HomeEssayThe Silence Breakers of Kashmir

The Silence Breakers of Kashmir

Ashish Sharma
/4 min read
They were ostracised as informers and denied the dignity of burying their dead in village cemeteries. These surviving family members of victims of terror are finally speaking up and an attentive state is listening to their stories
The Silence Breakers of Kashmir
Tahira Mohi Ud Din (Left) and Asima Mohi Ud Din: The sisters point to bullet holes where their grandmother was shot in the leg during a terrorist attack in November 1993, when three armed men stormed their home and abducted their father. A year earlier, an uncle, Bashir Ahmad, was killed by terrorists. Tahira and Asima, then just children, never saw their father or uncle again. Branded as ‘Indian agents’, the family endured decades of fear and isolation. (Photos: Ashish Sharma) 

BASHIR AHMAD LONE had just returned from Isha prayers in the early 1990s when he was shot dead outside his home in Fatehgarh, Baramulla—just a few steps from an old temple. His younger brother, 14-year-old Mohammad Yasin, saw the killing from a nearby alley. He screamed for help. No one came. Not that night, not even for the funeral.

Terrorists, later identified to be from Hizbul Mujahi­deen, left a warning: "Dig two more graves. We'll return."

And they did.

A year later, in November 1993, two more Lone brothers—Ghulam Mohiuddin and Abdul Rashid— were abducted. Their mother, Saja Begum, tried to resist. They shot her in the leg. The house was ransacked, family photographs torn and scattered. Their father, Wali Mohammad Lone, had refused to let his sons join the mili­tants. That choice sealed their fate. The brothers were never seen again. Only Bashir's grave remains.

For decades, the Lone family lived with trauma—and some­thing worse: social erasure. Neighbours kept their distance. Their daughters were whispered about. Relatives stopped visiting. They were not just bereaved; they were branded.

Jammu & Kashmir Lieutenant Governor Manoj Sinha interacts with terror victims at the University of Kashmir's North Campus in Baramulla on July 13, 2025. In a rare and emotionally charged public meeting, he met victims of terrorism from across Kashmir.
Jammu & Kashmir Lieutenant Governor Manoj Sinha interacts with terror victims at the University of Kashmir's North Campus in Baramulla on July 13, 2025. In a rare and emotionally charged public meeting, he met victims of terrorism from across Kashmir. 
Rasheeda: A resident of Hapatnar village, breaks down recalling the brutal killing of her first husband, Mohammad Ayoub Khan, an SPO. On July 17, 2002, he died in a blast triggered by Hizbul Mujahideen—targeted solely for his service in uniform. Her cousin, Bilal Ahmad Khan, also died in the same blast. Rasheeda was left to raise her two daughters.
Rasheeda: A resident of Hapatnar village, breaks down recalling the brutal killing of her first husband, Mohammad Ayoub Khan, an SPO. On July 17, 2002, he died in a blast triggered by Hizbul Mujahideen—targeted solely for his service in uniform. Her cousin, Bilal Ahmad Khan, also died in the same blast. Rasheeda was left to raise her two daughters. 
Mohammad Ashraf Bhat (Left) And Muzaffar Ahmad Bhat: The brothers offer prayers near the corner of their courtyard in Hapatnar where their father and brother lie buried without tombstones—victims of a terrorist execution in January 2003. Branded mukhbirs (informers), they were abducted, beheaded, and denied the dignity of a community funeral.
Mohammad Ashraf Bhat (Left) And Muzaffar Ahmad Bhat: The brothers offer prayers near the corner of their courtyard in Hapatnar where their father and brother lie buried without tombstones—victims of a terrorist execution in January 2003. Branded mukhbirs (informers), they were abducted, beheaded, and denied the dignity of a community funeral. 
Zareefa Bano: The resident of Hapatnar recalls the killing of her husband, Abdul Rasheed Khan, by Hizbul Mujahideen. He was 45, a farmer who openly supported India. He was abducted, beheaded, and dumped alongside a stream. Their house was torched during the abduction.
Zareefa Bano: The resident of Hapatnar recalls the killing of her husband, Abdul Rasheed Khan, by Hizbul Mujahideen. He was 45, a farmer who openly supported India. He was abducted, beheaded, and dumped alongside a stream. Their house was torched during the abduction. 
Taja Begum: The mother of three from Fatehgarh, Baramulla, remembers the morning of August 11, 1994. Her son, Nazir Ahmad Sheikh, had gone to a shop to get his trousers interlocked when a young man approached and asked for the same service. Nazir casually asked him what he did for a living. The young man turned to the shopkeeper and said, "There's a mukhbir (informer) here." He pulled out an AK-47 and shot Nazir dead.
Taja Begum: The mother of three from Fatehgarh, Baramulla, remembers the morning of August 11, 1994. Her son, Nazir Ahmad Sheikh, had gone to a shop to get his trousers interlocked when a young man approached and asked for the same service. Nazir casually asked him what he did for a living. The young man turned to the shopkeeper and said, "There's a mukhbir (informer) here." He pulled out an AK-47 and shot Nazir dead. 
Shahid Ahmad Bhat: On September 4, 2006, nine-year-old Shahid was walking home with his father, a havaldar in the Army, when terrorists opened fire at point-blank range in Khaipora Payeen, Tangmarg. His father and uncle were killed instantly. Shahid survived, barely. Six months later, his grandfather was falsely accused in a rape and murder case. Shahid finally broke his silence before Manoj Sinha: "I want to live with dignity."
Shahid Ahmad Bhat: On September 4, 2006, nine-year-old Shahid was walking home with his father, a havaldar in the Army, when terrorists opened fire at point-blank range in Khaipora Payeen, Tangmarg. His father and uncle were killed instantly. Shahid survived, barely. Six months later, his grandfather was falsely accused in a rape and murder case. Shahid finally broke his silence before Manoj Sinha: "I want to live with dignity." 
Sana Nabi: On April 30, 2018, her 18-year-old brother was gunned down by Lashkar-e-Taiba in a targeted attack that also claimed the lives of two of his friends. The family, burdened by grief and suspicion, struggled in silence. Recently, a ray of hope emerged when one of the three surviving brothers was given a government job.
Sana Nabi: On April 30, 2018, her 18-year-old brother was gunned down by Lashkar-e-Taiba in a targeted attack that also claimed the lives of two of his friends. The family, burdened by grief and suspicion, struggled in silence. Recently, a ray of hope emerged when one of the three surviving brothers was given a government job. 
Tanvir Ahmad Bhat: The 32-year-old sits with his grandparents in Wagoora, Baramulla, remembering his father, Ali Mohammad Bhat, a former militant who surrendered his weapon and worked with the police. Known locally as Sher Dil, he played a key role in encouraging others to give up arms. On December 28, 1998, he died in an IED blast by terrorists near Watergam.
Tanvir Ahmad Bhat: The 32-year-old sits with his grandparents in Wagoora, Baramulla, remembering his father, Ali Mohammad Bhat, a former militant who surrendered his weapon and worked with the police. Known locally as Sher Dil, he played a key role in encouraging others to give up arms. On December 28, 1998, he died in an IED blast by terrorists near Watergam. 

