I Ahmad Wani
In our fast-moving world, some treat faith like a ladder to power. But the real heart of Islam isn’t about sitting on thrones or controlling others. Its truth stands on its own—through kindness, inner peace, and living right. Nowhere is this clearer than in Jammu and Kashmir, our beautiful valley. Here, faith once brought people close, like family. Then came twists that turned it into something hard and dividing. Let me share what I’ve seen and felt, looking back at wise old teachers and the hard years we lived through.
Centuries ago, our great thinkers cared about the soul more than empires. Al-Ghazali, from over 900 years ago, taught us to find God in quiet moments and simple good acts—no need to force anyone. Ibn Taymiyyah kept reminding rulers: be just in everyday dealings, don’t mix faith with cruelty. Ibn Arabi looked at the world and saw light everywhere, mercy guiding every path. Rumi’s words still touch the heart—“Come, come, whoever you are, wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving…” Shah Waliullah, closer to home in Delhi, showed how faith can bend gently to fit different lives, without demanding one rigid shape.
These weren’t voices shouting for control. They showed Islam as a light for the heart. But later, thinkers like Maududi and Sayyid Qutb changed the tune. Maududi founded Jamaat-e-Islami in 1941, dreaming of faith running governments everywhere. Qutb spoke of constant fight against outsiders, turning belief into battle. That made things stiff—rules over mercy, force over understanding. Wise observers like Hannah Arendt pointed out how such ideas swallow freedom. Eric Voegelin said they forget we’re all human and flawed. Talal Asad warned it hurts places like ours in India, where so many ways of life sit together.
Our Kashmir felt this change deeply. Before the 1940s, faith here was soft, open, wrapped in Sufi love. Saints like Sheikh Noor-ud-Din, our Nund Rishi, sang of oneness: “We are all one under the sky.” He mixed local warmth with deep Quranic truth. Shrines were shared—Hindus, Sikhs, and Muslims prayed side by side at Hazratbal. Festivals blended. Hate had no place. That was our Kashmiriyat: respect, kindness, living as neighbors.
Then Jamaat-e-Islami arrived. It started in Jammu around 1943–44, led by people like Chaudhary Mohammad Shafi. By 1954 it reached the Valley under Saaduddin Tarabali. At first it ran schools, taught modern things along with faith—seemed helpful. But soon it pushed harder: Islam must rule the state. In the 1970s it entered polls to “Islamize” everything, even calling for a vote on our future. By 1987 it backed the Muslim United Front against the old National Conference. That election felt stolen—huge crowds, but only four seats won. People’s anger exploded. By 1989, guns spoke instead of words.
It didn’t start overnight. Years of feeling unheard built up. Yet Jamaat played a big role, moving from speeches to supporting armed groups. Early 1990s, it tied up with Hizbul Mujahideen. Mosques, meant for peace, became places to call young men to fight. Small darsgahs—where little kids first learned Quran—turned into spots feeding anger. Boys, some just 12 or 13, heard only selected lines about struggle, skipping the gentle ones like “There is no compulsion in religion” from Al-Baqarah.
What followed broke so many lives. Over three decades of pain. From 1988 till now (early 2026), South Asia Terrorism Portal counts around 22,466 lost souls in Jammu and Kashmir. Civilians paid heaviest—nearly 5,000 gone, caught in fires or blasts. Security forces lost about 3,600. Fighters around 13,400. In 1990 alone, over 1,000 died. The 1990s were worst: peaks like 4,500 in 1995. Wandhama in 1998—23 Kashmiri Pandits shot dead. In 1990, fear drove over 90,000–100,000 Pandits from the Valley. Homes empty, schools closed, our apples and tourism withered. Even later, 2000 saw 2,799 deaths; 2018 had 452 amid clashes. These aren’t just numbers—they’re empty chairs at dinner, mothers waiting forever, children growing up without fathers.
And behind the suffering? Political moves. Late Mufti Mohammad Sayeed was sharp, always calculating. He rose in Congress, became India’s Home Minister in 1989—the first from our community. As trouble grew, he started People’s Democratic Party in 1999. PDP even took the green flag and pen-inkpot from the 1987 Front. He quietly linked with Jamaat networks for support. In 2002, PDP won 16 seats; he became Chief Minister in coalition with Congress. In 2015, he allied with BJP—ruled till he passed in 2016. His daughter Mehbooba stepped in.
Those steps put him at the top, yes. But at huge cost. Linking with groups pushing faith-as-politics gave votes, but deepened divides. Jamaat stepped back from open fight after 2000, yet ideas lingered in schools and mosques. His “healing touch”—freeing some, starting talks—tried to calm. But 2008 Amarnath land protests killed 60. 2010 stone-pelting took over 100 young lives. People felt faith was being used for power, not peace.
This pattern hurts everyone. A Srinagar shopkeeper loses days to shutdowns. An Anantnag farmer buries his boy. Baramulla women wait for news of husbands gone missing. We can’t let a few climb high by twisting faith while the rest bleed. In our land of clear rivers and high mountains, we deserve the old way back—tolerant, full of love, healing.
Islam’s real power? It mends broken hearts, doesn’t break them. Remember Surah Al-Anbiya: “We have not sent you but as a mercy to the worlds.” In this corner of the globe, let it bring light, not darkness. Live with good character, grow inside, live together—that honors its truth. No crown or strict law makes it truer. It glows brightest in humble, open hearts.
Let’s choose that road—for our kids, to stop the pain cycle once and for all.
