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Threads of Trust Torn: A Plea for Healing in Jammu & Kashmir

Threads of Trust Torn: A Plea for Healing in Jammu & Kashmir By Dr. Bilal Ahmad Bhat

By Dr. Bilal Ahmad Bhat, for TheMONdaily

 

In the vale where once the Chinars whispered peace,
Now echo murmurs of doubt that never cease.
Snow melts from the peaks like tears of the land,
As trust slips like grains from an open hand.

A place of poets, saints, and ancient grace,
Now mirrors fear on every face.
Where rivers once carried stories of kin,
They now carry silence, soaked with sin.

A hospital bed, a trembling sigh,
Eyes that ask, “Will I live, or die?”
Not from the wound, but from the wait,
From systems that crumble beneath their weight.
Needles may pierce, but deeper still,
Is the distrust that breaks the spirit’s will.

In classrooms built with hope and pride,
The children now learn to hide.
Not behind books or dusty shelves,
But from truths they’re told to doubt themselves.
A teacher speaks—but do they care?
Or are they just another voice in stale air?

Colleges rise in concrete and name,
But inside, the dreams don’t burn the same.
Promises broken before they begin,
Diplomas handed with a cynical grin.
Is it knowledge we grow or numbers we chase,
While passion disappears without a trace?

In homes where love should safely dwell,
Now simmer stories we dare not tell.
Fathers distant, mothers worn thin,
Brothers silent, sisters within.
The hearth once warm is now unsure,
Can even families this pain endure?

And in the courtrooms, and in the chairs
Of power where hope once climbed the stairs,
Sit men with words like golden thread,
But their silence weaves a deeper dread.
Manifestos wrapped in polished lies,
While truth is hung beneath grey skies.

Political parties, red or green,
Talk of progress yet none is seen.
They speak of peace, yet plot for votes,
On trust’s dead body, their victory floats.
One blames the other, the other deflects,
And the public watches, bruised, perplexed.

What remains when trust is gone?
The soul of a place cannot just carry on.
No temple, no masjid, no stone or dome,
Can feel like sanctuary, or home.
When suspicion replaces every grace,
And fear walks openly in every space.

But still—listen—the wind hasn’t died,
It carries a whisper, swelling with pride:
“Kashmir is not just wound and wail,
Its spirit endures beyond every tale.
From the fields of Pampore to Wular’s shore,
We are more than what we bore.”

To you, the student, waiting to believe,
To the doctor with no reprieve,
To the teacher torn between pay and passion,
To the mother worn in quiet fashion,
To the leader who’s lost his way,
To the youth with dreams tucked away:

Come forward. Be the thread that mends.
Start where broken trust ends.
We cannot wait for perfect days,
Or prophets to come show the ways.
Each act of truth, each choice to care,
Is a seed that trust plants in the air.

Shake hands even when palms tremble,
Speak peace when war tries to assemble.
Raise questions, yes—but seek light,
Don’t let rumors replace what’s right.
Forgive when you can, hold when you must,
And begin again, with humble trust.

Let’s fix the cracks in every hall,
From kindergartens to city hall.
Let’s not expect, but be the change,
Rearrange the script, rearrange.
Jammu and Kashmir, the vale of dreams,
Deserves more than fractured seams.

We are the voice, we are the will,
We are the hands that can rebuild.
Together let’s restore what was torn,
And let the light of trust be reborn.
Not just in papers, speeches, or plans,
But in our hearts, and our hands.

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