A video recently surfaced on social media showing a mother from Kashmir walking barefoot toward Kot Bhalwal Jail in Jammu. There was no drama in her words, no slogans on her lips—only exhaustion, helplessness, and a quiet determination born out of desperation. She was not walking for a protest or publicity; she was walking to see her son. That single image is enough to shake any conscience. It compels one to ask uncomfortable but necessary questions: who has pushed Kashmir’s mothers into such agony, and why has this suffering been allowed to continue for decades?

That mother is not alone. Thousands of mothers across Kashmir have spent years waiting and wailing for their sons. Many do not even know whether their children are alive or dead. Some sons are buried in graveyards without names, others locked behind prison walls far away, and many vanished without a trace. These mothers did not choose politics, conflict, or rebellion. Yet they have paid the heaviest price.

It is time to speak honestly and identify those who gave this pain to Kashmir.

For over three decades, Kashmir was pushed into a cycle of chaos under the banner of a so-called “freedom struggle.” The Hurriyat Conference, its allied organisations, and various radical and separatist elements crafted and propagated a narrative of “independence” that romanticised violence and glorified disruption. Young boys were told they were soldiers of a cause, stones and guns were placed in their hands, and death was dressed up as martyrdom. The result was not freedom, dignity, or prosperity—but devastation.

Thousands of lives were lost. Many more were permanently injured, physically and psychologically. Families were shattered beyond repair. What did this thirty-year-long destruction give Kashmir in return? No economic stability, no social harmony, no political resolution—only pain, sorrow, fear, and endless funerals.

One must ask: where are the leaders who led this so-called resistance? Where are the voices that called for shutdowns, boycotts, and agitation? Today, many of them are busy defending their wealth, rewriting their positions, and changing colours like chameleons. During the peak years of turmoil, crores were collected in the name of the cause. That money did not build schools, hospitals, or industries. It built private fortunes. Today, many of those leaders and their families live comfortably, some within India, others abroad, enjoying the very stability they denied to the people they claimed to represent.

And what about the mother in that viral video? She does not have enough money even for a bus ticket from Kashmir to Jammu. She does not know on what legal basis her son is in jail. She does not have access to lawyers, media platforms, or political protection. Her only weapon is her pain, and her only strength is motherhood. This contrast alone exposes the moral bankruptcy of those who preached sacrifice but never sacrificed anything of their own.

Kashmir was once known as the land of saints, scholars, and spiritual harmony. Crime was rare, social bonds were strong, and education was respected. The culture of fear and lawlessness that crept in over the years did not emerge naturally—it was cultivated. When schools were forced to shut down for months due to separatist-called shutdowns, an entire generation lost its academic foundation. When businesses remained closed and tourism collapsed, unemployment soared. When young minds were denied classrooms and jobs, frustration found other outlets.

This is where many of today’s social evils took root. Drug addiction, peddling, theft, and organised crime did not define Kashmir earlier; they grew in the vacuum created by prolonged instability. A society constantly pushed into protests, funerals, and shutdowns cannot remain healthy. When hope is killed, addiction grows. When opportunity disappears, crime follows.

Separatist politics did not just harm the present—it robbed the future. One generation was lost to violence and fear. Another grew up watching uncertainty as a norm. Kashmir cannot afford to lose more.

This is why introspection is not just necessary—it is urgent. The younger generation must ask hard questions: what did radical narratives truly deliver? Did they bring dignity to mothers, education to children, or employment to youth? Or did they merely create a cycle where common people suffered while a few leaders benefited?

Rejecting radicalism is not betrayal; it is self-preservation. Standing with peace, stability, and the nation is not submission; it is a conscious choice for life over death, progress over stagnation, and hope over despair. The real courage today lies not in raising slogans or stones, but in choosing education, work, and dialogue.

Kashmir’s mothers deserve answers, not sympathy alone. They deserve accountability, not hollow rhetoric. They deserve a future where no woman has to walk barefoot across states just to see her child in jail. The pain they bear is a reminder of the cost of misguided leadership and destructive narratives.

If Kashmir is to heal, the truth must be spoken without fear. Those who thrived on chaos must be named. Those who misled generations must be questioned. And those who inherit this wounded land must choose a different path—one that ensures no mother ever has to endure such pain again.

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