Across Kashmir, hundreds of families like the Lones faced a similar predicament—grief compounded by isolation. Branded as mukhbirs (informers) or gaddars (traitors), many were denied burial plots in village graveyards. Some were forced to bury loved ones in their own courtyards. Their homes were vandalised, their names struck from local memory.

But this July, in Baramulla, something changed.

Inside a university auditorium atop a pine-covered hill, vic­tims' families gathered—many speaking publicly for the first time. At the front of the hall stood 25-year-old Shahid Ahmad Bhat. This is the first time a top state official has truly heard us, he told Open after directly speaking to Jammu & Kashmir's Lieutenant Governor Manoj Sinha behind closed doors.

On September 4, 2006, Shahid was walking home from the fields in Khaipora Payeen, Tangmarg, with his father, uncle and brother when militants opened fire. His father, a serving hawal­dar in the Indian Army, and his uncle were killed. Shahid was beaten unconscious and left for dead.

Six months later, after a local woman was found raped and murdered, Shahid's grandfather was falsely accused. Their fam­ily was exiled from the village. No one waited for the courts; judgment came from the mob.

Lt Governor Sinha, flanked by top police and administrative of­ficials, heard these stories—some in open sessions, others behind closed doors. In one such meeting, a woman described three decades of intimidation and loss. Sinha turned to the district SSP and ordered the case reopened—immediately.

The initiative is part of a growing effort spearheaded by Save Youth Save Future, a local NGO led by Wajahat Farooq Bhat. Of the 11,000 known terror-affected families in J&K, 1,600 have been formally iden­tified. So far, 372 families have come forward through this initiative.

"The silence lasted too long," says Wajahat. "These families weren't just forgotten, they were banished. They were denied dignity in death and life."

In just two weeks, 400 to 500 fresh applications have landed in district commissioners' offices. For the first time, these families are being recognised—not as col­laborators, but as casualties of a different kind of war.

The government's outreach extends beyond symbolism. Around 50 job appointments have been issued to affected kin. Properties tied to militants are being sealed. Cold cases are being reopened. For many, it is the first act of formal acknowledgement from the state.

In Haptnatar, near Pahalgam, 38 families share a common scar. "We were treated like ghosts because our father worked as a wood supplier for the Army," one young man says.

This isn't just administrative redress. It is moral repair. For years, these families bore a double punishment: mourning their dead while being punished for the manner of their deaths. Their stories did not fit the dominant political narrative.

But on this hillside in Baramulla, silence is giving way to testi­mony. These are not counter-insurgents or informers. They are fa­thers, sons, mothers—citizens abandoned in a conflict they never signed up for. In a place where silence has long been a sentence, this may finally be the first word in a long-delayed reckoning.