Ahsaan Shafi
Something serious is happening around us—something we rarely talk about—but it’s affecting the core of who we are. Our own language, Kashmiri, is disappearing. And the most painful truth is: we are letting it happen.
In today’s Kashmir, speaking Kashmiri is looked down upon. People say it sounds “low class” or “old-fashioned.” Many think only poor or uneducated people speak it. We meet fellow Kashmiris and still talk in Urdu or English—just to sound “better.” Why? Why are we ashamed of who we are?
Even in schools, this mindset is forced on us. I remember clearly—teachers punished us for speaking in Kashmiri. We were told, “Speak Urdu or English.” That wasn’t education; that was the first stage of cultural destruction.
Now, the new generation can barely speak Kashmiri. Many can’t understand it. And sadly, even I—who can speak it—can’t read or write it properly. I wanted to write this article in Kashmiri, but I couldn’t. Why? Because we were never taught. Our schools ignored it. Our families didn’t pass it on. And now, it’s disappearing—day by day.
Let me say it loud and clear: Kashmiri is the greatest language ever. It holds our history, our soul, our poetry, our pain, and our pride. This language has survived centuries—it deserves to survive now, too. It deserves respect, not shame.
Let’s break this dangerous stereotype.
Let’s stop thinking that speaking Kashmiri makes us “less than.”
We are not less than anybody. We are Kashmiri—and that alone is a matter of pride.
We must learn from others—especially from the South Indian states. Look at how Tamil, Malayalam, Telugu, and Kannada speakers protect their languages. They teach them in schools. They use them in movies, books, and daily life. Even educated South Indians speak their own language first—with pride. Why can’t we?
Kashmiri isn’t just a language. It’s our identity, our freedom, our connection to the land. Losing it means losing a part of Kashmir itself.
If we don’t act now, then in just 10 years, there may be hardly anyone left who can speak pure Kashmiri. And then, someone will ask, “What happened to the Kashmiri language?” And the answer will be, “We sold it for nothing.”
Let us not sell our culture for the illusion of modernity. Speaking Kashmiri doesn’t make you backward—it makes you rooted. It makes you strong. It shows love for your motherland.
If we truly love Kashmir—if we truly care about our identity—then let’s prove it:
Speak Kashmiri.
Teach it in homes.
Demand it in schools.
Write it. Read it. Sing it.
This is not just about saving a language—it’s about saving who we are.
If you’re ashamed of your language, you’re ashamed of your existence.
Lasin Mouj Kashir.
We are Kashmiri—and we are proud.
The author hails from south Kashmir’s Tral
