I Ahmad Wani
When the news broke that Ayatollah Ali Khamenei had been killed in that US-Israeli airstrike on February 28, 2026, it landed like a stone in the chest here in Srinagar. Tehran felt far away, but the grief didn’t. By March 1 the streets were already filling—black flags, portraits of the late Supreme Leader, angry slogans aimed straight at Washington and Tel Aviv. The Muttahida Majlis-e-Ulama, with Mirwaiz Umar Farooq at the front, called for a total shutdown on March 2. They called it mourning his “martyrdom” and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Iran. Shops slammed shut. Buses and sumos disappeared. Schools and colleges stayed locked till at least March 7. Thousands walked out in Lal Chowk, Budgam, Bandipora, Anantnag, Pulwama—everywhere the Shia connection to Iran runs deep.
Mirwaiz spoke plainly. On X he wrote that it was a brutal killing that shook the whole Muslim world, condemned the attack on Iran, mentioned the deaths of innocent girls in Minab, and said our hearts were beating with the Iranian people in their sorrow. “In this hour of immense sorrow, our hearts beat with the resilient people of Iran,” he posted, calling for unity and a peaceful, dignified strike. Mehbooba Mufti threw her full weight behind it too. Her post read: “Extending our full support and solidarity with the shutdown call of Mirwaiz Umar Farooq on the martyrdom of Iran’s Supreme Leader. This is a day of mourning to remind the world that injustice anywhere wounds the entire Muslim Ummah… United in grief and united in resistance, we stand firm with the people of Iran.” She even pressed the DGP to release the detained women protesters with some humanity. Omar Abdullah took a quieter line—said he was deeply concerned, asked everyone to keep calm, urged the police to show restraint so people could grieve in peace, and made sure the government was in touch to look after anyone from J&K stuck in Iran.
Those posts spread like wildfire. Likes, retweets, shares—people turned words into weapons online. Nationally you heard echoes too. Farooq Abdullah called it “profound anguish” and wanted the administration to let people mourn properly. Sajad Lone said it was “deeply distressing” and would only add more sorrow and uncertainty to the region. Mehbooba went harder in interviews, calling it a shameful moment in history, with Israel and the US openly boasting about killing Iran’s “beloved leader,” while Muslim countries stayed conveniently silent.
Did our hartal actually do anything for Iran? On a symbolic level, yes—it showed the world that Khamenei’s death wasn’t just a Tehran headline; the pain reached these valleys too. Newspapers and TV picked it up, tying our protests straight to the assassination. For a government in Iran that’s been trading missiles and staring down more threats, that kind of moral backup must have meant something. It put a little pressure on Delhi as well—hard to ignore when your own Shia communities and your Iran relationship are both in the frame.
But did it stop the US-Israel war machine? Let’s be real—no. The rockets kept coming from both sides. The big strategic moves didn’t pause because a few bazaars in Srinagar went dark or because kids missed a week of school. The war is half a world away. Our anger, loud as it was, stayed local.
Now look at the damage on our side. Shopkeepers lost days of income in an economy that’s already on life support after years of shutdowns and uncertainty. Transporters earned nothing. Daily-wage workers went hungry. Schools closed, exams delayed—our children lost another slice of normal life. And the youth? They saw the viral posts, felt the fire, came out on the streets. In some places stones flew; tear gas came back. A dozen people hurt, five of them police officers. Stop and think: those cops are our own boys—sons, brothers, neighbours from the same lanes. Not one American or Israeli felt the impact. No foreign shop or office in Srinagar took a hit. The pain landed right here—on our police, our small businesses, our kids’ futures.
Social media played its usual dirty game. The platforms let the rage pour out—Mirwaiz’s strong words, Mehbooba’s sharp jabs, the shade thrown at the OIC. No big deletions, no sudden shadow-bans on the important stuff. Why? Because anger is addictive. The longer we stay mad and scrolling, the more ads they sell. They dress it up as free speech, but it’s just business. The algorithm stays live when it makes money. Our unemployed young people drink it in, get lit up, hit the streets—then catch lathis from their own people. Round and round it goes.
None of this is new. I still remember hearing about that scene in Kulgam back in the early 1980s. Some comrades heard Yasser Arafat had been arrested in Palestine and marched into the main bazaar yelling at full volume: “Yasir Arafat ko reha karo! Reha karo! Reha karo!” Total jam—traffic frozen. The SHO comes running, stops them right there in the road. Tehsildar arrives to talk sense. Before he can even open his mouth the SHO says straight-faced: “Sahib, they’re demanding Yasser Arafat’s release.” Tehsildar doesn’t miss a beat. Steps up, loud and serious: “Theek hai! I’m ordering his immediate release right now!” Turns to the SHO: “Jao, jaake jail se release kar do Yasser Arafat ko!” The crowd, somehow satisfied with the performance, drifts away. Pure Kashmiri dark comedy—screaming about justice ten thousand miles away while the local bosses turn it into street theatre.
Here we are, decades later, running the same show. Paper missiles on X, hartals that punch our own stomachs, stones that bruise our own faces. After thirty-five years of this grind, don’t we see it yet? Feeling the grief is human. Showing solidarity is decent. But why do we keep cutting ourselves to shout at people who aren’t even listening?
It’s past time we grew up. Let the pain out without torching our own lives. Build instead of breaking. Because every time we do this, the only ones who really bleed are the ones who live here—day after day, year after year.
In a moment thick with symbolism and contradiction, outrage played out on the very platforms owned by those being condemned. Effigies burned, slogans echoed, and familiar political theatre returned to the streets. Yet the real paradox lay elsewhere. While mainstream politicians hurried to reclaim relevance through revolutionary posturing, it was the unelected administrative machinery—often dismissed as mere bureaucracy—that acted with the restraint of statesmanship. In choosing stability over spectacle, they revealed an uncomfortable truth: real leadership is not measured by the loudness of protest, but by the quiet responsibility of protecting one’s own people.
