Decades of Violence Leave Deep Mental Scars on Women in Kashmir

SOPORE, India — Eight years ago, in the spring of 2017, Taiyuba was a college student in chemistry lab when she heard loud shouting followed by the clatter of footsteps echoing through the corridor of her college in Indian-administered Kashmir. 

When she went into the hallway with classmates, she saw a young man running from a protest, blood streaming down his face, soaking his uniform. There had been tear gas shelling near the college and the air was filled with smoke. 

Taiyuba, who is using her first name to protect her privacy, had struggled with asthma since childhood and felt her chest tighten. She couldn’t breathe. She was overtaken by sudden, violent wheezing. Her friends and teachers rushed her to the hospital. 

“It felt like the end of my life,” she told More to Her Story.

The Kashmir conflict, rooted in the 1947 partition of British India, is a decades-long dispute between India and Pakistan, with both countries claiming the region. It has sparked wars and insurgency in one of the most militarized zones in the world. In Indian-administered Kashmir, civilians have endured curfews, crackdowns and communication blackouts — deepening their trauma and alienation. 

In 2017, a student uprising swept through Kashmir. It began in south Kashmir’s Pulwama district, where armed forces raided a government college and assaulted students, leaving 54 students injured. Following that incident, a storm of violent student protests engulfed the valley, with women also taking part. One viral photo showed women students throwing stones at Indian security forces, who responded with tear gas shells

According to researchers, Kashmir has one of the highest incidences of PTSD and other mental health disorders in South Asia due to long-term exposure to violence, trauma and uncertainty. But there are many people who don’t get access to mental health support. 

In Srinagar, Shri Maharaja Hari Singh Hospital, known as SMHS Hospital, houses the main psychiatric facility for area residents but it mostly treats people with drug addictions.

Médecins Sans Frontières, a nonprofit, has been providing services to area residents since 2001, but is deployed to only four districts: Shopian, Pulwama, Tral and Srinagar. “Years of conflict in Jammu and Kashmir have taken a toll on people’s mental health in the state,” the organization says.

In 2015, Médecins Sans Frontières, the Institute of Mental Health and Neurosciences, based in Srinagar, and the University of Kashmir conducted a survey of 5,519 residents and found that 45 percent of adults showed symptoms of mental distress. About 41 percent had probable depression; 26 percent had probable anxiety; and 19 percent had probable PTSD, according to their final report.

In their findings, published in a peer-reviewed journal, researchers found the three disorders were associated with being female, over 55 years of age, having no formal education, living in a rural area and being widowed, divorced or separated. 

Another study, published in 2016 by the Institute of Mental Health and Neurosciences and ActionAid, a nonprofit based in South Africa with branches in India, estimated that 11.3 percent of the population in Kashmir had a mental health disorder, higher than the national prevalence of about seven percent. 

A recent 2024 study found that nearly 13 percent of women have mental health disorders, compared to 8.4 percent of men. Researchers found that only 12.6 percent of patients suffering from mental disorders had sought treatment for their illnesses.

Last month, after Pakistani militants crossed the border into Kashmir, killing 26 Indian tourists, Taiyuba was gripped by a familiar anxiety, even though she was far away, pursuing a master’s degree in Jalandhar, India. Repeated calls from her worried mother reminded her of the weight of being a Kashmiri away from home. The killings triggered a fresh wave of harassment and threats against Kashmiri students across India.

“I stayed back on campus while others returned home, but my family was in constant worry — and I was anxious for them,” Taiyuba told More to Her Story.

“That’s the life of a Kashmiri,” she said. “Just when you start to believe the world might be yours — to rebuild, to dream — something happens. One incident, and it all comes crashing down. Because this fear, this pain, it’s not new. It’s deep-rooted. And it never really leaves.”

Haunting Flashbacks Emerge

Another Kashmiri, Farzana, 30, is pursuing a Ph.D. in biochemistry at Lovely Professional University in Punjab, India, but she also kept getting worrying calls from her family after the April attack on tourists. She is using a pseudonym for her first name to protect her identity.

“I had a presentation and a deadline for my research paper. I didn’t do any of it. Instead, my mother and aunts were worried about my safety away from home, even though they were the ones most at risk in Kashmir,” she told More To Her Story.

Three years ago, Farzana left Kashmir to pursue higher studies, driven by a growing sense that there was no viable future for her back home. Like many young Kashmiris, she cites prolonged political uncertainty — marked by internet shutdowns and limited private sector growth — as a key factor behind the region’s soaring unemployment.

She left home to alleviate her fear and uncertainty, but the recent war between India and Pakistan brought back memories of the past.

She spent her childhood in Srinagar’s volatile downtown area. She remembers the fear that gripped her maternal home during the uncertain nights of the 1990s.

“My aunts would hide in the back room during crackdowns. All the women would sit in one corner, silent and tense,” she said.

“Looking back, I think they just wanted to be invisible,” she sighed.

