The terror attack on the Amarnath yatra, as a possible inflection point in the blood-stained political history of Kashmir, has the potential to go either way. At one level, it could offer an easy trigger point for a reflex feeling of hatred and a generalised desire for ‘revenge’.
This sentiment, expressed on social media, was even amplified by reports in a section of the media, ostensibly describing what happened on the ground and characterising it in terms where only an interpretation based around totalised ethnic and communal hatred can suffice.
A report in a regional daily, for instance, spoke about locals not only refusing to help the injured pilgrims but actually standing around laughing at their plight. The sheer incongruence of that image with whatever is known of the Kashmiri way—a Muslim shepherd’s apparent discovery of the shrine, his family’s continued ties to it, the vast local Muslim participation in not just the ancillary part of the pilgrimage but even in keeping priestly duties and performing aarti, the Muslim driver whose presence of mind helped save many lives—is what helps give us pause before swallowing the tale whole.
It seems perverse to eke out positives, but paradoxically, the event was so heinous that it seems to have brought about a certain unity of humane responses. These were after all not just pilgrims, but guests of Kashmir. CM Mehbooba Mufti said Kashmir hangs its head in shame. Her predecessor Omar Abdullah did not lose a chance to demand President’s rule, but the degree of shock was the same.
And it fell upon Union Home Minister Rajnath Singh to deliver what was the most sane response to an angry post on Twitter. He reminded everyone that Kashmiriyat was still alive, that he does not think all Kashmiris are terrorists, and that his job was to ensure the security of all Indians. That is the correct lens through which to view this—to try and fashion a response to the dehumanised madness that seems to have taken over.