Kashyapmara to Kashmir: A Journey Through Time

“Raliv, tchaliv, ya ghaliv” - Convert, leave, or die. “Asi gatchhi pakistan, batav rotchh ta batnyav saan” - We want pakistan, without the Hindu men and, with the Hindu women. “Yahaan kya chalega, nizam-e-mustafa” - What will rule here? The islamic rule. “Kashmir mein rehna hoga, allah-hu-akbar kehna hoga” - If you want to live in Kashmir, you must chant allah-hu-akbar.

It was the night of January 19th, 1990 - a night that changed everything. 

The air in the valley trembled with these chilling slogans blaring from mosque loudspeakers. I was just a child, barely over eight years old, too young to grasp the full weight of those words. But even then, I felt it. The hatred. The terror. The poison in the air. I remember the fear etched on every adult face around me, their eyes wide with a helplessness I'd never seen before. One of our neighbors kept fainting, collapsing again and again, as if her body refused to bear the fear any longer. 

And then, a silence fell - thick, heavy, and unnatural. It wasn’t peace. It was the stillness that comes before a storm, or after something sacred has been shattered. That night is seared into my soul. I may not have understood the slogans, but I understood what fear looked like. And I carry that night with me, even now - thirty-five years later. One whisper, one thought, one memory... and it all comes rushing back, leaving me breathless, as though the valley never stopped echoing.

Whenever I speak about the horrors of terrorism, about the wounds inflicted by Pakistan-backed violence, I’m met with advice, offered, I suppose, with good intentions. 

“Don’t dwell on the past.”
“Let it go.”
“Take care of your health.”
“Learn to manage your stress.”

But this isn’t overthinking, brooding or stress. This is inherited trauma. My lived experience. A wound that has never fully healed, a wound that is repeatedly reopened. It is the burden of belonging to a community (nearly) erased - killed, raped, exiled. Thousands of lives shattered. Generations torn from their roots. And our culture, our language, our rituals, our festivals, our food - slowly vanishing in exile.

Human nature avoids pain, especially when it isn’t theirs. Until it hits home, or closer to home, it’s human nature to look away, to diminish, to deny, to forget. I try to remain objective, acknowledging the absence of social media back then. The whitewashing of these horrors by selective historians allowed for this erasure. But even today, when the truth is just a click away, there are still a lot of people who choose not to see it, not to believe it.

“I don’t believe it,” they say. Not strangers in the dark, but educated, progressive, well-informed people. 

But this happened. I know, because I lived it. I am a survivor of the Kashmiri Hindu genocide of 1990. A refugee in my own country. 

The Itihas of Kashmir

Did you know Kashmir has witnessed seven exoduses? Yes, seven. And each time, we hoped. We persisted. We rebuilt. We returned. Only to be uprooted again. Even now, the genocide of 1990 remains barely acknowledged. The earlier ones? Nearly forgotten. But forgetting does not erase history. We carry it in our stories, our silences, and our scars.

While researching, I was cautioned repeatedly not to refer to these seven exoduses as genocides. “It does not fit the UN definition of the term genocide,” they said. There is supposedly not enough evidence to prove intent to destroy an ethnic group, including through killings. The implication was clear – our suffering didn’t qualify. And the so-called scholarly sources? Wikipedia and Al-Jazeera. Casual footnotes masquerading as academic rigour. 

But if we are going to play that game, let me offer my own sources. Nilamata Purana, Rajatarangini, Vishnu Purana and Skanda Purana. 

Long before modern borders were drawn, nestled in the majestic Himalayas lay Kashyapamara, the land of Rishi Kashyap. It was once a vast lake called Satisar, tormented by the water-demon named Jalodbhava. It was drained by one of our Saptarishis, the great Rishi Kashyap with divine help from Bhagwan Vishnu, revealing the fertile land beneath. Rishi Kashyap then, invited sadhus, rishis and seekers of truth to settle in this land which became Kashmir. And we? We became the Kashmiri Pandits.

Kashmir was a beacon of Sanatana Dharma, the Kashi of the North. By the sacred banks of the Kishanganga river stood Sharada Peeth, a revered Shakti Peetha, where Ma Sati’s right hand is believed to have fallen. Bhakts, sadhus and rishis flocked from across Bharat to this sacred seat of learning and spirituality.

Kashmir Shaivism flourished here. Wisdom flowed like the river itself, weaving through ancient temples that adorned its landscape, echoing in hymns, shaping scriptures on this very soil. Festivals lit up the Valley, chants filled the air. The sacred and ordinary danced together. Kashmir was not merely a place, it was a sacred breath in India’s spiritual body.

