The Night We Lost Our Address: Remembering the Kashmiri Pandit Exodus

 

On a cold winter night in 1989, my family quietly climbed into the back of a truck and left our home in Katrasoo village in Kashmir. There were no goodbyes, no time to pack our belongings, and no certainty about where we were going. We carried only a few utensils, two or three blankets, and the fear that had slowly taken hold of our lives. Earlier that same day, I had washed a new woollen pheran I had bought from the market and hung it outside to dry. When we left that night, it was still hanging there. I never wore it. In many ways, that unworn pheran represents the moment when my childhoop ended and when my community lost something far greater than a home-we lost our address. I was sixteen years old at the time, a student at Kulgam Higher Secondary School in the Kashmir Valley. At that age, a young boy usually dreams about examinations, friends, and the promise of the future. But for many of us growing up in Kashmir during that period, those dreams were replaced by fear, uncertainty, and the painful realization that the life we knew was rapidly disappearing. The Kashmir of my childhood was not always a place of fear. It was a land of remarkable beauty-snow-covered mountains, flowing rivers, and apple orchards that turned deep red every autumn. For centuries, people of different faiths and cultures had shared this land. Communities lived side by side, and the rhythms of everyday life were shaped by traditions that had evolved over generations. For Kashmiri Pandits like us, the valley was more than just a place to live. It was our ancestral homeland. Our temples, language, customs, and memories were deeply rooted in that soil. But in the late 1980s, the atmosphere in the valley began to change. Rumours spread through towns and villages. Political uncertainty deepened. Militant voices grew louder, and the authority of institutions meant to uphold law and order appeared to weaken. Many ordinary citizens felt that decisions about justice and governance were no longer guided by democratic institutions but were increasingly influenced by militant groups and radical rhetoric. For minority communities like the Kashmiri Pandits, this growing instability soon translated into fear. Threats, intimidation, and acts of violence began to spread across the valley. Families whispered about neighbours who had suddenly left their homes in the middle of the night. Gradually, people began to understand that the situation was deteriorating rapidly and that the danger was real. The valley that had once felt like home was becoming a place where many of us no longer felt safe. I still remember the day that changed my life forever. It was winter in Kashmir. The air was cold, and the valley carried the quiet stillness that winter often brings. Earlier that day, I had gone to the market and bought a new woollen pheran-a traditional Kashmiri cloak that protects against the harsh winter cold. For a young boy, it was a small but joyful purchase. Iwashed it carefully and hung it outside to dry, planning to wear it the next day. But by evening, the atmosphere in the village had grown tense. Conversations became urgent. Families spoke in hushed voices. Some had already begun to leave quietly. That night, my family made the most painful decision of our lives. We would leave. There was no time for long discussions or emotional goodbyes. When a family is forced to flee for safety, decisions are made quickly and under immense pressure. We gathered only what we could carry-a few utensils and a couple of blankets. Everything else had to remain behind. We left our house, which had been built through years of hard work and hope. We left our cows, our apple orchard, our vegetable garden, and the fertile land that had sustained our family. We left everything. Late that night, we climbed into a truck that was transporting families away from the village. The truck was driven by a Sikh driver who showed remarkable courage and humanity at a moment when fear ruled the roads. Without people like him, many families might never have escaped. As the truck began to move away, I looked back one last time toward our home. And that was when I remembered the pheran. It was still hanging outside. That simple piece of clothing suddenly felt like a symbol of everything we were leaving behind-our home, our memories, and the life we had once known. But more than anything else, we left our address. For many Kashmiri Pandits, the events of 1989 were not merely an episode of migration. They marked the beginning of one of the largest internal displacements in independent India. For more than three decades, thousands of Kashmiri Pandit families have lived away from their ancestral homeland. Many rebuilt their lives 50 in different parts of India, often starting again with almost nothing. Yet displacement leaves scars that time alone cannot heal. Homes can be rebuilt, but the sense belonging that connects a community to its land is far more difficult to restore. One of the most painful consequences displacement has been the gradual fading a our language and cultural traditions. Kashmin once spoken naturally in our homes, is disappearing among younger generations who have grown up outside the valley. When a community loses its mother tongue it risks losing an entire cultural inheritance. The challenges facing our community toda are not only cultural but also economic and social. Despite a strong emphasis on education within the Kashmiri Pandit community employment opportunities for displaced youth have remained limited. During the tenure of Dr Manmohan Singh as Prime Minister of India the government announced special employmer packages for Kashmiri migrant youth, providing approximately 6,000 positions in two phases While these initiatives offered hope, the implementation process was often slow and complicated. In many cases, young people waited years-sometimes more than a decade to receive appointment letters. Today, unemployment among Kashmin Pandit youth continues to rise. Many educate young people have crossed the age limits for government recruitment while waiting for opportunities that never materialized. For some, this has led to deep frustration and emotional distress. These realities raise difficult questions for a community that has spent decades trying to rebuild its life. Where should we turn for answers? Whose door should we knock on? And why does it often feel as though our suffering has faded from the national conversation? The Kashmiri Pandit community has long been known for its commitment to education, public service, and peaceful coexistence. Our record as citizens has been one of discipline and hard work. We are not criminals. Yet sometimes it feels as though our community has been left to carry the burden of history alone. What we seek today is not sympathy but recognition, justice, and meaningful policy attention. We seek support for preserving our language and culture. We seek opportunities for our youth to build dignified futures. And above all, we seek acknowledgment of the historical trauma that forced an entire community to abandon its homeland. More than three decades after that winter night, the memory remains vivid. I still remember the cold air, the hurried packing, the silent roads, and the truck carrying frightened families away from their homes. And I still remember the woollen pheran hanging outside our house. Sometimes history is captured in small details. For me, that unworn pheran represents the moment when my childhood ended and when my community began a long journey of displacement. Even today, somewhere in my mind, that pheran is still hanging outside our home in Kashmir, waiting for the boy who never returned to wear it. And like that forgotten piece of clothing, a part of our lives still waits in the valley-waiting for justice, waiting for recognition, and waiting for the day when the Kashmiri Pandit community may finally rediscover the address it lost on that winter night in 1989.

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Courtesy:    Subhash Pandit and Koshur Samachar- March, 2026