When we talk about Kashmir, conflict inevitably comes up. It affects every aspect of Kashmir, including education. With countless and incessant shutdowns, curfews, restrictions, and communication blockades, getting a proper education is as uncertain as it can be. Whether one comes from a city or a village, attends public schools or government schools, getting a quality education anywhere in Kashmir is a challenge in itself.
Back in 2010, when I was twelve, Kashmir was ravelled with discontent, and the schools were shut down. I remember feeling elated about the schools getting closed, and as a 12-year-old, I didn’t understand the depth of the situation. Little did I know, my days of jolly were going to be replaced by something else.
Trauma and unadulterated terror, fear engulfed me as I saw the military gear around our houses, the screams of protests and newspapers soaked with news of the innumerable deaths every other day. But for me, it was the news of the death of a 9-year-old kid that compelled me to put down the newspaper and shut down the news channels on my TV.
There was a constant fear of what will happen next. Schools, especially, would immediately open if there was some relief. Sometimes, the separatists would issue calls for strikes till mid-day, and then the schools would open at noon or sometimes even on Sundays.
However, the tribulations didn’t end there. Our Urdu teacher would often tell us that she wanted to complete the syllabus as quickly as possible because no one knew what would happen in Kashmir next. When I was in my 12th standard, an extremely important year for any student, I realized how much we, the students, suffer.
After the death of Burhan Wani on 8th July 2016, everything was shut down indefinitely. This included the schools as well as the tuition centres. A curfew followed it for more than 50 days and a shutdown for several more months. We had no means to study, and with no internet, our syllabus was bound to remain completed.
The ray of hope was when the teachers of the valley decided to teach any student in their vicinity. We left our houses, fearful, and walked kilometres on roads lined with soldiers to reach the teachers’ homes. Our tuitions received several threats, asking them to shut down their functioning. Out there on the road, my cousin and I were vulnerable, afraid of what could possibly happen on the deserted roads, where only army convoys and ambulances were on the move. Despite numerous protests, our exams were held on time in November, at examination centres heavily guarded by police and CRPF.
In my first year of a girls’ college in Srinagar, fresh after the 2016 unrest had ended, the incidents of violence didn’t stop. I remember quite clearly, two events when teachers came running down to our classes, breathless, asking us to leave because protests had broken out outside our college. There was chaos everywhere, with every girl running to get out of the college before anything serious happens.
I remember seeing a boy with stone infiltrating our college campus while trying to hide from the police. This ordeal continues with my sisters, who share the same fate. When my youngest sister was in her tenth standard in 2019, Article 370 was revoked, and the same cycle of unrest continued. Complete communication blockade disconnected her from her studies, and just like me, when she went to give her 10th standard examination, it was in the same militarised examination centres.
As I look back at my journey, or that of my sisters, of completing basic high school education, as a Kashmiri, it wasn’t essentially hard, but it wasn’t definitely normal. When my school bus would be stopped at a random checkpoint, my heart would always beat faster in anticipation of something worse.
When going to tuitions on Fridays and getting caught in the midst of stone-pelting, I would escape with my fingers crossed, hoping that nothing bad would happen. When I saw some boys with stones within my college compound, I was prepared to see the worst.
I have grown up imagining the worst scenarios and made plans on how to protect myself and my sisters if anything untoward happened. But in real life, the conflict is so normalized that it has become part and parcel of our daily routines. We have learned to pick it up and move on despite the fear that inundates our hearts. I was lucky enough that I didn’t let this fear hinder my education, but, unfortunately, the same cannot be said about every other Kashmiri girl.
The author is a Kaksha Correspondent as a part of writers’ training program under Kaksha Crisis.