BARAMULLA: In a quiet neighbourhood of Baramulla, Ghulam Mohammad, a 48-year-old shopkeeper, sits outside his small grocery store, sipping a cup of nun chai.
“We have seen so much chaos,” he says, gazing at the snow-capped mountains. “Now things are better. The internet stays on, and there’s less fear on the streets.”
But as he raises his head, he whispers, “it feels like silence, not peace.”
His words echo a nagging question across the Valley: Has normalcy truly returned to Kashmir?
On the surface, the signs of normalcy are unmistakable. Internet shutdowns, once a near-inevitable response to protests and unrest, have significantly reduced in scale and frequency.
They still occur, but they are now localised and brief, rather than widespread and prolonged. Businesses are recovering, foreign and national companies have started exploring opportunities in the region, and students are back in classrooms — both physical and virtual.
A local tourist guide, happy with the tourist footfall, however, is sceptical. “Tourism does not mean peace. We’ve seen tourism in the past, but now it has become a political project to gloss over everything else,” he says.
For Mubashir, a young entrepreneur in Baramulla, uninterrupted internet access has been a game-changer.
“Earlier, every shutdown was like a dead end for us,” he says. “Now, I get bookings through Instagram and WhatsApp. For the first time in years, I feel like I can plan my future.”
But beneath these signs of progress, there remains a larger question — does this indicate real peace, or is it merely a veneer over unresolved tensions?
The question of normalcy in Kashmir invites mixed responses.
Taskin, a college student, welcomes the stability but remains cautious.
“Uninterrupted internet has helped me with my studies,” she admits.
“But I don’t feel completely free to express myself. With state censorship in place, no one dares to speak their mind in educational institutions or on social media. Any dissent is crushed with an iron hand, whether it comes from a student, a farmer, or a professor.”
Despite government claims of progress, many Kashmiris express lingering unease. “There’s still fear,” says Hamid. “I don’t even feel comfortable sharing a story… I always have to be very cautious about what I write or like on social media.”
This sense of caution is widespread among students. Many acknowledge the improved access to education but remain sceptical about the cost of silence.
When asked how she defines normalcy, Taskin says: “There is a difference between silence and peace. When people are compelled through force to either stay silent or make outrightly false statements, claiming that just because there is silence, there is peace, is not only misleading but dangerous.”
Another resident explains: “What seems normal to the outer eye is a soft power of oppression for the natives. What is being normalized nowadays is not what defines Kashmiri essence or how it was.” He points to the increasing drug abuse and remarks, “That doesn’t depict normalcy!”
For journalists, the narrative of normalcy is particularly challenging. A local editor, speaking on condition of anonymity, describes an atmosphere of self-censorship.
Journalism and ‘Normalcy’
“Journalists in Kashmir live under constant fear,” he says.
“Whether it’s a public interest story or something related to administration, one must think multiple times before pursuing it. Even if you manage to write a report, a back channel investigation into your background, career, family, and social circle will follow. Every detail of your life is scrutinised. If you make a mistake, you will be punished—not for being inaccurate, but for simply doing your job,” he says.
When asked about the government’s claims of normalcy, the journalist scoffs.
“Since 2019, the government has been pushing a narrative of ‘normalcy’, claiming that things have improved and that positive changes have taken place.”
“But if you look closely, this so-called normalcy is nothing but a facade. The truth is, people here feel suffocated. Journalists, activists, and anyone who dares to speak out are being silenced. There is a blanket ban on international travel for journalists and social activists, and those who challenge the status quo are thrown behind bars.”
“The so-called ‘normalcy’ exists only for those who blindly accept the government’s version of events — right or wrong. Meanwhile, anyone who raises their voice is criminalised. How can we call this normalcy? It’s a harsh reality that nobody can ignore.”
The challenges for independent journalism in Kashmir remain immense.
“As an independent journalist, I can say this from experience: if my story touches on security-related issues and gets published in national or international outlets, I will be haunted for months by the fear of repercussions.”
“What if the police don’t like it? What if the administration targets me? This is a daily reality for us — a fear that gnaws at you every single day. The sad truth is, survival as a journalist here is only possible if you toe the pro-government line. If you deviate, the consequences are dire.”
“This isn’t just about journalism. It’s about the very essence of freedom of expression being suffocated.”
Business as Usual?
In the bustling marketplaces of Srinagar, shopkeepers share similar concerns. While internet access and reduced violence have brought some relief, many believe that stability remains fragile.
“I feel safer now compared to a few years ago,” says Bilal Ahmad, a trader. “But challenges remain — unemployment, surveillance, and a lingering sense of unease. It’s not the kind of peace that lets you sleep easy.”
When asked about the impact of reduced military encounters, Bilal reflects, “Of course, it’s better not hearing gunshots. But what we really need is lasting peace — one that allows us to move freely, without fear.”
Decades of conflict and turmoil have left deep psychological scars on Kashmiris.
Farah Shah, a counsellor working with conflict-affected youth, sees the impact daily.
“Most people, especially the youth, have never been able to process past conflicts. The stress of daily life just piles up on old trauma, and there aren’t enough resources to help them cope with.”
“You cannot measure normalcy simply by the absence of gunfire,” she explains. “The trauma of years of violence runs deep. It will take more than a few years of calm to heal.”
For many, the idea of normalcy in Kashmir remains complex.
While reduced violence, economic growth, and a booming tourism sector are positive indicators, locals emphasise that true peace is about more than just development — it is about justice, dignity, and the freedom to express oneself without fear.
As Bilal Ahmad puts it: “Peace is not just silence —i t is when people can live with honour, without fear. We are not there yet.”
(The identity of the reporter of this story has been withheld due to fear of potential reprisal.)
Courtesy: The Kashmir Times