Sidiq Khan
Kashmir woke last Saturday to a silence heavier than snow. In the high hamlet of Mukam-e-Shahwali, Kupwara, the morning air carried no birdsong—only the muffled sound of a thousand hearts cracking open. Shoulder to shoulder, villagers formed a human river of grief as they carried Inspector Shah Asrar Ahmad to his final resting place. The tricolour draped over his coffin looked almost too bright against the ashen faces. His was not merely a uniform laid to rest; it was the quiet dignity of an entire village, the unspoken promise that someone strong and kind still stood between them and the night.
Asrar was never the kind of officer who needed to raise his voice. Neighbours remember him stopping his gypsy on muddy lanes to ask after an ailing elder, or slipping a few rupees into a child’s palm for toffee. Rank sat lightly on his shoulders; duty did not. When the accidental blast ripped through Nowgam Police Station, it stole more than a life. It stole the village’s sense of safety, the comforting knowledge that “Asrar saeb” was only a shout away. On the day of the funeral, old men clutched their walking sticks like rifles, women pressed scarves to their mouths to cage the sobs, and children—who once ran behind his vehicle waving—stood frozen, trying to understand why the world had suddenly turned unkind.
Farther down the Valley, in Wanbal Nowgam, another home collapsed into itself. Mohammad Shafi Parray, a tailor who measured hope in metres of pheran cloth, was stitching school uniforms for the coming winter when death arrived unannounced. His sewing machine now stands silent, its needle mid-air, as if waiting for hands that will never return. Shafi leaves behind three daughters who will grow up measuring their dreams against the empty chair at the dinner table and a wife who folds and refolds his last half-finished kurta, unable to believe the thread of their life together has snapped so abruptly.
In HMT Srinagar, a young constable’s mother keeps lighting the evening lamp at the threshold, half-expecting Ajaz Ahmad to walk in, helmet tucked under his arm, complaining about the cold. Ajaz was posted far from home, yet he sent money for his sister’s books and phoned his mother every night without fail. His laughter still echoes in the courtyard; his boots still stand polished by the door. An accident—no militants, no crossfire, just a cruel twist of fate—robbed a family of its tomorrow.
These are not statistics in some distant report. These are flesh-and-blood stories of ordinary men leading honourable lives, ended by a tragedy that should never have happened. An inspector devoted to his people, a constable dreaming of promotion, a tailor stitching futures—one blast, three families shattered, countless others shaken.
For too long, Kashmiri Muslims have been painted with the broad brush of suspicion. Every beard, every prayer cap, every young man on a motorcycle has been asked to prove loyalty that was never in doubt. Yet here stands Inspector Asrar—posthumously—as the most eloquent rebuttal. His blood soaked the same soil he swore to protect. His sacrifice is not a footnote; it is a blazing contradiction to every lazy stereotype ever peddled in drawing-room debates and primetime shouting matches. If patriotism has a face in Kashmir, it wore Asrar’s gentle smile.
This tragedy must not be allowed to dissolve into the numb routine of “another incident in the Valley.” It must jolt consciences. It must force hard questions: Why do safety protocols fail the very men tasked with keeping us safe? Why does basic training in handling explosives remain inadequate in a region that lives with explosives? When will governance prioritise the lives of those who wear the uniform—and those who don’t—over bureaucratic inertia and political point-scoring?
Kashmir is tired of burying its sons. Her graveyards are full of stories that began with bright-eyed promise and ended too soon. Her rivers have carried too many tears. Her chinars shed leaves like widows shed silent grief. The Valley does not ask for miracles. It asks for something far simpler, and far more difficult: the right to live without constantly bracing for the next blow.
Let this shared mourning become a turning point. Let the memory of Asrar, Ajaz, and Shafi compel stricter safeguards, transparent inquiries, and a renewed covenant between the state and its people. Let their deaths mark the moment we finally decide that no life—whether in khaki or in a tailor’s apron—is expendable.
Let the mountains that have echoed gunfire for decades learn a new sound: the sound of children laughing without fear. Let mothers light lamps for sons who will return home, not for sons they wait for in vain. Let Kashmir rise, yes—but this time, let it rise into hope, not from the ashes of yet another grave.
In the name of Inspector Shah Asrar Ahmad.
In the name of Constable Ajaz Ahmad.
In the name of Mohammad Shafi Parray.
In the name of every Kashmiri who ever served with quiet honour.
Kashmir deserves healing.
Kashmir deserves protection.
Kashmir deserves peace—not as charity, not as concession, but as its undeniable birthright.
The Valley has wept enough.
Now let it breathe.
