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| The Incomplete Return: Revisiting the Home We Never Lived In | | |  Prerna Bhat
As the Jammu & Kashmir administration rolls out fresh rehabilitation measures for displaced Kashmiri Pandits in mid-2025, the word “return” dominates headlines again. New transit accommodations are under construction in Baramulla, Anantnag, and Shopian. Job packages, housing assistance, and priority identification for displaced families continue to be offered as part of the government’s consistent effort toward facilitating the homecoming of the community. However, for a generation like mine those born after the 1990 migration this return is far more complex than just geographical movement. It is as emotional as it is logistical, and perhaps most importantly, it demands a reunion not just with land but with memory, identity, and people.
I have never lived in Kashmir, yet Kashmir lives deeply within me. For many of us born outside the Valley, Kashmir exists as a mosaic of second-hand stories and fading photographs - a combination of nostalgia and inherited trauma. The promise of return is often wrapped in optimism and headlines, but on the ground, it poses fundamental questions: Where do we return to when the homes are no longer ours? When the lanes don’t recognize our footsteps? When the very idea of “home” is shaped more by longing than familiarity?
The current government’s initiatives are commendable in intention. Over the past few years, policies have steadily evolved to offer Kashmiri Pandits secure and sustained avenues for returning to the Valley. The establishment of new townships, the allocation of government jobs under the Prime Minister’s Special Package, and proactive land record digitalization are efforts that signal progress. Importantly, the government has also clarified that return is a voluntary process there is no compulsion, only opportunity. And yet, as a Kashmiri Pandit born in exile, I find myself navigating a far more emotional terrain.
The idea of homecoming is not just about walls and roofs; it is also about neighbours, language, rituals, and the comfort of being known. The physical structures we left behind three decades ago may be rebuilt or repurposed, but the intangible ecosystem our social fabric has been irreversibly altered. Today’s return doesn’t resemble a reunion; it more closely mirrors a relocation. Many transit accommodations are designed as gated, secure colonies, often located on the outskirts of towns, separated from the local population for security reasons. While this design is understandable from an administrative and security standpoint, it often reinforces a sense of distance rather than healing it.
Security concerns are real and should not be dismissed lightly. Several tragic incidents in recent years including targeted killings of members from the Kashmiri Pandit and Sikh communities have justifiably heightened the need for a cautious and measured approach. At the same time, it is important to recognize that safety, while essential, cannot be the only condition for meaningful resettlement. A truly sustainable return would require the rebuilding of trust and everyday co-existence not just between communities, but also within ourselves. It demands social integration, not isolation behind compound walls.
Another layer of complexity emerges when we consider the generational divide within the displaced community. For many of our elders, return is a long-cherished dream, rooted in memory and belonging. But for the younger generation those born and raised in cities like Jammu, Delhi, Pune, or Mumbai, Kashmir is often a place we know intimately but abstractly. We know the smell of snow in stories, the rhythm of Kashmiri in our grandparents’ voices, and the sadness of Shivratri celebrations that echo more silence than song. The longing is there but so is the uncertainty. Returning to a place we never lived in is not a homecoming in the conventional sense. It is, in many ways, a first encounter with a forgotten version of ourselves.
In recent months, media coverage has highlighted not only government initiatives but also individual efforts by Kashmiri Pandits who have chosen to return and rebuild. Their stories though few are deeply inspiring. Some have reopened temples, restarted agricultural work, or begun small businesses in areas that once bore witness to silence and abandonment. These examples reflect resilience and hope. But they also highlight the pressing need for institutional support that goes beyond infrastructure. Return must be framed not only as a policy objective but as a lived experience shaped by empathy, healing, and inclusivity.
Language preservation, too, remains a concern. A growing number of young Kashmiri Pandits no longer speak the language of their forebears. Cultural practices, songs, and idioms are at risk of fading unless actively revitalized through community programs, school curriculums, and digital platforms. The return, then, must also be cultural. It must nurture our traditions, revive our language, and allow room for us to engage not just as displaced people, but as full citizens of the Valley with a role in its shared future.
It is also worth noting that many Kashmiri Muslims in the Valley have, in their own ways, expressed grief and guilt over what happened in 1990. There are grassroots efforts quiet, unreported, but real where individuals from the majority community have helped Pandits trace old properties, protected shrines, or welcomed back neighbours. These gestures, though not loud, are vital threads in the fabric of possible reconciliation. Encouraging such human connections may do more for peace than any policy can.
As the region continues to evolve in the post-Article 370 era, it is clear that Kashmir’s future lies in shared narratives, not selective histories. For a lasting peace, all communities must find voice, space, and recognition. Kashmiri Pandits, as stakeholders in that future, deserve not only a rightful place in the land but also in its cultural and civic dialogue.
The road ahead is difficult, but not impossible. The question is no longer whether Kashmiri Pandits should return. The real question is: how do we ensure that the return is meaningful, sustainable, and complete?
As someone who belongs to the generation born in the shadows of exile, I hope that we are not only seen as inheritors of trauma but also as bearers of dialogue, memory, and future-making. We are not here to reopen old wounds we are here to participate in healing them, if only we are given the space.
Let the return be not just a political promise, but a human possibility.
The author is student of MA Mass Comunication Jamia Milia Islamia, New Delhi |
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