Illustration for representational purposes.
Credit: iStock Photo
Mistaking the silence in Kashmir today for peace is a dangerous illusion—for it is not peace, but a heavy, aching pause, thick with everything left unsaid. And no one embodies this uneasy quiet more than Generation Z.
Born in the late 1990s and early 2000s, this generation came of age in a digitally connected but politically amputated landscape. They didn’t just grow up with curfews and checkpoints—they were raised in the long shadow of conflict that mutated from bullets and barricades to something more invisible: surveillance without end, communication blackouts that stole voices, midnight NIA raids, and the constant threat of being caged under UAPA or PSA for simply speaking out.
If the previous generation of Kashmiris were shaped by mass protests—2008, 2010, and 2016—Kashmir’s Gen Z grew up in the aftermath of those agitations and, most significantly, in the long shadow of August 5, 2019, when New Delhi revoked the special status of the erstwhile state of Jammu and Kashmir under Article 370 and bifurcated it into two Union Territories. This event wasn’t just an administrative change; for many young Kashmiris, it was an emotional disinheritance.
The post-2019 order brought not only political but psychological transformation. For older generations, the state’s special status had been a symbol—however contested—of identity, uniqueness, and a promise of autonomy. For the young, the way it was scrapped—without consultation, without consent and under curfew—confirmed their deepest fear: they were voiceless in determining their future.
The government’s actions in the months following August 2019—mass arrests, blanket communication blackouts and the silencing of civil society—sent a chilling message: dissent would not be allowed, let alone heard. “We didn’t just lose Article 370. We lost our right to feel angry about it,” says Aqsa, a 21-year-old student in Srinagar. “The silence was enforced. But now it’s ours—we have owned it.”
And in that silence, a new kind of Kashmiri political consciousness is growing—one that is deeply aware but emotionally detached. This generation isn’t raising slogans for “azadi”, nor are they joining mainstream parties. Instead, they are increasingly sceptical of all political formations.
The Hurriyat, once the voice of separatist sentiment, is virtually defunct, with its pioneers either in jail or invisible or dead. The mainstream parties, like the National Conference (NC) and People’s Democratic Party (PDP), are viewed as outdated, family-run outfits that facilitated the erosion of Kashmir’s autonomy.
The Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), now the only political force that wields real power in the region, is widely seen by the youth as the architect of their disempowerment. Its rhetoric of development and integration falls flat in a Valley where political freedoms are shrinking and public trust in institutions is at an all-time low.
So where do Kashmir’s young go for meaning?
Faced with the collapse of traditional politics, Kashmir’s youth have migrated to alternate spaces—Instagram reels, encrypted Telegram channels, X memes, and anonymous podcasts. Sarcasm, satire, and dark humour have replaced slogans. Kashmir’s digital youth culture has become a space for coded dissent, veiled commentary, and emotional venting. Memes mock not only politicians but also the performative normalcy imposed upon the Valley. Influencers, even those selling online products, occasionally slip in references to State excesses—carefully worded, always ambiguous.
But this online resistance is neither cohesive nor organised. It is fragmented, reactive, and ultimately limited by fear. Surveillance is the new normal. WhatsApp forwards can lead to detention. “We’ve grown up under watch,” says Imran, 19, from Baramulla. “They don’t need to beat us to control us anymore. We’ve internalised fear.”
“There’s no incentive to dream. Our parents fought for something. We don’t even know what to ask for,” he lamented.
This has led to a quiet but dangerous transformation: the replacement of anger with apathy. There is a growing sense of futility. Unemployment is rampant. University campuses are politically sterile—student unions remain banned, and any discussion bordering on criticism of the status quo is seen as suspect. Even young Kashmiris who somehow find a government job find themselves stuck in a police verification whirlpool, with recruitment scams only adding to the despair.
Yet, not all is lost. This generation may be politically orphaned, but it is not devoid of creativity. Many young Kashmiris are writing poetry, making short films, producing alternative media, and launching local campaigns on mental health, gender, and the environment. They are not interested in the binaries of “India versus Pakistan”, but rather in exploring identity, purpose, and justice through new languages.
However, what’s striking is how alone they are in doing this. There is no political leadership that speaks to them in a language they trust. No party seems able to engage with the complex contradictions that define Gen Z in Kashmir—digitally global yet regionally restricted, emotionally angry yet publicly silent, socially expressive yet politically invisible.
Kashmir’s Gen Z is not waiting to be radicalised. Nor are they waiting to vote. Most are just waiting—for a sign that their voice matters. The longer that wait continues, the deeper the alienation becomes.
This silence should not be mistaken for submission. Just because the Valley is no longer burning doesn’t mean the ashes have gone cold. If anything, the absence of open rebellion may be more dangerous in the long term, for it reflects not reconciliation but resignation. A generation that neither believes in the system nor sees any point in resisting it is not at peace—it is merely exhausted.
If New Delhi wants peace in Kashmir, it must move beyond optics and listen—not to loud leaders, but to this quiet generation. For it is not the sound of gunfire or protest slogans that defines today’s Kashmir. It is the silence of its youth. And silence, left unattended, can echo for a long time.