'Silence Has Limits': A Kashmiri Woman's Fight For Dignity

By Gowher Bhat

I arrived in Wahibugh, a small village in Pulwama, just as the afternoon sun turned the apple orchards golden.

The air smelled of damp earth and blossoms, a scent full of life. Children ran down narrow lanes, their laughter bouncing off mud-brick walls, mingling with the braying of goats and the clatter of metal from a nearby courtyard. Women called to one another across yards, their voices weaving through the village like a steady rhythm.

Amid this everyday bustle, Shaista sat by her window. A stack of worn notebooks and scattered pens lay before her, sunlight catching the edges of the pages.

She looked up as I approached. Her eyes were calm and steady, carrying a weight I could feel in the air.

Her voice was simple, but the gravity behind it was unmistakable. I asked her to tell me about the journey that had brought her here. She traced the outline of an apple branch outside the window with her finger before speaking.

“When I married, I imagined a life of partnership and respect,” she said.“I thought my home would be warm, full of love. But my in-laws expected me to work from dawn until night: cooking, cleaning, serving endlessly. My husband enforced their rules instead of supporting me. I was treated like a servant, not a wife. Every day, they reminded me my worth depended on how silent I stayed.”

Her family and neighbours had told her to be patient.“Things will change. He will change.” Shaista waited five years. Nothing changed.“Patience cannot cure cruelty,” she said.

The deeper pain, she told me, went beyond endless labour.

Shaista could not have children, and in her household, this became a weapon.

“I was reminded every day that I was not a good woman,” she said, voice softening.“My mother-in-law once said, 'What use is a woman who cannot even give a child? You are a burden.' Those words stayed with me for years.”

I asked how she endured the daily humiliation. Her eyes softened, and she spoke of her sister, Shugufta.

“She was my lifeline,” Shaista said.“I would call her at night, crying, saying, 'I don't think I can survive this. They make me feel like nothing.' And she said, 'Shaista, listen. You are everything. You are educated, kind, deserving of respect. Even a bird with broken wings can fly again. Courage is inside you. Don't let them kill your spirit.' Each conversation reminded me I was not alone.”

Her courage grew slowly, like sap rising through the roots of an apple tree. Shaista kept meticulous notes, saved messages, and silently prepared herself for a moment she could no longer delay.

“One morning, I looked in the mirror and saw the life I could not endure,” she said.“My eyes were tired. My face older than my years. I thought: this is not the life I deserve. I cannot waste another day.” Her hands trembled slightly as she remembered walking to the police station.

“I told them, 'I cannot live like this anymore. Please help me. I want justice.' For the first time, I felt seen. I walked out lighter, as if a heavy mountain had lifted from my chest.”

Since then, Shaista has returned to her passions. Her desk by the window is her sanctuary, a small fortress of study guides, notebooks, and pens arranged in neat stacks. I watched her flip a notebook open. The lines of her handwriting were small, precise, and alive.

“I lost years, but I will not lose my future,” she said.“Books make me alive. Writing gives me back my voice. When I open a book, I feel like Shaista again.”

Later, we walked through the village. Children ran past, calling her name with playful shouts. Women paused mid-chores to nod, acknowledging her presence.

I asked if she wanted her story to guide others.

“Yes,” she said.“Silence has limits. Patience has limits. If you are treated as less, you have the right to stand up. Courage is acting even when you are afraid. If I can do it, so can they.”

Her sister Shugufta added,“Shaista was always strong, but now she believes in herself. She doesn't just save herself, she inspires others to rise.”

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