But the winds changed. Invasions, conversions and fear transformed this Hindu land, one of the foremost seats of Hindu learning and spirituality. Each wave of violence chipped away at the land’s soul and then came the exoduses. Seven of them. Each one pushed us further out. Each one tried to erase us and our voice. Each one shrunk our numbers. And yet, we sang our songs, we remembered, we taught our children who they are and rebuilt our lives, again and again. But by 2010, a J&K government report noted a devastating truth - only about 800 Hindu families remained in the Valley – around 2000 individuals. Just 0.04% of what once was.

So when someone tells me not to call seven forced exoduses a genocide, I wonder… What do you call the killing, the rape, the exile of an entire people? What do you call a culture systematically uprooted, scattered, and silenced? If this isn’t genocide, then perhaps the problem does not lie in the term, but in the world’s unwillingness to acknowledge it.

So how did we get here? What happened to this cradle of wisdom and light? Let me take you through these seven exoduses, as a survivor, as someone who carries these stories in her blood.

First Exodus (1389-1413 CE): The Fires of Butshikan

Sultan Sikandar Shah of the Shah Miri dynasty, the iconoclast known as Butshikan, the destroyer of idols, unleashed a wave of destruction. His forces demolished our temples including the grand Martand Sun temple, imposed Sharia, banned Hindu practices, and enforced jizya.

Those who refused to convert were either killed or fled to other parts of India. The Kashmiri Hindu population began its first significant decline. Rajatarangini records that “one lakh” Hindus drowned at Batta Mazaar, their sacred threads burned in heaps. (Batta is a derogatory term used for Kashmiri Hindus; mazaar means tomb – Batta Mazaar means graveyard of Kashmiri Hindus).

Thousands were slaughtered or exiled. My ancestors trekked through the icy mountain passes to Kishtwar, their feet bleeding, their gods hidden in bundles, whispering prayers as mosques rose over temple ruins. The Valley was never the same.  

Second Exodus (1505-1514 CE): The Shadow Araqi

Under Fateh Shah II, Shamsuddin Araqi, a Noorbakshi Shia Sufi and a zealous proselytizer, targeted Hindus for conversion through coercion or violence. Temples were desecrated, homes burned, and Hindus faced persecution. Thousands more fled to Jammu Bhadrawah and other distant lands, further dwindling our numbers. Mothers hid children, fathers guarded our sacred texts with their lives. The Valley, once a cradle of learning, became a cage, and yet, our ancestors clung to their identity, to their mantras, to whatever embers of faith they could protect.

Third Exodus (1586-1707 CE): The Mughal Chains

A new wave of torture and persecution for Kashmiri Hindus started yet again. From Jahangir to Aurangzeb, governors like Itquad Khan and Iftekhar Khan enforced harsh anti-Hindu policies. Temples were destroyed, jizya imposed and Hindu symbols banned. Thousands fled again, the Hindu population shrinking further. But our pride endured. Even as the Valley dimmed, the flame of memory remained unextinguished. 

Fourth Exodus (1753-1819 CE): The Afghan Abyss

Then came the terror of Afghan rule under the Durrani kingdom. Under the nightmarish rulers like Ahmad Shah, governors drowned Hindus in Dal Lake, their bodies sinking with their sacred texts. Tarikh-i-Hassan details brutal taxation, forced conversions and religious persecution.

Daughters were disguised as boys to escape lustful gazes. Thousands fled to Dogra lands and Punjab, leaving rural Hindus nearly extinct. Only the urban elites survived, often by converting. Even today, many muslim surnames in the Valley are the same as the Hindu ones. Farooq Abdullah, in 2014, acknowledged his Hindu ancestry, as did his father Sheikh Abdullah in Aatish-e-Chinar, reflecting how conversions reshaped identities and how deep the erasure runs. 

Fifth Exodus (1931 CE): The Riots’ Sting

During Maharaja Hari Singh’s reign (1925-1947), the Valley erupted in communal riots. In 1931, unrest led by Sheikh Abdullah’s movement turned violent. Hindu shops and homes in Naushehra and Bohri Kadal were looted and burned. Several hundred families fled to Jammu, further reducing the urban Hindu population. By 1941, the census recorded 78,800 Pandits - 6% of the Valley – clinging to their roots. This exodus was a crack in the soul of Kashmir, a warning unheeded by those who could have healed it.

Sixth Exodus (1947-1948 CE): Post-Partition Tribal Invasion

In the chaos following Partition, tribal militias supported by the Pakistani army invaded Kashmir. Hindus and Sikhs in Mirpur and Rajouri were specifically targeted. The Mirpur massacre left thousands of Hindus and Sikhs killed or displaced. Only 790 of 1,14,000 remained in Mirpur. The blood-soaked exodus marked a devastating blow to the Hindu and Sikh populations in these regions. Entire communities vanished in the blink of history. 

Seventh Exodus (1989-1990): My Lost Homeland  

This is the one I lived through. 

Our neighbors turned on us. Hit lists surfaced. Killings began. At the tender age of eight, I clutched my Mother’s shawl, hiding in our Srinagar home, windows covered with newspapers lest even a flicker of candlelight reveal our presence. The Valley turned predator.

