DAMPHETH (State of suppression)

Tonight,as I lie here awake at midnight, sleep eludes me, and my mind is occupied by an overwhelming question that refuses to be silenced: When will the massacre of innocents finally end in this land? I am not alone in this torment; like millions of others, I am haunted by this relentless brutality that pervades our lives. I cannot help but ask, what is our fault? Why are we condemned to live in a world where such violence is a constant companion? Is it due to the political conflicts with Pakistan, the decisions of our own country, or are we ourselves somehow complicit in this suffering? Maybe each of these holds a fragment of the truth, but does this mean that I am destined to spend my entire life watching my homeland bleed?

I yearn for peace and security, for a time when we can finally feel safe in our own land. But what can we do to make this dream a reality? Are we to remain passive, waiting indefinitely for governments to act—the powerful few, bound by their own limitations, entangled in their own agendas? Ultimately, it is we, the people, who elect and empower these leaders, and it is our collective will that shapes them. So, why should we leave the responsibility solely in their hands?

I am certain that almost every Kashmiri, save for a few ignorant or reckless individuals, opposes this brutality, this senseless bloodshed that we have been forced to endure for far too long. But then, who is this violence really for? Why does it continue? For whose benefit are these atrocities committed, and how much longer must we suffer? Are we truly so powerless that we cannot confront these forces—the monsters who shatter our lives, tear apart our communities, and disgrace our identity on the world stage?

It pains me to see that we often leave this fight to a handful of individuals, the ones who organize candlelight marches and stand in protest against the mass killings of innocent lives. This burden, this fight for justice and peace, belongs to each and every one of us. Today, it is someone else’s family that suffers, someone else’s life that is destroyed. But if we remain silent, tomorrow it could be yours or mine.

As I lie here, I can vividly see the faces of the innocents who have suffered, the lives lost, and the families torn apart. My heart cries out, and my soul screams in anguish, demanding to know: How much longer will we remain silent? How much longer will we allow ourselves to be suppressed by fear? I am drowning under the weight of this anguish, suffocated by the realization that I am just one voice among countless others who feel the same yet are afraid to speak out. Whom can I turn to? Who will listen to the cries of a common person?

I do not claim to be a historian or to have a deep understanding of the complex reasons that brought us to this point. Yet, I cannot help but question: Can violence ever lead to any meaningful resolution? I find it hard to believe. If anything, it only deepens our wounds, making peace seem like an even more distant dream. We are Muslims, followers of Islam, a religion that, at its core, stands for peace, mercy, and security. How can we, then, sit silently while such acts of brutality are carried out before our eyes? How can we bear witness to this suffering without feeling the weight of our responsibility to act?

My mind is flooded with countless questions, some too painful to put into words, others too dangerous to voice aloud. Yet, amidst this storm of thoughts, one question emerges clearly: I have spent over 30years witnessing this cycle of violence, this endless suffering. Will my children—innocent and unaware of the world’s cruelty as they are now—grow up to witness the same horrors? Will they be forced to carry the same burdens, to live in the shadow of fear and despair? The thought of this future for them is unbearable, and I cannot understand how it would not be equally intolerable to every one of us.

As I think of this, I feel trapped, suppressed, and voiceless, as if my cries for peace and justice are lost in a void. I feel weighed down by the hopelessness of our situation, and yet, beneath it all, there remains a flicker of hope—a hope that, perhaps, someday, we might find a way to end this nightmare, to reclaim the peace that is our right.

“DAMPHETT GOMUT.” This cry is mine alone. These are my own thoughts, raw and unfiltered, born out of my anguish and longing for a better future. No organization, no individual has influenced me. This is simply the plea of a soul yearning for peace, the cry of a heart broken by years of suffering and an unshakable desire for a brighter tomorrow.

Ayaz Ali

General State secretary(Org) JDU JKUT