Srinagar, Aug 5 : There's a father in Kashmir whose grief cannot be measured in words. He once carried his son home not in his arms, but zipped inside a body bag. His son, a casualty of a conflict he never understood, was buried in the soil of their village.

But the mourning didn't end at the grave. His son's death was repackaged, politicised, and paraded across platforms in the name of a cause that gave nothing back to the family it shattered.

Ask that father what has changed since 2019, and he won't quote policy documents. He'll speak of something deeper - something lived. A decade ago, being Kashmiri outside the Valley came with a silent burden. Whether in Delhi, Bengaluru, or Kochi, introducing oneself wasn't just a formality - it was a moment of hesitation. Not overt suspicion, but a subtle shift in gaze.

Kashmir was not just a place; it was a headline. Curfews, shutdowns, stone-pelting, that was the image etched into the national psyche. And it wasn't inaccurate. It reflected the reality we lived in.

For those born before the 2000s, childhood in Kashmir was not coloured by festivals or playgrounds. It was shaped by sirens, shuttered schools, and the acrid sting of tear gas.

Politically, Kashmir before 2019 was unlike any other Indian state. Governance was never singular. Alongside the Civil Secretariat in Srinagar, there was another power centre - the Hurriyat office in Rajbagh. Some called it separatism. Others, more bluntly, called it soft-line terrorism, reported Global Kashmir on August 5, the sixth anniversary of the abrogation of Article 370

Kashmiris, known for their emotional depth and humility, became easy prey for manipulation. Both mainstream politicians and separatist leaders exploited public sentiment. The latter, while denouncing India and its institutions, enjoyed state privileges - government housing, VIP access, and security details. They urged youth to pick up stones while their own children secured government jobs or settled abroad.

Journalist Shabnam Qayoom once exposed this duplicity in his work, 'Ye Kis Ka Lahu Hai Kon Mara'. For that, he was assaulted in a Srinagar restaurant - just steps away from a police station. No FIR was filed. That silence spoke volumes.

In this theatre of conflict, it was never the elite sons of Gupkar Road who paid the price. It was the children of ordinary Kashmiris - of Lass Kaak, Amm Kaak, and Sull Kaak - who bore the brunt. Their voices were drowned out. Those who spoke of peace were silenced or threatened.

The education system, already weakened by the 1990s exodus of Kashmiri Pandits, suffered further under the weight of endless hartals. Of all the wounds conflict carved into Kashmir's soul, none ran deeper than the one inflicted on education. Schools shuttered, lecture halls emptied, and the rhythm of learning fell out of step with the rest of the country.

Generations of children lost irreplaceable years - years that should have been spent mastering alphabets and equations, not dodging curfews and chaos. National exams became distant dreams, and the Valley's brightest minds were dimmed not by lack of ability, but by absence of opportunity.

Let it be said clearly - Kashmiri youth have never lacked brilliance. Their aptitude is undeniable. What failed them was the ecosystem. Their minds, instead of being nurtured, were manipulated. Fed half-truths and incendiary slogans, many were radicalised - not for their own cause, but for someone else's gain. Whether through coercion, fear, or false promises, their potential was rerouted into peril.

But let's not dwell endlessly in the past. The stories of loss could fill volumes. For now, let's turn the page to what followed August 5, 2019.

Agree or disagree with the decision, one thing is clear: it shifted the axis of everyday life for the common Kashmiri. Not overnight, and not without friction - but undeniably. This isn't a celebration of perfection. Kashmir isn't suddenly utopian. But something has begun to stir. A sense of movement. A pulse of possibility. And no, I won't drown you in statistics. Those are available on portals and dashboards. What matters more is the lived experience.

Take Gurez, for instance. On November 27, 2023, it received grid-connected electricity for the first time. Not because it was newly discovered, nor because the terrain was insurmountable. It happened because someone finally chose to act.

The will, long absent, had arrived.

Consider Srinagar's flyovers. Before 2019, the city had just one major overpass - Jehangir Chowk to Rambagh - conceived in 2009 and completed a decade later. Today, five flyovers stand tall, built within five years, two of which were pandemic years. That's not just construction. That's momentum.

The Srinagar-Baramulla highway, once a symbol of bureaucratic inertia, now nears completion. Flyovers at Sangrama and Delina are functional.

The Waqf Board, once untouched, is now regulated. Shop rents frozen since 2008 have been revised. Teachers who once drew salaries without stepping into classrooms are now held accountable. Offices open on time. Public servants report to duty. The culture of impunity is being replaced - slowly, but surely - with a culture of responsibility.

Today, when a subsidy is announced, it doesn't vanish into bureaucratic fog or get siphoned off by middlemen. It lands directly in your bank account, thanks to Direct Benefit Transfer. Schemes aren't just political catchphrases anymore - they're tangible. Whether it's housing, food rations, or scholarships, they reach the people they were designed for.

Tourism hasn't just revived - it's thriving. Pahalgam, Gulmarg, Sonamarg - once seasonal escapes - are now year-round destinations. Visitors come not just for selfies but for cinema. Film crews, once wary, now return. Film tourism is no longer a memory - it's a movement.

Electricity isn't a winter myth anymore. Clean water flows into homes that once relied on long walks and heavy buckets. Life, once suspended between curfews and crackdowns, has begun to feel livable. And when elections were held, people voted - not in fear, but in freedom. No grenades. No ghost booths. That fear, once etched into our evenings, has faded.

For the first time in our history, Kashmir's academic calendar has run uninterrupted for four straight years. That's not a footnote. That's a milestone. And for families who can't afford to send their children to Delhi or Pune, let alone abroad, watching them walk into Amar Singh College or Women's College is no less than watching them enter Oxford or Yale.

What changed was the right to dream without being dragged into someone else's war. What changed was dignity, accountability, and the freedom to imagine a future. This wasn't a decision made in a distant Delhi office for headlines. It was a correction - bold, overdue, and rooted in the 'Haqq' of Kashmiris. Real Kashmiris. The fruit vendors, the farmers, the village teachers. The ones who lost sons. The ones who never had a voice or power or VIP access. This wasn't for the elite of Gupkar or the architects of unrest.

It was for Lass Kaak, Amm Kaak, and Sull Kaak - for you, and for me. August 5 wasn't just a date. It was justice. It was Azaadi from fear.

/IANS