Her mother once got a job as a hospital helper but wasn’t allowed to do the job due to fears she’d be unsafe. 

Growing up she saw her father stretch every rupee as the soul income provider at home to educate her and her brothers.

“He worked so hard, but the unrest and frequent shutdowns made life harder. My mother always would tell us if she was a working woman it would be easy for the family,” she said. She remembered how schools were closed for months as she grew up. “When I was in 10th or 12th grade, only half the syllabus would be covered by teachers. How can one compete later in life in competitive exams?” she said.

Women Back Home

While Kashmiri women studying or working outside the area battled anxiety from afar, those back home quietly stocked up on food, with most women leaving college campuses in May to stay with families, preparing for the worst.

In a modest home in Kashmir’s Pulwama district, Rashida Begum, 69, begins her days tending to a small kitchen garden. Her face and eyes, etched with wrinkles, speak of years lived in stress. Despite her aching legs, she never forgets to check the storeroom, making sure there’s enough rice, oil and flour, even now.

In the latest round of conflicts, Begum’s family was jolted by loud, unexplained noises echoing through the sky. Nighttime blackouts enforced by authorities only heightened the fear. For her — and many women across the valley — the unease was visceral.

Women of her age have lived through decades of protests, crackdowns, and shutdowns. But now, she said, it feels different.

Sitting in the courtyard of her one-story home, she said, “This time, it feels like war is at our doorstep,” her voice low and tired, carrying the weight of endurance.

In recent weeks, women across Kashmir have begun quietly restocking essentials — rice, oil and emergency medicines. Begum said it’s a ritual long ago passed down through the generations, “honed through years of conflict.”

“We never know how quickly things can escalate. At least if I have food at home. I know I can feed my family when everything else stops,” Begum said.

During past unrest, she recalls, curfews and crackdowns would shut down the markets for weeks. The memory of those days still shapes decisions today.

Her daughter, Hameeda Bano, 50, recently visited her and said she had to drop out of school in the 1970s.

“I was never against her education,” Begum said, her voice tinged with regret. “But how could we let her go out during such unrest? It wasn’t safe for a girl. There were security checks everywhere, and her father insisted.”

“Maybe she would’ve had a job today if she had continued. But in Kashmir, you never know what the next day brings.”

Women as Strategists for Survival

The 1990s marked one of the bloodiest chapters in Kashmir’s history. As armed insurgency surged in 1989 and the region was heavily militarized, daily life was upended. Human rights groups documented widespread disappearances, extrajudicial killings and a climate of fear.

Kashmiri women emerged as quiet strategists. With men detained, missing or afraid to step outside, women took charge, shielding children, rationing food, organizing community support and protesting injustices when loved ones were jailed.

Dr. Zoya Mir, a clinical psychologist based in Srinagar, said the legacy of that era runs deep.

“Women from the 1990s often show signs of PTSD, chronic anxiety, sleep disturbances, and somatic pain,” she told More To Her Story. “Many internalized their trauma, leading to emotional numbness or dissociation. The younger generation faces different stressors — overthinking, digital anxiety, body image issues — but they’re also more willing to seek help.”

In Shopian, Shaheena, a staff nurse, still panics during periods of unrest. Her daughter Aqsa, a 24-year-old student studying for her Bachelor of Medicine, Bachelor of Surgery, known as “MBBS,” recalls preparing for exams during the 2019 lockdown with the lights off. They both used pseudonyms for their first names to protect their privacy.

Her mother feared army raids.

“Even now, she won’t let us turn on the lights late at night,” Aqsa said. “She recently bought candles during the India-Pakistan escalation, afraid of blackouts. She wants us home, but the hostel feels safer.”

For many women like Farzana, who is studying biochemistry away from home, solidarity became survival. During the 2019 crisis, her mother grew vegetables to prepare for war and shared them with neighbors in need.

“It’s a pattern among Kashmiri women,” she said. “They support each other and sometimes just do it for others.”

For Farah Jan, a 23-year-old English literature student, each fresh wave of unrest reopens old wounds and deepens the sacrifices her family made for her education.

She remembers the 2019 lockdown vividly. With internet access cut off and her father — a daily wage laborer — unable to work, savings quickly dried up. In the middle of this, her mother sold her gold jewelry to pay Jan’s school fees.

“It wasn’t just about money,” Jan said. “That jewelry was her gift from her wedding.”

Jan says her mother’s anxiety flares up every time tensions rise in the region. The first question she always asks is: “What if a crisis happens? How will we feed everyone? How will we afford your studies?”

Their lives are mapped around the possibility of future emergencies. Planning for school fees, storing food stock, saving extra cash is all part of the emotional labor Jan’s mother quietly performs behind the scenes.

“She’s always telling me, ‘You must become what I could never be,’” Jan said. “That one line often hurts me as she has not been able to live her dreams and now hopes that my future won’t be shaped by fear, like hers.”