There was a time when Yasin Malik reinvented himself. The guns were set aside, the fiery slogans softened, and suddenly he was presenting himself as a man of dialogue. Photographs showed him in crisp white attire, seated across visiting diplomats, talking about non-violence as if he had discovered Gandhi in his heart. For a moment, the world seemed willing to believe it. But Kashmiris who had lived through the blood-soaked early 1990s knew better. They had seen the other face.

A Militant Before a Politician

Malik’s roots were not in peace. They were in Maisuma’s narrow lanes, where JKLF men carried out kidnappings and targeted killings. He was no bystander — he was at the centre of it. From the abduction of Rubaiya Sayeed to the atmosphere of terror that pushed Kashmiri Pandits out of their homes, his imprint on the Valley’s violence is undeniable.
For the families who lost sons and neighbours in those years, his later talk of non-violence rang hollow. Peace is not a slogan you adopt after the damage is done.

A Carefully Built Image

Still, the transformation worked for a while. Western reporters, charmed by the idea of a rebel turned reformer, amplified his new persona. Malik played the part well — measured words, softer tone, the occasional claim that he was now “Gandhian.”
But it was theatre. A role scripted for international attention. On the ground, the consequences of his earlier actions never disappeared. Broken families cannot be healed by photo-ops. The homes abandoned in 1990 remained empty long after Malik began his peace sermons.

When the Mask Slipped

In the end, the courts caught up. Investigations into terror financing revealed the networks behind the façade. His conviction in Delhi stripped away the carefully managed illusion.
Ordinary Kashmiris hardly needed the judgment to know this. They had always seen the distance between Malik’s words and his past.

What Kashmir Remembers

Perhaps the most corrosive effect of Malik’s peace mask was the confusion it created. Young Kashmiris saw him lionised abroad as a reformer while their own lives were scarred by the fallout of his choices. It blurred the line between genuine efforts at reconciliation and the self-serving politics of men who thrived on unrest.
For displaced Pandits, it was worse. Hearing Malik talk of peace was like salt on an open wound. The man tied to their exile could not, in their eyes, ever be the face of reconciliation.
Yasin Malik never became the Gandhian he claimed to be. His “peace” was performance, a mask that eventually cracked. The Valley knows which face was real — and it was not the one he showed to the cameras.