My story begins in March 1989 when I was born, and it reaches a critical moment on the night of January 19, 1990 as my parents held me tightly and boarded a van to Jammu. That van opened doors to three decades of poverty, struggle, disease, and neglect for us and countless other Kashmiri Pandits, who became India’s largest population of internally displaced people. Our trauma was exploited by successive governments, giving us false hope and failing to bring justice for the crimes committed against us.
They say not to let tragedy define you, but what do you do when a nightmare becomes your reality? We didn’t accept it. We fought. But eventually, the fight wore us down, and we were forced to accept our tragedy as reality. For thousands of undocumented migrants in 1990, this led to irreversible losses: lives disrupted, careers cut short, and families torn apart by the chilling announcements echoing across mosques in Kashmir, demanding: convert, die, or leave
The fortunate ones escaped to big cities, aided by brave friends who risked their lives to help. But most weren’t so lucky. Young men like my uncles were forced to flee under threats of violence. They ended up in refugee camps, their once-bright futures dimmed by the harsh reality of living off rations and doing menial jobs, despite their gold medal degrees. The remnants of their lives in Kashmir were locked away in rusty trunks, forgotten under layers of time and injustice
The death of secularism in Kashmir was evident in the burnt-down Pandit homes and abandoned belongings scattered across the streets. Meanwhile, figures like Bitta Karate and Yasin Malik were glorified, and Kashmir continued to be a pawn for political gains, while Pandit families struggled. Women, in particular, bore the brunt of this tragedy: mothers caring for their sick husbands, clinging to memories of a home they could no longer return to, while their children grew up disconnected from their roots.
Jammu, the supposed refuge, was no paradise. In the summer of 1990, the heat was unbearable, claiming lives and pushing many to the brink of despair. We lived in makeshift tents, cramped rooms, and temporary houses for years. As children, we faced constant judgment from landlords, who made us feel unworthy of their marbled floors and scrutinized our every move. We moved between houses eight times, loading trucks and thelas with our meager belongings. I longed for a place to call my own, where my father’s name could be on the gate.
I blamed my parents for our poverty, especially when they told me about the homes they lost in Kashmir. Yet, my father, like many Kashmiri fathers, taught me the power of education and hard work. That’s why we survive today, despite opening the Jammu newspaper every morning to read about more deaths of our displaced people. We sip our sheer chai, always aware of the Kashmir we left behind. My daughter recently got fascinated with tents and she made us order one. I guess I will never like a tent – ever