Between Protest and the Grave
The bodies surfaced quietly, like ghosts unwilling to rest. Two Gujjar brothers—Riyaz and Shawkat—were found in a canal in Kulgam, Indian Illegally Occupied Jammu and Kashmir (IIOJK), their lifeless forms bearing unmistakable signs of torture. A third man, Mukhtar, remains missing. The deaths have ignited anguish and fury across the region, sparking protests from a traumatized tribal community that has long borne the brunt of structural violence and state neglect. These are not isolated tragedies but grim reflections of a system that continues to devalue Kashmiri Muslim lives.
What unfolded in Kulgam is a chilling reminder of the culture of impunity that has taken root under militarized governance. Torture, disappearances, and custodial deaths have become recurring features of daily life for many in IIOJK, particularly for those in remote or marginalized communities like the Gujjars. Their tribal status and socio-economic vulnerability only deepen the layers of injustice they face—ignored in policy, denied in protection, and silenced in death.
State institutions appear either incapable or unwilling to break the pattern. The Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA) remains a powerful shield, insulating security personnel from legal accountability and judicial scrutiny. It has normalized extrajudicial actions and institutionalized a dangerous precedent—where suspicion alone can justify violence, and where the dead are left to speak only through the scars on their bodies. The Rajouri encounter in 2020 and the custodial deaths in Poonch in 2023 are stark examples of such unchecked authority. Investigations, when they occur, are often opaque, delayed, or quietly closed, reinforcing the perception that the law itself is complicit.
Postmortem reports in these cases frequently cite drowning or suicide, but families are unconvinced. Bodies found supposedly submerged for weeks emerge with dry clothes and belongings intact. These inconsistencies are not anomalies—they are warnings. They suggest a systemic manipulation of evidence and a disturbing pattern of cover-ups that has robbed hundreds of families of truth and closure. In Riyaz and Showkat’s case, the signs of physical abuse were too severe to ignore, prompting immediate outrage and mass gatherings demanding independent inquiry.
These demands are not new. For decades, families have marched, mourned, and mobilized in the face of state silence. Over 8,000 enforced disappearances remain unresolved, their names etched into Kashmir’s collective memory like unhealed wounds. Mukhtar’s disappearance is now a haunting continuation of that legacy—a reminder that in IIOJK, vanishing without a trace is not a rare phenomenon, but a recurring horror.
Beyond the grief and fear, there is a deeper erosion of trust. Communities no longer look to institutions for justice—they organize their own resistance through public mourning, protest, and documentation. These acts are both personal and political: expressions of grief and defiance in a place where official narratives often negate lived realities. The grassroots demand for transparency and accountability has grown louder yet remains unanswered by a state machinery that prioritizes control over compassion.
The broader context cannot be ignored. The Muslim population in IIOJK has seen its autonomy dismantled, its land and resources reallocated, and its civil liberties sharply curtailed. The weakening of legal safeguards, surveillance of dissent, and political disenfranchisement have left little room for redress. This targeted erosion of rights has created an environment where even life and death are dictated by power—not law.
The deaths of Riyaz and Shokat are not just personal tragedies for their families; they are national indictments. They expose a governance model that has failed to protect its own citizens and a legal structure that often operates in silence when faced with state-sanctioned violence. Mukhtar’s continued disappearance adds urgency to an already burning crisis—a crisis where justice remains not just delayed but denied.
The international community, human rights organizations, and civil society must not allow these stories to be buried with the dead. There must be sustained pressure for independent investigations, repeal of impunity laws like AFSPA, and the establishment of transparent legal processes that can restore some measure of accountability in the region. Without these steps, the cycle of fear and loss will only deepen, and Kashmir’s unmarked graves will continue to grow.
In the shadows of Kulgam’s canal, a story of cruelty and resistance unfolds. It is a story that echoes far beyond the hills and valleys of Kashmir—calling out for justice that still remains a distant, fragile hope.
