In the quiet lanes of Srinagar, where winter fog softens the sharp edges of old houses, International Women’s Day arrives like a gentle reminder. It asks us to look again at the women who have lived among us—women who, without raising their voices to thunder, quietly moved the heavy stones of tradition aside so others could pass.
Lal Ded walked barefoot through the same streets we tread today. In the 14th century she left the shelter of marriage and family, chose plain wool over fine clothes, and spoke in verses so clear they still reach children in village schools. She taught that truth needs no permission, no curtain, no male guardian to be heard.
Centuries later Queen Didda held the throne through decades of plots and wars. A woman once dismissed because of a limp, she governed Kashmir with steady hands, outlived every challenger, and kept the kingdom whole. Her rule was not loud; it was enduring.
Habba Khatoon sang her sorrow beneath walnut trees rather than lock it inside four walls. Widowed young, barred by custom from remarrying, she turned private grief into songs that every Kashmiri mother still hums to her child. Her voice carried further than any decree.
In our own time Parveena Ahangar has carried photographs of her disappeared son door to door, from Srinagar courts to distant capitals, for more than thirty years. She speaks softly, yet her persistence has forced governments to answer questions they preferred to ignore. Beside her, countless teachers continue classes under curfew, midwives deliver hope in remote hamlets, and weavers keep ancient patterns alive on looms that barely earn enough.
Across the wider Muslim world the same quiet strength appears again and again. Khadija, the merchant of Mecca, built wealth and chose her own husband. Fatima al-Fihri used her inheritance to open doors of learning that have never closed. Rufaida nursed soldiers on battlefields when custom said women should stay home. Nana Asma’u traveled villages on horseback to teach girls to read when few thought it necessary.
These lives do not shout; they persist. They show that change in conservative societies often arrives not through confrontation alone, but through steady, patient refusal to disappear.
Today let us not only remember them. Let us make room—equal shares in family land, fair wages for long hours at the loom, safety to walk any street at any hour, classrooms that never close because of conflict or custom. These are not grand demands; they are the natural next step after centuries of quiet footsteps forward.
The women who softened stone with their presence still walk among us. The softest headlines are written by their lives. The truest celebration is the space we give them now.
