I am a bird. And so, by the law of the skies, I am no nationalist. I have no border to defend, no social media to scream through. Long before your internet, we were here – flying through the chill of snowflakes as the sun pierced obliquely through the tough air, reflecting off the silver ice of the mountains atop.
But I’ll tell you this: being a bird in Kashmir is no easy task. In fact, it may be the hardest job in the sky. Why, you ask? Because we see human beings – but we don’t see the labels above their heads. No Hindu. No Muslim. No Indian. No Pakistani. Just humans.
So, when last week, twenty-six human beings were brutally shot down before my eyes – something no bird should ever see – I mourned. I looked up, tears trailing from my eyes to my wings. And I wondered, why won’t they?
Just an hour before that horror, I had seen a little girl running across a field. Behind her, a mother in full, colourful Kashmiri dress followed with a gentle smile. The girl’s brother, his tiny fingers wrapped around his father’s hand – as if all the safety in the world lived right there in that touch.
On the other side of the valley, a young couple sat quietly – serious at first, until I noticed they were building a snow bunny. He even brought a carrot. She, with her red cheeks and bright smile, wasn’t forcing a selfie. They just laughed – the way people do when they’re truly alive.
As a bird, I see this every day. Beauty. Love. Friendship. Warmth. My wings ache in the cold, but my eyes find solace in these fleeting, precious scenes.
So when I saw millions who were mourning just moments after the Pahalgam incident lost their minds and turned this into a war between countries and religions – forgetting that they all are the same humans and 26 innocents of them were brutally killed – I asked myself, Where did their humanity go?
Let’s go back for a moment. Under the divide and rule policy of the British, the people of the subcontinent turned against each other and killed an insurmountable 2 million people. I can barely fathom the hatred that was sown. Because when I was young, I had a friend from another religion. We grew up together, sharing food and celebrating Puja, Dol, and Eid – without knowing we were “different”.
That’s how it had been for a long time. But then came 1947. The British were forced to leave as the chorus for freedom rose above the skies of the subcontinent. That year, based on the two-nation theory, India and Pakistan were born, with religion as the only dividing line, which even then many knew wouldn’t hold for long. The Liberation War of 1971 between East and West Pakistan is living proof of that.
In 1947, Kashmir was given a choice of whom to join. Though most regions were divided by religion, Kashmir – even with over 70% Muslim population – was not. Why, glad you asked? Because their king, Hari Singh, chose to stay with India.
War began. The United Nations intervened, declaring Kashmir a part of India temporarily with a promise of a referendum – an election that never came and probably never will.
Since then, life and flowers across the mystic valley have lost their love and fragrance. Long winters have shackled bones, and families have counted their dead in silence. Kashmir’s geopolitical and strategic importance made it the reason for endless conflict between two diplomatically fragile states. Even now, half the military of both nations is stationed there – ensuring or eroding tranquillity is the question!
Article 35A of the Indian Constitution had granted Kashmir a degree of autonomy, protecting its land and people. But in 2019, it was scrapped – and with it, the last thread of hope for autonomy vanished. The same strategy once used by British rulers to divide for their gain has left us permanently fractured.
So, the Pahalgam incident that took 26 human lives was not just another militant strike. It was the result of decades of unresolved hatred – of blind loyalty to labels – that pushed someone to go rogue. What should’ve been mourned as terrorism became another reason for division. A militant incident that was itself backed by a baseless confrontation of ism has called an uprising in people’s minds to lose sanity that went from individual forums to the national stage.
The media’s venomous narrative, along with yellow media diplomacy and deeply rooted prejudices, have shaped a monstrous Nagin whose poison has paralysed diplomats and policymakers – even the educated. The madness reached such heights that an infant, under critical medical treatment, visa, was sent back – punished for a cause which he is not even aware of.
When I see separatist sentiment of nationalism twisted into a weapon, I remember the Berlin Wall. I think of Europe – the very continent that introduced borders and colonisation. Ask yourself : where is their border? Today they walk freely across nations; yet here in South Asia, our neighbours aren’t even able to fly over each other’s skies.
In Jostein Gaarder’s “Sophie’s World”, it is said, If people studied philosophy, they wouldn’t go to war. War is prejudice. War is hatred. War is the interest of the few, paid for by the lives of many. South Asia, a land of immense beauty, rich resources, and brilliant minds, remains stagnant like a sloth – still bearing the burden of a colonial past that planted seeds of division – divide and rule – before we were even born.
Now, as we breathe, I wonder – where does all this rage come from?
I am a bird who saw countless lives fall, their faces pale as their joy turned to misery. A family vacation ended in blood on the porcelain piece of land we call the heaven of earth—Kashmir.
And when will it end? When will you humans fly free like I do over the brazen azure sky—from Kashmir to Gaza?