In Kashmir, the sky has long carried more weight than clouds. Beneath it, lives unfold in hushed tones, stitched together by silence, endurance, and an inherited grief that has rarely found language. In this valley, where beauty often deceives and suffering is seasoned into daily life, mental health remains a deeply misunderstood subject, especially when it concerns women. What is not seen is often not believed. And what women feel is often wrapped in modesty, mistrust, and the cultural commandment of Sabr—endurance, not as healing, but as suppression.
Mental health here is not named. There is no common household vocabulary for depression or anxiety. Instead, expressions like Dil Ghabraav (my heart feels restless) are loosely spoken, often jokingly, to avoid confronting the painful possibility of a real psychological wound. A young girl struggling with low moods after a trauma is said to be Kamzor—weak. For women, this erasure is even deeper. A Kashmiri woman is trained, almost from birth, in the art of emotional invisibility. Her silence is mistaken for dignity, her exhaustion for loyalty. She is rarely allowed the vocabulary to speak of her inner life. If she cries too often, she is told to pray more. If she isolates herself, she is accused of ingratitude. She is expected to carry grief in her wombs, burdens in her bones, and never let her voice tremble.
This cultural silence is not without history. Kashmir, caught between militarization and memory, has endured decades of collective trauma disappearances, curfews, violence, loss. But while political discourse has focused on human rights and justice, little space has been made to examine the psychological afterlife of this trauma, especially in domestic spaces. Women, in particular, have become both the emotional archives and the emotional casualties of this conflict. They are the ones who weep in whispers, who fast not just from food but from the freedom to feel, who bury their breakdowns between folded prayer mats and unfinished chores.
In many cases, a woman’s distress is dismissed as either hormonal or hysterical. If a married woman speaks of emotional pain, the concern is not her well-being but the izzat (honour) of her family. If an unmarried woman shows signs of emotional instability, her future is weighed not in terms of recovery but in terms of marriage prospects. To be seen as mentally unwell is to be marked for life. It is to carry a social stain more permanent than any scar. Thus, many women suffer inwardly, folding their despair into neat shapes one for each meal, each prayer, each moment of small survival.
Islamic thought, when gently and compassionately interpreted, offers a deeper space to accommodate pain. The Quran does not deny sorrow, it dignifies it. The grief of Prophet Yaqub AS, who wept himself blind, or the prayer of Prophet Yunus AS in the belly of despair "La ilaha illa Anta, subhanaka inni kuntu minaz-zalimin" (There is no deity but You; glory be to You. I have been among the wrongdoers) are not stories of weakness but of divine conversation with human vulnerability. Yet these examples are rarely mentioned in our households when a daughter struggles to wake up, or when a mother withdraws into herself.
Mental health must be delinked from the assumption of Kamzor Imaan (weak faith). It must be understood not as an enemy of spirituality but as part of our human wholeness. The nafs, the self, is central to Islamic psychology. To nurture it is not selfishness, it is a spiritual responsibility. When a woman seeks help, whether in the form of therapy, prayer, or expression, she is not rebelling against culture or faith. She is honouring her God-given right to heal.
It is time we challenge the idea that a “strong woman” is one who endures silently. A strong woman is also one who breaks, cries, speaks, and seeks help. She is one who refuses to be a graveyard for the secrets of generations. She is one who names her pain and refuses to apologize for it.
The future of mental health in Kashmir cannot rely on imported models alone. It must begin in our homes, in our madrasas, in our masjids, in our mother tongues. It must begin with Insaaniyat—compassion. We must teach our children that it is okay to not be okay, that Allah does not love them less when they are sad, and that healing is not shameful, it is sacred. In a land that has seen so much blood, may we now learn to honour tears. May we open space for our women to speak without fear, to rest without guilt, and to heal without hiding. For in their healing lies the quiet restoration of an entire people.

 

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