Unpacking ‘Indian Administration’ in Conversation
My concerns, suspicions, and unresolved questions eventually coalesced in a series of private discussions with a local family. The subject of militarisation and securitisation emerged almost inevitably from a conversation on how mainstream American media often falsely portrays South Asia, and/or Muslim-majority societies.
Eventually, I felt comfortable asking directly how they related to the Indian state and what life in Kashmir has been since 2019. They responded with an almost urgent and unflinching account of the oppressive and suppressive nature of the administration.
With conviction and clarity, they moved through a range of anecdotes and analyses, describing grave human rights abuses carried out against men, women, children, and the elderly. They spoke of routine kidnappings and disappearances, unresolved murders, arbitrary arrests without charge, and the suppression of resistance in all forms, armed or unarmed. They described threats on individual lives, particularly those of Kashmiri journalists, for expressing even basic political views.
They recounted experiences of abuse in arbitrary detention and shared stories of mothers they know whose sons have gone missing for years – cases in which they struggle to assume whether their loved ones are alive. They also drew their own parallels between India’s actions in Kashmir and the human rights violations Israel perpetrates in historic Palestine, including an account of a Kashmiri man being taped or tied to the front of a moving Indian military vehicle as punishment and used as a human shield during stone-throwing incidents.
One of them spoke with a tone inflected by loss, their demeanor shifting from subdued and mild-mannered to openly disgusted and agitated. They asserted that the suffering Kashmiris endure at the hands of police and military forces is routinely overlooked on the international stage. At one point, I wrote down their words, moved by their precision and poignancy:
“You will not understand our reality because they [the Indian government] make it so. They do not just disappear our people. They disappear that they are disappearing. It is living in a fogged prison. You will not understand what we are living.”
Later in the day, I asked about their perceptions of the next generation —whether, in light of the political realignments following the 2019 Reorganization Act and the communication restrictions imposed through technology and social media – the spirit of resistance had shifted. I asked, specifically, whether they sensed that children were growing up with a greater orientation toward assimilation into India, even if such assimilation is forced or coerced, and even if they perceive it as unjust. They responded that they believe the sentiment for resistance remains very much alive, and it continues to surface in the diaspora as well.
“Resistance is natural. In some way, you will not accept this life. …..”
They spoke, too, of a profound longing for autonomy and sovereignty—for a political structure that does not speak in spite of the Kashmiri people, or seek to subjugate them, but one that represents them. They claimed that the suppression of free speech, restrictions on freedom of movement, and the absence of democratic elections, or an impartial judiciary, the supposed economic benefits of the removal of Kashmir’s autonomy do not outweigh the costs.
They also emphasized their determination to protect their families, and the integrity of Kashmiri identity and culture, from what they described as the Indian government’s effort to impose a Hindu-nationalist homogeneity, as well as the growing threat of land seizures and encroachment.
I understood then, and understand now, only a fraction of the range of opinions present among the general public in Kashmir. While some may accept or even prefer Indian administration, particularly for economic liberalisation or tourism associated with state affiliation, the locals I spoke to stressed that, in their view, this is not the majority position. They stated confidently that regardless of political views, what feels more universal to Kashmiris is a desire for self-governance, and freedom from imposed Indian or Pakistani government interference and the militarization that defines daily life.
They also warned that any attempt on my part to raise such questions publicly would be reckless and dangerous, and that even in private settings, such conversations could arouse suspicion. Censorship and surveillance of political speech is so commonplace that posing these questions openly could be interpreted as hostile or even as espionage.
Finally, they insisted that it is a moral failure to overlook the ways in which Kashmiris endure both the physical and psychological consequences of being denied basic rights. When they assert that the issue must be resolved as per local aspirations and wishes, they want to see an end to India’s fast and slow state violence. While their lives have been textured by periods of relative peace and outbreaks of violence, they have felt the grip of Indian occupation tightening since the government of India arbitrarily revoked Article 370 and 35A of the Indian Constitution.
Returning from Kashmir in the Wake of the Pahalgam Attack
It was with their words cycling through my mind that I left Kashmir – a place that on its own, had left an imprint on my heart. Certainly, much of my trip felt safe, relatively normal, and/or indulgent.
From the delicious food and drink– the sheermal and nutty Kahwa my favorite – to the snow-capped mountains, lush landscapes, tulip fields, Mughal Gardens, historic architecture, ornate embroidery, and the generally distinct heritage and welcoming nature of the people I met, I found Kashmir to be an unforgettably beautiful place. It left an everlasting impression in just a few days.
Of course, life in Kashmir is not entirely defined by the weight of the state. The joys and mundanity of living life among family and friends in such a culturally rich region, were apparent. But so too were the structures that define militarisation and oppression.
The Indian government revealed itself through an array of material symbols and structures of control: barbed-wire fencing lining walls and gates; towering fortresses; “no-fly drone zone” warnings; metal sniper shields overlooking public roads; ominous civilian street art paired with military propaganda; an abundance of seemingly arbitrary checkpoints, where individuals are stopped, questioned, and at times harassed or searched without cause; and the visible presence of the Indian military, with soldiers stationed every few meters with automatic rifles, often standing in clusters or guarding posts.