Several prominent Hindus were brutally murdered.

• Tika Lal Taploo, a senior advocate at the J&K High Court, gunned down outside his home in Sept 1989
• Justice Neelkanth Ganjoo, retired High Court judge, shot dead in broad daylight in a crowded market
• Sarwanand Koul ‘Premi’, scholar, poet and teacher, kidnapped and murdered along with his son, his fingers broken and pages of Bhagavad Gita stuffed into his mouth
• Lassa Koul, Station Director of Doordarshan, shot dead outside his home

Terrorist organizations like JKLF and hizbul mujahideen plastered posters demanding we leave. Loudspeakers across mosques roared, “Asi gatchhi pakistan, batav rotchh ta batnyav saan.” Local papers like Aftab published ultimatums. Posters warned us. Loudspeakers threatened us.

The message was clear: leave or die.

Over 300,000 of us fled, displaced, scattered like ash in our own country. More than 70,000 families registered as migrants. Our homes were looted, our temples – 208 of them – destroyed or desecrated. The NHRC called it ‘akin to genocide’ citing 215 uninvestigated or prematurely closed FIRs. But where is the justice? 

We lived in downtown Srinagar. We changed homes amidst curfews and gunfire before finally fleeing in April 1990 – packed into autos, trucks, buses. My pregnant aunt, elderly relatives, us kids, escaped with little more than our memories. We reached Delhi – alive, somehow.

The Indian Home Ministry recorded 219 confirmed killings of Kashmiri Hindus between 1989 and 1991. But this number tells only part of our story. Many others like my maternal grandfather died due to extreme trauma, many due to illness, or the harsh conditions in refugee camps and other places.

My aunt was shot dead. My mother narrowly escaped a terrorist attack.

By 2016, only 2,700 Pandits remained in the Valley. Most displaced, living in poverty-stricken camps, their lives marked by heat, hardship, and transgenerational trauma. We left behind our chinar trees, our walnut trees, our kangris, our temples and the scent of our homeland.

And today? Fewer than 2000 Kashmiri Hindus remain in the Valley. From over 300,000. A community, all but gone, not just physically, but culturally, psychologically. And we? We became Kashmiri migrants.

In 2017, the Supreme Court of India declined to entertain a petition seeking reinvestigation into the killings of over 700 Kashmiri Hindus during the terrorism period of 1989-1990. The bench, composed of then Chief Justice JS Khehar and Justice DY Chandrachud, cited the 27-year delay in filing the petition, stating that gathering evidence after such a long period would be ‘impractical’. This response left the community deeply disillusioned. Survivors and legal advocates questioned:

• How can justice be "time-barred" when no investigation ever truly began?
• Why do international norms that say genocide has no statute of limitations not apply here?

In 2022, the group Roots in Kashmir filed a fresh PIL demanding:

• Recognition of the 1990 events as genocide.
• Reopening of 215 closed cases.
• Formation of a Special Investigative Team (SIT).

The PIL referenced Supreme Court precedents where older cases (like the 1984 anti-Sikh riots) were reopened after decades. It also highlighted the NHRC's own 1999 assessment, which likened the exodus to genocide.

As of mid-2024, the Supreme Court has not dismissed the PIL but has yet to take significant action. 

No SIT has been formed. No formal genocide inquiry has been initiated. 
No apology, no prosecutions, no recognition.
Justice, for now, remains a whisper - faint as chinar leaves falling far from home.

Eighth Exodus (?) 

Confused? Where did this come from? 
Well, there won’t be one. There is no one left to convert, exile, or kill. Nearly all of us are already gone, with no hope of ever returning to our home.

And yet, even in this desolation, I say this: I am a survivor, not a victim. Our story must be heard—not for vengeance, but truth. Justice S.K. Kaul called for a Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It’s a powerful idea, but without institutional will, it remains a rhetorical promise. Let the Valley remember its Pandits, not as ghosts, but as its heartbeat.

They call us Kashmiri Pandits, the keepers of Kashmir’s ancient soul. Seven exoduses tried to erase us. But we are still here. Writing, remembering, rebuilding. Because despite everything, we believe in light.

For a community that has endured such unimaginable loss, we refuse to be defined solely by it. We do not seek pity - we seek dignity. We are survivors. We are inheritors of a rich civilizational legacy. And it is our duty to preserve what little remains - our culture, our language, our identity - for the generations to come.

 Sources :

• Survivor accounts of Kashmiri Hindus
• Jagmohan, My Frozen Turbulence in Kashmir (1991)
• Alexander Evans, Economic and Political Weekly (2002)
• Tej K. Tikoo, Kashmir: Its Aborigines and Their Exodus (2020)
• Indian Home Ministry data
• NHRC reports
• Panun Kashmir