A Kashmiri student fears travelling by air, always apprehensive of being at an airport for “routine questioning.” A young professional is asked – politely, but pointedly – where he stands “ideologically.” A shawlwalla, selling his merchandize elsewhere in other Indian states, is always very conscious of his Kashmiri identity, and more often than not, carries himself fearfully too. A trader is advised to keep his opinions to himself if he wants business to move smoothly.
None of them ever sat on a prime-time TV panel. None addressed Parliament. None trended on social media. Yet all of them paid the price for what was shouted there. And each shout would smell more foul than an infectious vomit.
This is the uncomfortable truth Kashmir avoids confronting: what Kashmiri politicians say on television, in Parliament, and on social media does not remain personal rhetoric. It becomes a collective identity. The loudest voice frames the quietest life. And the quietest life doesn’t even know it is being framed by someone else’s greed and behavior.
Thriving on Television’s Weakness for Conflict
Television debates thrive on conflict, not clarity. And Kashmiri politicians – across ideologies – have learned to perform for this economy. The sharper the soundbite, the longer the clip lives. The more defiant the tone, the greater the applause back home.
In this ecosystem, nuance is weakness and precision is treachery. Clear condemnation of terror becomes “selling out.” Plain language acknowledging constitutional reality becomes “submission.” What sells instead is ambiguity dressed as resistance. All Kashmiri politicians have mastered this art both within and outside of Kashmir.
And the Mastery Runs from Parliament to the Pavement
Consider the recurring public postures of Agha Ruhullah Mehdi. His speeches – whether in Parliament or amplified on social media – are heavy with grievance and confrontation, carefully calibrated to resonate emotionally in the Valley. The language is often framed as moral protest, but it travels beyond its intended audience. Outside Kashmir, it is heard less as dissent and more as permanent hostility – a refusal to reconcile with the constitutional and civic framework of the country. One may ask him or any of his ilk, if they have so much problem with the Indian state, why swear by its constitution and suck an average Indian taxpayer’s blood.
Then there is Engineer Rashid, whose politics thrives on provocation. His rhetoric is deliberately abrasive, crafted to shock, to unsettle, to polarize. He may call it resistance, but resistance without responsibility is merely theatre. The damage, however, is real. Every incendiary statement becomes a shortcut for profiling: If this is what their leaders say, what must they believe?
And then comes Omar Abdullah, perhaps the most consequential of all – not because he shouts the loudest, but because he speaks from the comfort of legitimacy. When Omar Abdullah indulges in selective outrage on social media, when he questions institutions without simultaneously reaffirming civic trust, when he chooses irony over clarity, it carries institutional weight. His words are not dismissed as fringe. They are read as mainstream Kashmiri opinion. And for his opinion, a common Kashmiri comes under the radar.
Everything these guys say, or shout, has an afterlife. It appears in security briefings, editorial framings, social media stereotypes, hiring biases, campus conversations, and casual suspicion. A speech meant for applause in Srinagar becomes a lens in Surat, a filter in Bengaluru, a doubt in Delhi. The loudest Kashmiri on television becomes the unwilling spokesperson for the quietest Kashmiri on the street.
“They don’t represent us”, is not a defence. This is where the argument usually collapses into denial. They don’t represent us, people say. But representation is not only about elections. It is also about unchecked visibility. If these voices dominate screens, timelines, and headlines – and if there is no sustained, public disowning of their rhetoric – then silence becomes consent. You cannot outsource your public image and then complain about the consequences.
Let us be brutally honest about who benefits and who pays on account of this asymmetry. Politicians gain relevance, votes, and media oxygen. TV channels gain ratings and viral clips. The common Kashmiri gains suspicion, stigma, and an unending need to “clarify.” This is not leadership. It is reputational vandalism. If Kashmiri politicians are really wanting to contribute something constructive to their Motherland, they must stop this perpetual nonsense.
How Ordinary Kashmiris Receive the Spill Over
There are a hundred different ways how these statements spill over to ordinary Kashmiris. Kashmiri politicians would not be able to imagine the damage because they are comfortably placed by abusing India while continuing to reap benefits from it. When politicians speak in sharp, emotionally charged language – even if well-intentioned – the broadcast effect doesn’t stop at the TV studio; it travels Kashmiris traveling outside the Valley and crying foul on extra questioning, scrutiny at checkpoints and airports, and general suspicion.
It travels to employment and social interactions. In non-Kashmir Indian cities and campuses, students and workers say they are asked to explain political positions they’ve never expressed, based on how Kashmiri leaders have spoken loudly on media.
It travels to local Kashmiri advocacy groups and leaders (like Mehbooba Mufti and Sajad Lone) have publicly urged the Centre to address harassment and stereotyping of Kashmiris living or traveling outside the Union Territory, especially after incidents like the Delhi blast.
It is practically difficult to keep such vigil across such a vast country; however, very easy for a Kashmiri politician to keep his mouth shut even when he is terribly itching to open it yet another time.