I wanted to actively discuss my Kashmir experience upon returning to Gujarat. However, I held back as I watched the Indian government vigorously instrumentalise the attack in Baisaran Valley to advance a Hindu nationalist, anti-Muslim, and anti-Pakistan narrative. From the billboards popping up of Prime Minister Narendra Modi in military uniform, to encountering his parades that shut down streets, to seeing the image of Gandhi projected alongside the words of war, the seeming unquestioning public embrace of militarisation reached a level that felt both disturbing and surreal.
The state’s celebration of 'Operation Sindoor' felt at times like a sporting event whose biggest fans were Hindutva constituencies. Indian nationalism appeared not only inherent but compulsory.
To question the broad-brush vilification of Pakistanis – and by extension, Muslim communities– or the rhetoric of retribution and collective punishment being waged in Kashmir, felt to invite accusations of being an enemy, an infiltrator, a terrorist sympathiser.
Even weeks after the attack, on a train to Mumbai, I remember scanning newspaper after newspaper with story after story dedicated to the escalating Indo-Pak tensions as well as a national epidemic of hate-fueled acts. I also found myself reading the online comment sections of major Indian media outlets and encountering a volume of assuredly hateful and dehumanizing statements.
I was alarmed that even major companies, like the cooperative Dairy giant, Amul, capitalised on the pro-war, nationalist sentiment with an advertisements reading, “Send them Pakking!” and “Proudly Indian.”
Furthermore, the conversations I overheard—or was drawn into—on the backs of motorbikes or in cafes echoed the same sentiments: casual Islamophobia, vilification of Kashmiris, and an unhesitating belief in the righteousness of campaigns targeting anyone the Indian government deemed a suspected terrorist.
This is all to say that while there was palpable grief and rage for the victims of Pahalgam, I did not feel a corresponding space to grieve for or speak of the Kashmiri civilians who, in the aftermath, faced intensified scrutiny, threats, harassment, and state violence. By mid-May at least 1,500 Kashmiris had been detained under the broad justification of targeting suspected militants while other Kashmiri citizens were deported with no cause. Meanwhile, Kashmir itself was further marginalised in public discourse, its people spoken about, but not given their own public voice, in the wake of what was effectively a cruel campaign of intimidation and a region-wide lockdown.
What this violent threshold signifies?
The scarcity of information about daily life in Kashmir, beyond security concerns and border conflict, demonstrates India's extensive communications controls in the region. With private communications monitored and punitive actions for truth-telling, it is difficult to trust the wholeness of what is published about Kashmir. Recent book banks and seizures of the press – seizures of the truth – simply underscore that there is value in stating one’s own understanding of the oppression and suppression that seems to strangle “Heaven on Earth.”
As a white foreign American tourist witnessing these dynamics for only a few days, I saw only a sanitised, surface-level glimpse into the far-reaching and far more pernicious ways the Indian administration disrupts, constrains, and too-often terrorizes daily life for Kashmiris. Despite the communication lockdown, reports have chronicled wide-scale torture, brutal beatings, pellet attacks, disappearances, bulldozer injustice, and the uncertainty of state-killings for decades. These crimes and injustices have received international attention and strong condemnation.
The Israeli-Indian military partnership is a significant and deeply disturbing indicator of the broader project India is pursuing in Kashmir. Particularly alarming are recent reports–including an April analysis by Genocide Watch—which highlight the growing normalization of rhetoric that seeks to erase and/or eradicate the Kashmiri people and their distinct identity.
Others have also explicitly drawn on the absolute devastation in Gaza as a model India could emulate. Furthermore, emerging patterns of demographic manipulation and land appropriation in Kashmir reveal striking similarities with the strategies Israel has used in the occupied West Bank. The 2019 Domicile Laws, which allow non-Kashmiris to obtain permanent residency, coupled with legal amendments enabling non-residents to purchase land, apply for government employment, and exercise electoral rights, suggest a concerted effort to transform the region’s socio-political and cultural composition—one historically and intimately tied to the land.
Additionally, the expanding military infrastructure, including the conversion of significant tracts of land into army installations, reflects a strategic consolidation of territorial control. Even though these military colonies are not residential, they nonetheless represent substantial land acquisition, and initiatives to establish settlements for the families of Indian soldiers underscore this trajectory.
The long standing comparisons Kashmiris themselves have drawn to the brutalities in Palestinian territories should neither be taken lightly. Still, leaving parallels of oppression aside, Kashmiris, like Palestinians, have their own story to tell – a story currently filtered through, or strangled by, the Indian government.
The entanglement of Kashmir between India and Pakistan, and its role in a multi-generational geographic and cultural conflict, adds a precariousness and weight to any dialogue about justice in and for Kashmir. My role as a foreign visitor is not to argue what constitutes a just future for Kashmir or to offer an analysis. Rather, I believe I have an ethical obligation to simply stand in solidarity with those facing what I see as clear and undeniable injustices and to speak the truth as I understand it.
I humbly reject the notion that the situation in Kashmir is complicated or too complex to understand, and thus too complicated to address. This framing is so often deployed to exonerate oneself from taking a principled stance. It also entrenches a narrative that one is simply not capable of discerning reality, leaving the dominant narrative, imposed by the state, as the only truth.
There is little that is complicated or complex about retelling the circumstances of state violence or the unjust nature of the Indian government’s repression.
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