“Badalta Hai Rang Aasman Kaisay Kaisay”
I Ahmad Wani:
Eid has always carried the scent of change in Kashmir—like the shifting colors of the sky at dawn over the Dal Lake. “Badalta hai rang aasman kaisay kaisay?” the old verse echoes in my mind, capturing how the festival, once a canvas of unbridled joy, turned into a shadow of grief, and now, slowly, reclaims its light. From the innocent Eids of my childhood in the late 1980s to the haunted ones of the 1990s and 2000s, and now to the carefree selfies my younger son snaps with friends near Zaberwan Park, the journey has been one of loss, endurance, and fragile renewal.
I remember Eid in 1988, when I was just in Class 5. After the prayers at Achabal Eidgah, my younger brother and I walked hand-in-hand with our father through streets free of military bunkers or barbed wire. No heavy boots echoed; no armored vehicles idled at chowks. The air was filled with the aroma of sheer kurma and roti being prepared in every home. After lunch, the area around the Ziyarat Shareef of Hazrat Syed Sabour Simnani in Trahpoo came alive with youthful energy. Young boys formed circles for kabaddi, their shouts and laughter rising as spectators cheered. Our father, one of the best players of his time, joined in, and we brothers rooted for him with all the pride a child can muster. Nearby, young girls performed ROUF (also called HAKET), standing in two facing rows, arms linked, swaying in perfect rhythm—one step forward, one back—with intricate footwork called chakri. Their voices rose in soulful songs, drawing smiles from elderly women and children alike. Street vendors sold balloons and small trinkets, turning the day into a simple carnival. Happiness was abundant, even if material joys were few. It was pure, communal, rooted in Kashmiri tradition.
That world shattered after 1989. The rise of armed insurgency, fueled by toxic fundamentalism and false narratives of “Pakistan sa rishta Ka,” poisoned the air. Eid became a ritual of mourning rather than celebration. Kabaddi matches vanished; rouf dances fell silent. Streets once filled with laughter now echoed with stone-pelting, tear gas, and worse. Parents like me could not let our young boys out of sight, even on holidays. Roaming freely turned into a duty laced with fear.
One Eid stands out in memory as a wound that never fully heals. After prayers at the historic Eidgah in Srinagar, under the leadership of Mirwaiz Umar Farooq, processions turned violent. Crowds marched toward Jahangir Chowk, torching government buildings in rage. Security forces responded with tear gas and firing, killing a few young boys and injuring many others. What began as Eid joy ended in funerals. Families who had dressed in new clothes for celebration now shrouded their sons. The valley plunged into strict curfew and hartals that lasted days. Doors stayed locked; hopes stayed trapped inside. No internet, no movement—just silence broken by distant gunfire or wails. As a parent, those days felt like burying dreams alive.
The 1990s and beyond were a long night. Eids passed in tazyats and mourning. Young lives were lost to bullets or disappearances. Parents buried sons in the prime of youth, under quilts of soil instead of blankets of celebration. The false narrative peddled by some—that violence was the path to dignity—crushed our culture. Our parents, swayed by it, watched hopes die. “How misguided our parents were,” I sometimes think, “who buried their young ones under illusions.” Yet the real culprits were those who sowed division, who turned youthful energy into destruction, who made monsters of men and enemies of our peaceful days.
Today, the wind has changed. Near Zaberwan Park, I watch my younger son with friends gathered around a street corn seller. Their smiling faces light up as they take selfies, chat, and laugh. It’s an “Elena’s pleasure”—a quiet joy—for parents who lived through the brutal past. No fear grips me when he steps out; no curfew shadows the day. The atmosphere feels lighter, the streets safer for play and normal life.
This shift owes much to the bold decision in 2019 to abrogate Article 370. The separatist narrative, long a veil over violence, has been buried. The thick clouds of false promises are lifting. Real Kashmiri culture—kabaddi on village grounds, rouf under open skies, families gathering without dread—is reborning. Smiles return to young faces; worries for our boys turn into hopes. The Gen Z Eid is one of freedom in small things: roaming parks, sharing corn, capturing moments on phones. It’s not perfect, but it’s a beginning.
As Faiz Ahmed Faiz wrote, “Aur bhi gham hain zamane mein mohabbat ke siwa” (There are other sorrows in the world besides love), but in Kashmir, we have known sorrows tied to lost freedom and stolen youth. Yet another line from him resonates: “Yeh jabr bhi dekha hai tareekh ki ghadiyon ne” (History has witnessed this tyranny too). We have seen tyranny, but we have also seen resilience.
A Kashmiri proverb says, “Yeth manz yeth chhu aman” (Here, in this place, there is peace). Peace was absent for decades, but glimpses return. Let us not ignore these small moments where history is being rewritten. The monsters who stole our youthful days are now behind doors, as dua often rises from my lips: May the system that locked them get strength to sustain this calm.
Eid today is not the same as 1988—no, the innocence is tempered by scars. But it is also not the Eid of the 1990s, drowned in blood. It is a bridge between pain and possibility. For Gen Z, Eid means joy without chains. For those of us who witnessed the darkness, it means gratitude that our children can breathe freely. The sky changes colors, yes—but today, the dawn feels warmer.
May every Eid bring more light, more laughter, and the return of what was cruelly taken. Eid Mubarak to a Kashmir finding its smile again.
