggling routes from across the border. Some security agencies call it“narco-terrorism,” accusing Pakistan-backed networks of flooding the Valley with drugs to destroy its youth from within.

Whether or not every packet traces back to a plan, the effect is real. It's numbing lives silently, steadily, and across every social line.

Families are struggling to keep up. Addiction isn't just hurting users; it's tearing apart the people around them. Many parents feel ashamed. Others are in denial. Some hide the problem until it's too late.

In conservative communities, especially, the stigma is heavier. Women who fall into addiction are often silenced entirely. Their pain doesn't make it to clinics or case files. It stays behind closed doors: untreated, unspoken, and dangerously invisible.

Kashmir's healthcare system, already fragile from years of neglect and crisis, isn't equipped to handle this wave. There are only a handful of functional rehabilitation centers, and most are overburdened.

Mental health services are limited, and trained addiction counselors are rare. Without follow-up care, many patients relapse within weeks. Some never return at all.

There have been efforts. The government has launched awareness campaigns. Police have carried out major drug busts. NGOs and religious organizations are running outreach programs.

But most of these are isolated, underfunded, and lacking coordination. For a crisis this complex, the response has been far too scattered.

What's needed now is not just action, but clarity and commitment. That begins with admitting the scale of the problem.

Addiction in Kashmir is not a fringe issue. It's no longer something that happens to“other families.” It's happening in cities and villages alike, in upper-class homes and working-class lanes.

It's not someone else's crisis, it's everyone's.

The solutions have to be multi-layered. There's a need for more de-addiction centers and trained professionals. But equally important is the work that happens before a young person picks up drugs for the first time - inside classrooms, at home, in the streets where they spend most of their time.

Schools should include drug education in a way that's honest, not moralistic. Teachers and parents need tools to spot the early signs. Community-based mental health programs must be part of everyday life, not just emergency responses.

And there has to be hope. Real, tangible opportunities - jobs that aren't just announcements, programs that don't stop at training but lead to actual employment.

When young people feel like they matter, they are less likely to give up. When they believe their future has shape, they don't reach for ways to escape the present.

• The author is Principal at Ramzaan College of Nursing, Galander Pampore.

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