Kashmiri Kids Deserve Better
Here’s What They Told Me
Listening to Kashmir’s children, I uncover stories that demand more than sympathy. They call for action.
By Sheeba Nair (Founder Trustee, Oasis)
I was sitting in my living room, scrolling through my phone, when a voice message stopped me cold.
It was Ayesha, a Class 7 student from Jammu & Kashmir. Her voice was small, shaky.
“I get terrified when there’s an explosion, even on TV,” she said. “I can’t focus on my studies. Please help...”
My chest tightened. I played it again, her fear sinking deeper into me.
A month ago, a terror attack in Pahalgam killed 26 people. It shook the nation, and it’s still shaking kids like Ayesha.
I’ve been talking to children and families in J&K, trying to understand what life feels like for them now. The attack wasn’t just a headline, it ripped through their sense of safety.
Ainoor, a 12th-grader with bright eyes and gritty smile, tells me about the hope they’d built over the last few years.
“Since March 2022, our schools have stayed open for over 1,500 days straight,” she says, her voice proud but heavy.
“No random closures. That was huge for us. We thought we were finally getting a normal life.”
Then April 22 hit. Explosions echoed through their valleys, sirens wailed and blackouts darkened their homes.
“Our fears came rushing back,” Ainoor continues. “Will it all start again?”
She’s not alone in her worry. Shehnaaz, another 12th-grader, wants to pursue science. She’s scared the disruptions will widen the education gap that’s already left Kashmiri students struggling to keep up. “Why can’t our lives be normal like other students’?” she asks over a crackling phone line. I don’t have an answer.
Ufaq, who’s studying for her medical entrance exam and Zeenat, preparing for college admissions, tell me the tension makes it impossible to focus.
Reyaan, a soft-spoken boy from Baramulla near the Line of Control, says four days of war-like chaos left him and others rattled. “What if it lasted longer?” he asks. I can feel the weight of his fear, living so close to the border.
It’s not just the immediate threat. Kashmiri students studying across India face their own battles.
Reyaan tells me about students targeted and assaulted in other cities, some forced to return home mid-exam. “The actions of a few have painted us all as threats,” he says, his voice tight with frustration.
Nighat, who dreams of studying law outside J&K, says her parents are too scared to let her go. “They think I won’t be safe,” she tells me.
Usmaan, a science student, is considering studying abroad just to feel secure. But Kubra, a humanities student, shakes her head. “Even abroad, how do you find peace when your family’s in danger here?” she asks.
They’re trapped, stuck between a home that feels unsafe and a world that doesn’t always welcome them.
I speak to Vaibhav Jindal, who’s worked in J&K’s education system for years.
“We need safe spaces for Kashmiri students in cities across India,” he says. “Businesses, communities and local governments should work together now, in peacetime, to create a network of homes or hostels where students can feel secure during crises.”
He also stresses the need for counseling in schools. “Teachers could be trained to support students emotionally, not just academically,” he says.
I nod, thinking of Ayesha’s fear-gripped voice.
Authorities in Jammu and Kashmir moved quickly to reopen schools after a ceasefire- this definitely helped. But kids today need more than open classrooms. They need someone to help them process the fear.
I learn about creative workshops some local groups are trying-art, music, storytelling, theatre - to let kids express their silences and in the process, heal their wounds. There’s talk of interstate visits too, where students from J&K could meet peers elsewhere, feel accepted and see a world beyond the conflict.
Ainoor lights up when she talks about this. “We’ve tasted normalcy these past few years,” she says. “We don’t want to go back to how our parents lived, always afraid. We want to chase our dreams, contribute to this country like anyone else.”
Beyond the kids, I hear the pain of entire communities. Kashmiris are known for their warmth, their hospitality, but behind their smiles is a history of loss.
After the Pahalgam attack, something shifted. For the first time in decades, the Valley shut down. Not in fear, but in protest. People poured into the streets, condemning the killings.
“This is an attack on all of us,” one woman shouted, her voice raw. “We don’t want this violence in our name,” said another.
These weren’t politicians or activists. They were just ordinary Kashmiris standing together. Their words were a plea for trust and support.
I saw their faces on social media, brave and vulnerable, risking everything to speak out.
Then came another blow: border shelling in Uri and Poonch- Rajouri sectors of Jammu, leaving over a dozen civilians killed.
I heard people there, their voices thick with grief. “War devours the innocent,” one community leader shares amid personal loss, “Peace isn’t weakness, it’s strength.”
These communities in Jammu and Kashmir, living on the frontline, have lost the most to cross-border violence over the years. For many young people, it’s the closest they’ve come to war.
What’s unfolding in the hinterland casts a shadow over the heartland, transmitted through screens and smartphones. And it’s already unsettling students like Jaza from Srinagar, who tells me she lives in fear at school every day. "What if my dad or brother gets picked up?" she asks.
Reports of mass detentions, including young people, if true, are disturbing and create fear of reprisals in the innocents.
What perhaps could help is for the authorities to also take ameliorative steps like maintaining proper communication lines with the population that help strengthen their trust and ease the environment, especially in the young.
Else we risk alienating the very people who’ve shown such courage in speaking out and could end up burning bridges so assiduously built over past years.
I think about what Madhu N, a writer and educator from Kerala, told me. “We all must acknowledge that Kashmiris and those on the Jammu frontline are caught in a geopolitical mess that won’t end soon,” he says. “As a nation, we need to show empathy, give them a fair shot at life, wherever they are. Can we be their safe place to land?”
His words stick with me. These are our fellow citizens, facing the same dangers as our armed forces, yet often invisible to us. Their kids deserve the same stability we want for our own. I keep coming back to Ayesha’s voice, her plea for help.
The dreams rekindled in J&K over the last few years-open schools, hopeful students, communities rebuilding-are fragile. How do we protect them?
Maybe it starts with small steps: responsible tourism to show Kashmiris they’re not alone, ensuring their students feel safe studying in our cities, rebuilding trust.
I think of the 1990 UN Convention on Child Rights, which says kids have a right to be heard. Ayesha, Ainoor, Shehnaaz and the others are shouting to us. They want peace, a chance to study, to dream, to belong.
The Pahalgam attack was a national tragedy, but it’s also a call to action. We can’t erase the conflict, but we can listen. We can open our hearts, our cities, our schools. We can show J&K’s children, they’re not forgotten.
Alive Newsletter/ Magazine13 June 2025
Year 18, Issue 15
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