The Silent Breakdown of Kashmiri Men

Beneath the surface of masculinity in Kashmir is a silent epidemic of loneliness, shame, and suffering. I lived it.

- Musaib Bilal

"He seemed fine." That’s what they said when a boy from our neighbourhood died by suicide last winter. He used to play cricket with us. He’d crack jokes on the bus to college. I saw him a week before he died, buying chips from the shop near the shrine. He looked normal. Just another young Kashmiri trying to make it through the day.

But he wasn’t fine. None of us are, really.

In Kashmir, men don’t cry. We're not supposed to. We're taught to keep our heads down, work hard, provide, protect, never complain.

From a young age, boys here are conditioned to stay tough, like we're preparing for some invisible battle. Crying is for girls. Talking about feelings is shameful. So we push it down and hope it stays buried.

But it doesn’t. It turns into anger, into silence, into sleepless nights. Sometimes it turns into violence, sometimes into drinking or drug use. And sometimes it turns into suicide.

Men are three times more likely to die by suicide globally, and in India, the numbers are even starker.

According to the National Crime Records Bureau, over 1,18,000 men died by suicide in 2022, more than double the number of women.

In Jammu and Kashmir, most mental health reporting focuses on conflict and PTSD, but barely anyone talks about men quietly breaking down behind closed doors.

When I was younger, I didn’t even know I was struggling. I had trouble sleeping. I overthought everything. I isolated myself but blamed others. I thought I was just weak. Or strange. I didn’t have the words for it: depression, anxiety, trauma. I only had feelings I wasn't allowed to show.