The New Identity Crisis In Kashmir

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)

Representational photo

By Malik Daniyal

It was during a wedding in Srinagar few winters back that I first noticed it, not the lavish trami or the crackling kangri, but the absence of something quieter, more invisible.

The children running around the hall weren’t speaking Kashmiri. Their voices, sharp with excitement, carried the rhythm of Urdu and English instead. Even the elders, while serving the Rogan Josh with the care of centuries-old ritual, often replied to their grandchildren in halting urdu, as if trying to meet them halfway across a cultural gap that had quietly widened.

This scene is neither unique nor unexpected. It is the sound of a world in transition, a world where globalization in all its promises and pressures is quietly reshaping the identity of Kashmir.

And while change is inevitable, what we must ask is this: what are we losing in the process, and is it too late to hold on to what defines us?

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In Kashmir, language is more than a tool of communication, it is a bearer of memory, metaphor, and belonging. To speak in Kashmiri is to carry generations on the tongue. Yet among younger generations the use of Kashmiri is declining rapidly, not because they cannot, but because they have been led to believe that Kashmiri is outdated and primitive.

English is the language of aspiration, Urdu the language of accessibility. Kashmiri is often the language of grandparents, nostalgia, or embarrassment. The irony is painful – those closest to the language sometimes pass on attitudes that discourage its use.

This misconception, sadly, is perpetuated by modern-day parents themselves. Many parents consciously or unconsciously discourage speaking Kashmiri at home. They associate the language with backwardness and fear it will hold their children back. In doing so, they pass on a subtle but damaging message: to be modern is to reject your roots.

I remember speaking to a mother who said,“I want my son to speak English and Urdu well. Kashmiri? It’s just a language for old people, for rural folk.”

Her words echoed a widespread illusion created by a westernized narrative that equates progress with the abandonment of local languages and cultures.

But this illusion is dangerous. It severs the deep connection to identity that Kashmiri language holds. Without that connection, children grow up feeling disconnected not only from their language but from their history and themselves.

This is a common refrain. Parents’ fears, shaped by social pressures, lead to a negative attitude toward their own mother tongue. This internalized skepticism, born of survival instinct, accelerates the erosion of language and with it, the erosion of identity.

Many young students, like a 17-year-old I recently spoke to, express discomfort in speaking Kashmiri despite understanding it well. Their school curriculum is entirely in English, their favorite shows are on Netflix, and most of their conversations happen online where Kashmiri simply has no script, literally or socially. Their homes, where they should feel safe to speak their language, often reinforce the message that Kashmiri is a barrier rather than a bridge.

This cultural loss is not just about words slipping away; it is about a collective forgetting. When we lose Kashmiri, we lose the metaphors for snow, silence, sorrow, and joy that only this language carries.

We lose the way our ancestors understood the land, the seasons, the sacred rituals that knit our communities together. The history embedded in our tongue is not recorded in books but lives in the sounds and expressions handed down from one generation to the next.

It would be easy and lazy to romanticize the past and vilify the present. Cultures evolve; they are not museums but living organisms. Yet there is a difference between evolution and erosion.

It is painful to watch traditions evolve into mere shadows of themselves. The Wazwan still feeds many at weddings, but the ritual warmth of sharing food with family and friends is replaced by buffet lines and selfies.

The pheran, once a symbol of identity and survival against the harsh winters, is now sometimes worn only for fashion or festival spectacle. Traditional Kashmiri music struggles to find its place in a world overwhelmed by Bollywood beats and Western pop. The very soul of Kashmir risks being reduced to nostalgia rather than a living culture.

This loss is not only external but internal. I have met young Kashmiris who admire global fashion, trends, and languages, which is natural in today’s interconnected world. But many confess to feeling caught in between – too modern for their elders, too rooted for global cities. Their accents and expressions are often“corrected” at home, even by parents, who think shedding Kashmiri will make their children more“updated” or successful.

This internalized negativity toward the mother tongue is one of the most tragic forces eroding Kashmiri identity.

This cultural limbo is real. The pressure to conform to global norms often causes young people to downplay their roots. The pheran becomes too ethnic, the accent too rural, the songs too slow. But there is another side to the story too.

Kashmiri artists, influencers, and writers are increasingly using global platforms to reclaim and represent their identity. When done intentionally, globalization can become a tool for cultural revival rather than cultural erasure.

And yet, the story is not completely bleak. There are quiet resistances happening – local artisans reviving traditional crafts, papier-mâché, and walnut wood carving blending tradition with modern design. Even digital creators are experimenting with bilingual content making room for humour, poetry, and identity in equal measure.

These efforts might seem small but they are the seeds of something larger. These efforts show that identity can survive, but only if nurtured with intention. What, then, can be done?

What is needed is not nostalgia but strategy. First, we must recognize that preserving Kashmiri identity means preserving its language as a living, everyday presence. This requires a shift in mindset among parents and communities.

Kashmiri should not be seen as a burden but a precious gift to pass on. Schools must integrate Kashmiri language and literature as essential, not elective, subjects. Only then will children grow proud and fluent, instead of hesitant and ashamed.

Second, embracing modern platforms to promote Kashmiri culture is vital. From social media influencers to musicians blending folk and contemporary sounds, Kashmiri identity must have a vibrant voice on global stages.

Finally, community spaces where Kashmiri is spoken, stories are shared, and traditions lived are essential. These could be libraries, cafes, or informal gatherings that encourage cultural exchange. Policy support from government and civil society must prioritize cultural preservation alongside economic development.

But above all we need to talk to grandparents, to neighbors, to ourselves. Culture survives not just in institutions but in conversations, songs sung at dusk, recipes passed down, and stories retold.

Without these conscious efforts, what future awaits Kashmir’s identity? What becomes of a people when their language is forgotten, especially by none other than their own actions? Can we afford to lose the stories, the songs, and the soul that make Kashmir more than just a place on the map?

Kashmir is not just a place on the map, it is a scent, a palette of snow and saffron. To lose that under the weight of trends or algorithms would be to become strangers in our own land.

The erosion of language is not just the loss of words but the loss of ourselves. The question remains: will we remember who we are before it’s too late?

• Malik Daniyal is a Bachelor’s student at University of Delhi. He can be reached at [email protected]

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