When Parenting Misses the Heart

Parenting in Kashmir is often inherited, not learned. And the cost is silently carried by our children.

- Farzana Nisar

I was seven when I first learned that silence can sting more than words.

I'd accidently dropped a glass of water, and the room stiffened. My mother looked away. My father didn’t speak. I still shudder to recall that cold moment making my small body fold in shame.

I spent years thinking I was careless. I grew up watching every step, careful not to take up too much space. That carefulness stayed.

Now, when I watch five-year-old Zaid, I see that same confusion flicker across his face.

He's the kind of child who runs before he thinks, climbs everything he's told not to, and laughs from his stomach. He's joy in motion. But also, according to most grown-ups around him, Kherifeh—mischievous.

The label sticks, like dust on his scraped knees.

A few days ago, he chased a sheep outside his home, slipped, and fell. His father rushed out. For a second, he looked worried. Then he snapped.

“Are you out of your mind?” the man shouted, grabbing Zaid by the arm. A hard slap landed on his back. Zaid didn’t cry from pain. He looked stunned, like he'd expected something else, maybe arms, not anger.

This happens every day in homes across Kashmir. Children fall, and instead of comfort, they get correction. They get told off for being children. They get taught that love can come with shouting, and protection can hurt.