Kashmir's Art of Healing

The world measures recovery in rebuilt walls. Kashmir reminds us it should be measured in healed hearts.

- Musaib Bilal

When the Pahalgam attack took place earlier this year, I was full of life. I had been attending youth conferences, leading discussions, and speaking on education, women's hygiene, and emotional well-being.

That evening, my friend and I were on a live session about tourism in Kashmir, talking about how travellers saw our valley as a “piece of the moon.” Midway through the conversation, the news broke. There had been an attack. We went silent. Within minutes, we ended the session.

What I felt first was anger. Then panic. What would this mean for our future, for the sense of peace we were finally learning to build?

I remember thinking: why does every spark of hope in Kashmir have to fight so hard to stay lit?

For generations, people here have been conditioned to survive. We have lived through upheavals, curfews, communication blackouts, and natural disasters. Survival became our default mode. But survival leaves scars that seep into how we think, feel, and raise our children.

Drug addiction, depression, and suicides are no longer rare incidents. They've become symptoms of an emotional epidemic that nobody wants to name.

After the attack, I met a local official and asked him what we were doing about the mental health crisis. He had no answer. Our priorities always lie in security, infrastructure, and relief. Mental health still feels like a distant privilege. But when we neglect it, everything else falls apart.

This year's World Mental Health Day theme, “Access to Services - Mental Health in Catastrophes and Emergencies,” feels like it was written for us.