The iconic image of Jammu and Kashmir Chief Minister Omar Abdullah scaling the locked gates of the historic Naqshband Sahib Martyrs’ Graveyard has struck at the heart of Kashmir’s political tragedy. Despite being an elected leader, an unelected administration led by New Delhi’s representative Lt Governor Manoj Sinha did not allow him and his ministers to visit the graveyard to commemorate the martyrs, who laid down their lives on July 13, 1931 and became the frontrunners of the first political movement in Kashmir.
This wasn’t merely about a barred visit to a commemorative site. It was the most symbolic reminder of how elected authority in Kashmir remains utterly hollow, reduced to theatre, stripped of substance, and disempowered by design.
July 13 marks a defining moment in Kashmiri history. It honours the memory of 22 martyrs who, in 1931, rose against the oppressive Dogra monarchy—a moment widely regarded as the beginning of Kashmir’s political awakening.
For decades, this day was officially commemorated as Martyrs’ Day by successive governments, recognising the movement’s place in the region’s collective consciousness. The fact that Omar Abdullah, an elected leader, was prevented from honouring these martyrs by the very system that claims to uphold democracy is more than an insult—it is an indictment of that very system.
The state’s actions on this day are not isolated. They are part of a systematic project underway since the abrogation of Article 370 on 5 August 2019. This move stripped Jammu and Kashmir of its special status and statehood, transforming it into a Union Territory and bringing it under the direct control of the central government. New Delhi hailed the move as a path to development and integration. In practice, it has meant lockdowns, arrests, communication blackouts, and the steady erosion of political and civil rights.
Chief Ministers, former and serving, including Omar Abdullah and Mehbooba Mufti, were detained without charges for months. Elected representatives continue to be sidelined, interrogated, and at times imprisoned. Those who challenge the dominant narrative are branded subversive. What remains is a political landscape managed not by those chosen by the people, but by bureaucrats and officers appointed by New Delhi.
Nowhere is this clearer than in the role of the Lieutenant Governor—an unelected official who commands sweeping authority over nearly every facet of governance in the Union Territory. The Chief Minister, the DDCs, and the legislative assembly—restored in name but not in power—are unable to challenge or reverse his decisions. The Lieutenant Governor has become, in all but name, a modern-day viceroy.
Omar Abdullah’s locked-out visit underscores the absurdity of the current political arrangement. If an elected Chief Minister cannot pay tribute to martyrs without prior clearance, what does that say about the autonomy and relevance of elected office? What remains of democracy if its institutions are stripped of power, and its leaders function under surveillance and constraints?
The larger project, it seems, is not merely about central control but the cultural and historical erasure of Kashmir’s distinct identity. From altering school curricula to renaming places, and now, restricting access to symbols of resistance like the 1931 martyrs’ graveyard, the state’s efforts suggest a concerted attempt to homogenise, if not rewrite, Kashmiri history. Under the guise of integration and development lies a deep-seated project of assimilation—one that leaves little room for dissent, memory, or local agency.
This is why the phrase “empowerment through elections” rings hollow for many Kashmiris today. Elections, once a potential vehicle for change, have become instruments of validation for a predetermined political script. Votes are cast, but power resides elsewhere. Assemblies are formed, but policy decisions flow from Delhi. The disillusionment this breeds is palpable. To participate in an electoral process that offers no real power is to walk a tightrope between hope and futility.
International observers, meanwhile, are too often pacified by the optics of the electoral process: a few televised rallies, ink-stained fingers, and a declaration of voter turnout. What they miss is the deeper story—the institutionalised disempowerment of those elected, the censorship of history, and the subtle but relentless dismantling of Kashmiri identity under administrative orders.
The Martyrs of 1931 stood for dignity, political rights, and resistance to autocracy. The decision to prevent access to their memorial is not just an act of bureaucratic overreach—it is a statement. It says that even memory is now regulated. That mourning, when politically inconvenient, is to be policed. And that history, unless it fits the central government’s preferred narrative, is to be forgotten.
If India is serious about presenting itself as the world’s largest democracy, then Kashmir cannot be its blind spot. The restoration of political agency in Jammu and Kashmir cannot be symbolic—it must be structural. Elected representatives must be given actual authority. Cultural and historical identities must be respected, not erased. And the right to dissent, commemorate, and self-define must be restored, not suppressed.
The ghost of July 13 will not be buried behind locked gates. It remains a call—a call for justice, autonomy, and dignity. Until that call is answered, democracy in Kashmir will remain a façade, and its people, elected yet disempowered.
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