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Invisible Scar: Kashmir’s Battle with Mental Health and the Missing

Kashmir has lived through decades of conflict. But within that conflict, another quieter battle plays out in parallel, a battle with the wait. A wait for a beloved who left one day and never returned.

Rafeeqa lives with her only son who was just a year old when her husband went missing. Her husband was a labourer and had gone out for work and never return. Rafeeq never remarried, she raised her son on her own. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal

Some mothers keep photographs of their missing sons in the holy Quran believing that they would see it every morning when they open it to read. Others remain silent, nourishing their faith, while talking to the blank walls through their eyes, smiling at an imaginary arrival of their beloved ones. There are some who wake up happy after dreaming of preparing the lunchbox and ironing their son’s school uniform.

Kashmir has lived through decades of conflict. But within that conflict, another quieter battle plays out in parallel, a battle with the wait. A wait for a beloved who left one day and never returned. A wait that refuses to die. A wait that forces the mind to cling to hope, believing that one day, that loved one will come home. This battle is not fought on the battle grounds with armies, but in the endless fields of memory against oneself, with every speck of the house pulling you back to the memory lane where the shadows of the loved ones still linger.

Over the years of this conflict, many people have gone missing, left behind their families with a wound that refuses to heal. It is a wound that keeps a perpetual ray of hope for reunion. But, this bubble of hope has slowly drawn them into the deep spiral of mental trauma. When graves are not assigned and the life becomes an open end, the mind starts its journey in search of the missing. The absence of the beloved ones has tormented families not only physical, financially or socially, but have shattered their mental health in ways that words cannot describe.

In many parts of the world Mental health is a taboo and in a society like Kashmir it’s no different. These mothers have learned to live in silence, carrying a psychological weight alone. The invisible scars of mental agony remain engraved in their minds, drawing them in to the deep whirlpool of anxiety and depression. Most of them are unaware of the fact that they are living through this quiet trauma behind closed doors.

Rafeeqa lives with her only son who was just a year old when her husband went missing. Her husband was a labourer and had gone out for work and never returned. Rafeeqa never remarried, she raised her son on her own. “My father going missing has taken a heavy toll on my mother’s mental health and physical health lately”, says Rafeeqa’s son. | Yasir Iqbal
Rafeeqa lives with her only son who was just a year old when her husband went missing. Her husband was a labourer and had gone out for work and never returned. Rafeeqa never remarried, she raised her son on her own. “My father going missing has taken a heavy toll on my mother’s mental health and physical health lately”, says Rafeeqa’s son. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
Hajira's only son left home in 1994 for arms training when he was just 17 years old. "He left us all alone, leaving behind a wound in our hearts that won’t heal until the day we die,” she says. Looking at her son's photo she says, that she is still alive and her sons is nowhere. | Yasir Iqbal
Hajira's only son left home in 1994 for arms training when he was just 17 years old. "He left us all alone, leaving behind a wound in our hearts that won’t heal until the day we die,” she says. Looking at her son's photo she says, that she is still alive and her sons is nowhere. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
“It was 1992, when my elder son left for work, went missing, and never came back. This shattered me completely", says Mubeena.  Her son was the elder one among the other six siblings. After few years her husband also passed away. | Yasir Iqbal
“It was 1992, when my elder son left for work, went missing, and never came back. This shattered me completely", says Mubeena. Her son was the elder one among the other six siblings. After few years her husband also passed away. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
The absence of the beloved ones has tormented families not only physical, financially or socially, but have shattered their mental health in ways that words cannot describe. Yasir Iqbal
The absence of the beloved ones has tormented families not only physical, financially or socially, but have shattered their mental health in ways that words cannot describe. Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
“It was 1992, when my elder son left for work, went missing, and never came back. This shattered me completely", says Mubeena.  Her son was the elder one among the other six siblings. After few years her husband also passed away. | Yasir Iqbal
“It was 1992, when my elder son left for work, went missing, and never came back. This shattered me completely", says Mubeena. Her son was the elder one among the other six siblings. After few years her husband also passed away. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
Most of them are unaware of the fact that they are living through this quiet trauma behind closed doors. | Yasir Iqbal
Most of them are unaware of the fact that they are living through this quiet trauma behind closed doors. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
Taja (name changed) has been longing for her son for almost thirty years. Physically weakened, she has also deteriorated psychologically. “Missing of our brother devasted us especially, our mother. He was her favourite among the all siblings. My mother suffers from severe depression, anxiety and mood swings”, says Taja’s younger son. | Yasir Iqbal
Taja (name changed) has been longing for her son for almost thirty years. Physically weakened, she has also deteriorated psychologically. “Missing of our brother devasted us especially, our mother. He was her favourite among the all siblings. My mother suffers from severe depression, anxiety and mood swings”, says Taja’s younger son. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
"I keep my son's photo in the Quran so that I can see it every morning when I open  it", says Dilshada, who is in her late 50s. "I still wish he just appears at the window one day and says, ‘Mouji be owusaye’ (Mama, I’ve come)", she adds. | Yasir Iqbal
"I keep my son's photo in the Quran so that I can see it every morning when I open it", says Dilshada, who is in her late 50s. "I still wish he just appears at the window one day and says, ‘Mouji be owusaye’ (Mama, I’ve come)", she adds. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
Khaitja in her 70s lives with her son who is not keeping well. Her nephew, who used to live with her as his mother had passed away, went missing. Khatija says, “He had some connections with militants. He was a ground worker for them. He was picked up from our home in 90s. I don’t remember exactly which year. It’s been a long time”. She adds, “ Since then I have searched for him everywhere, I have walked a lot for him, but there was no trace of him." Yasir Iqbal
Khaitja in her 70s lives with her son who is not keeping well. Her nephew, who used to live with her as his mother had passed away, went missing. Khatija says, “He had some connections with militants. He was a ground worker for them. He was picked up from our home in 90s. I don’t remember exactly which year. It’s been a long time”. She adds, “ Since then I have searched for him everywhere, I have walked a lot for him, but there was no trace of him." Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
This battle is not fought on the battle grounds with armies, but in the endless fields of memory against oneself.  | Yasir Iqbal
This battle is not fought on the battle grounds with armies, but in the endless fields of memory against oneself. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
The wait for a beloved who left one day and never returned. | Yasir Iqbal
The wait for a beloved who left one day and never returned. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
Life has not been the same for Hafeeza, who hails from Kupwara, since her husband left home for Punjab to sell shawls and was killed in a cross firing. "In early 90s, it had been a month or two, since he left for Punjab, I don't remember exactly, when the police called us to identify a body. When we saw it, his face was riddled with bullet wounds. At first, we couldn’t recognize him properly, but it was indeed my husband" Hafeeza says. | Yasir Iqbal
Life has not been the same for Hafeeza, who hails from Kupwara, since her husband left home for Punjab to sell shawls and was killed in a cross firing. "In early 90s, it had been a month or two, since he left for Punjab, I don't remember exactly, when the police called us to identify a body. When we saw it, his face was riddled with bullet wounds. At first, we couldn’t recognize him properly, but it was indeed my husband" Hafeeza says. | Yasir Iqbal Yasir Iqbal
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