Have you ever wondered why is our language being muzzled? Why our actions, our words—our voice—carry no weight? The reason isn't that we are helpless, but that our culture, especially our language, has become so. And this hasn't happened due to any external influence, but because we ourselves have neglected our culture and allowed our language to go unspoken.

Someone once rightly said, "If you wish to manipulate a society, begin by erasing its culture." And that is exactly what we are witnessing today. Every time we stay silent in Kashmiri, a story dies unheard. We have made our mother tongue something to be ashamed of. We laugh at those who speak it with pride. We correct children when they speak Kashmiri in school. Even newborns are wrapped not just in blankets, but in Urdu and English.
To speak another language is smart—but to forget your own is self-erasure.
Some argue that our language is worthless and outdated. But languages don’t grow old—only the minds that abandon them do. They say, "We should move forward." But I ask: Forward towards what? A future with no memories? No roots? You may master every language in the world—but what will you say when your soul calls out to you in Kashmiri?
I believe no language becomes useless—it becomes unused. And unused tongues become graves for forgotten stories. The desire for modernity, for development, cannot be fulfilled by borrowed tongues. Japan, China, France, and many others have shown that language is not a barrier—it is a backbone. These borrowed tongues will not empower us—they will enslave us. And in that slavery, we will become prisoners of our own silence.
Perhaps this entire piece should have been written in Kashmiri. It should have been.
But a quiet voice inside me whispered, "No one will understand. No one will care. No one will read it." That is the quiet pain—the wound—when even the defenders of a language fear it will not be heard.

We write in English. We pray in Arabic. We speak in Urdu.
And yet, the language of our mothers lies buried beneath our breath.
It is not Kashmiri that is dying—it is we who are dying inside.
It is not the language that is buried—but our ancestors.
In the quiet corners of tomorrow, our children will look at us with curious eyes and ask, "What was Kashmiri?"
Not "What is?"—but "What was?"
And we will have no courage to answer—because it wasn’t taken from us.
We let it go.
Not in war—but with a quiet surrender.
The language that once lived in the heart of every home now sits like a ghost—present, but unspoken.
One day, when our children hear a word they do not recognize, they will ask, "What was Kashmiri?"
And we will feel the ache of every word we never passed on.
They will not know words like "mouj" (mother), "moul" (father).
And we will realize that it wasn’t our language that died—we simply chose not to water it.
A dark shadow clouds my heart.
The future will not find a language—it will find a grave.
We buried Kashmiri before they could speak it.
Remember the lullaby—remember.
One day, our children will search for their mother tongue and find only echoes.
They will say, "It died before we were born."
And our silence—our quiet guilt—will not be innocence.
It will be betrayal.
It will become their loss.
Make them smart—but not the murderers of their own tongue.
Let’s untie our tongues.
Let’s whisper and write in Kashmiri.
Even a single sentence can keep a language breathing.
Let’s make it a language of the present—not the past.
So that when our children grow up, they don’t ask, "What was Kashmiri?"
They say with pride, "This is who we are."

Email:-------------------ubwrites8@gmail.com