Peerzada Masarat:
In the shadow of towering mountains and serene valleys, Jammu and Kashmir hides a festering wound that mirrors the darkest revelations of the Epstein files. Jeffrey Epstein’s infamous network exposed how the powerful prey on the vulnerable, turning human lives into commodities for their twisted desires. But why look across oceans when our own society reeks of the same putrefaction? Here, in our homes, streets, and institutions, we encounter Epstein’s ghosts at every turn. We curse these filthy predators—call them pigs, monsters, whatever venom our tongues can muster—but our words fall short. The horror is so pervasive that even the tiniest souls, our small babies, are not spared from the lurking shadows of exploitation. This is not just a story of isolated crimes; it’s a indictment of a society that has normalized the dehumanization of women and girls, allowing the rot to spread unchecked.
Imagine a world where safety is an illusion, where every corner whispers threats. From the sanctity of our grand homes to the bustling chaos of workplaces, schools, buses, hospitals, universities, colleges, even places of worship and political circles—nowhere is sacred. Women navigate this minefield daily, their dignity eroded by relentless harassment. I spoke with Haseena (name changed), an assistant professor at Kashmir University, whose voice trembled with a mix of rage and resignation. Her story echoes the Epstein files in its chilling familiarity: a web of power imbalances that ensnares the innocent.
Haseena described how her days are punctuated by unwanted advances. “Even our students try to touch with one excuse or another,” she said, her eyes welling up. “The bosses are bosses always—demanding, insinuating, making you feel like you’re on display.” But the harassment doesn’t stop at campus gates. Social media amplifies it, turning her into a target for anonymous predators who flood her inbox with lewd messages. “I’ve never felt as if I am a human being at all,” she confessed. “Just a showpiece, a commodity, nothing more.” Her words hung heavy in the air, a poignant reminder of how women are stripped of their humanity, reduced to objects in a society that values them only for what can be taken.
This commodification begins early, ensnaring even the young. Iqra, a class 10 student from downtown Srinagar, shared her ordeal with a quiet defiance that belied her age. Despite donning a burqa for protection when heading to school, she feels the weight of predatory gazes. “The male eyes are staring at me as if they are doing an X-ray,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “As if they’re trying to check what’s inside the burqa.” It’s not just pedestrians on the streets; even in her all-girls school, a few outsiders or intruders view the students as mere entertainment. “They consider us as if we are just for them, coming out to school like prizes on offer.” Iqra’s story is a heartbreaking testament to how innocence is violated before it can fully bloom, how the simple act of seeking education becomes a battleground against leering eyes and unspoken threats.
The betrayal deepens when it comes from those entrusted with moral guidance. Safia Banoo, a woman seeking spiritual solace, recounted an experience that shattered her faith in humanity. She began learning Islamic teachings from a scholarly Molvi, who initially addressed her as “daughter.” But one day, finding her alone, he attempted to molest her. Terrified, Safia stopped attending. When she confided in her husband, hoping for support, he dismissed her. “He forced me to go again at first, then when I narrated my story, he didn’t believe me—even blamed me,” she said, tears streaming down her face. This disbelief, this victim-blaming, is the glue that holds the putrefied system together. It silences survivors, allowing predators to thrive in the shadows of supposed sanctity.
To understand the depth of this societal decay, we must revisit the infamous 2006 sex scandal that rocked Jammu and Kashmir. Ministers, bureaucrats, and influential figures were implicated in a horrifying ring that exploited young girls, turning them into pawns in a game of power and lust. Sabina, one of the key victims, met a tragic end—slowly poisoned, her voice forever silenced. Yet, what became of the perpetrators? The bureaucrats remain in their cushy positions, the politicians strut as honorable MLAs, and justice? A resounding no. No punishments, no accountability. The scandal faded into whispers, buried under layers of corruption and complicity, much like the Epstein saga where the elite evaded true reckoning. In our region, this episode wasn’t an anomaly; it was a symptom of a broader malaise where the powerful protect their own, leaving the vulnerable to rot.
The political arena, meant to uplift, often amplifies this degradation. Rozy (name changed), a first-time elected Sarpanch from her village, entered public service with hope. But her interactions at the Block Development Office revealed a toxic underbelly. “I was accused of being an agent by male Sarpanches,” she explained. Despite equal power and responsibilities, she and other women were singled out. “If for genuine work we approached officers, the fellow Sarpanches’ whispers were killing me inside. They’d say, ‘Inko kaam karna aasan hai—just show body and get work done.'” These insidious accusations erode women’s agency, painting their achievements as products of seduction rather than merit. Rozy’s eyes burned with indignation as she spoke, highlighting how even in positions of authority, women are reduced to their bodies, their contributions dismissed in a haze of misogyny.
In the medical realm, where healing should prevail, the stories are equally gut-wrenching. Atiqa, a doctor by profession, has become an unwitting guardian for teen girls ensnared in this web. “It is me who knows how Jeffries are around our teenage girls,” she said, referring to the Epstein-like figures lurking everywhere. She assists them with contraceptives, a quiet act of mercy amid the chaos. “I have hundreds of stories which I don’t want to make public,” she admitted. But some horrors slip through: cases where fathers exploit their daughters, where the first abusers are Cousins, chacha (uncles), or mama (maternal uncles). “Ya to retain he hai,” she added bitterly—meaning, it’s always someone from the family circle. Atiqa’s voice cracked as she described the emotional toll, the way these girls arrive broken, their trust in humanity shattered. Her work is a bandage on a gaping wound, but it underscores the epidemic: exploitation infiltrates even the most intimate bonds, turning homes into prisons.
This pervasive predation isn’t just about individual acts; it’s a cultural rot that treats women as expendable. From Epstein’s island to our valleys, the pattern is the same: power imbalances, silence from enablers, and a society that prioritizes reputation over justice. We curse these filthy beings, but our outrage feels inadequate against the tide. Even infants aren’t safe—reports of child exploitation surface with alarming frequency, a stark reminder that no age is immune. The emotional scars run deep, leaving survivors like Nazima, Iqra, Safia, Rozy, and countless others feeling invisible, commodified, stripped of their essence.
In conclusion, as long as we are seen as commodities, we will be used and discarded. Let them consider us human beings, with dreams, fears, and rights. Let them understand we are not for exposition all the time, not objects to be ogled or owned. Let them allow us to live in a dignified society, where safety isn’t a privilege but a given. Until then, the putrefaction will continue, poisoning us all. It’s time to uproot the rot—before it consumes what’s left of our humanity.
