Rameez Bhat
There was once a Kashmir where people planted trees not for themselves, but for generations they would never live to see. Our elders placed hope into the soil with their own hands, nurturing Chinars, willows, poplars, walnut trees, and orchards with the understanding that they might never sit in their shade or taste every fruit. They planted with faith in tomorrow, and they planted for us. Today, we stand under that same shade, yet we carry axes.
The recent cutting of a nearly sixty-year-old Chinar is not just the removal of a tree; it is the loss of memory, identity, and responsibility. In Kashmir, a Chinar is never just wood and leaves, it is a witness to life itself. It has watched children grow old, seasons shift, prayers rise, and countless moments unfold beneath its branches. It has stood quietly through weddings, funerals, laughter, and grief, becoming part of the stories of generations. To bring down such a tree is to erase a living piece of our shared history.
For six decades, this Chinar endured everything, harsh winters, endless autumns, unrest, and change, asking for nothing while offering everything. It gave shade to travelers, shelter to birds, beauty to the land, and breath to people who rarely paused to notice. Yet, in a matter of hours, it was reduced to timber, not by disease or natural decay, but by an official decision made in the name of development. That word, once associated with progress and growth, has now become a convenient excuse for destruction.
We use it lightly, without questioning its consequences. Roads must expand, buildings must rise, parking spaces must appear, and markets must grow, and in every case, nature is the first to be sacrificed. Trees fall, silence follows, and life continues as if nothing meaningful has been lost. Decisions are made, orders are signed, and they are obeyed without hesitation, as though unquestionable. Something that takes sixty years to grow is destroyed within an hour, and no one stops to ask if there was another way.
But a Chinar is not something that can be replaced. It cannot be rebuilt like a wall or replanted and expected to return overnight. It requires time, patience, changing seasons, and the care of generations. When it is lost, it is not only a loss for today, it is something stolen from the future. Kashmir was once admired for its greenery, its tree lined paths, its orchards that resembled paradise. Travelers wrote of its beauty, its fragrance, its calm. The Chinar was never just part of the scenery, it was a symbol of who we were, standing beside shrines, schools, homes, and graveyards as a silent guardian of life.
Now, we are replacing those roots with concrete. With each passing year, more trees disappear, forests shrink, orchards vanish, wetlands are filled, and hills are scarred. We call this progress, yet it is slowly eroding the natural balance that once sustained us. Development without environmental wisdom is not advancement, it is a gradual form of self destruction.
The consequences are no longer distant or theoretical. Summers are growing hotter, winters more uncertain, and seasons less predictable. Floods arrive with greater force, water sources begin to dry, landslides increase, and even the air feels heavier than before. These are not coincidences; they are responses. Nature reflects the way it is treated. We grieve when disasters strike, yet remain silent when the very systems that protect us, forests, trees, wetlands, are destroyed. We complain about rising temperatures, but we do not question the cutting of old trees. We speak of climate change as if it belongs elsewhere, while we contribute to it in our own surroundings.
Perhaps the greatest tragedy is not just the failure of authorities, but our silence as people. We have become passive observers of our own environmental decline. A tree falls, and we take pictures. A forest disappears, and we scroll past it. A mountain is cut open, and we accept it as necessary. Destruction has become normalized because we have stopped allowing ourselves to feel its weight. The deeper loss is not only the tree, but our inability to grieve for what is being taken away.
Our ancestors would not recognize this version of us. They planted for people they would never meet, while we destroy for comforts we can hardly justify. They thought of the future, while we think of immediate convenience. What will we leave behind for those who come after us? Concrete landscapes, rising heat, and stories about a beauty that once existed? Imagine a time when children will know a full grown Chinar only through photographs, when we will have to explain that living heritage was exchanged for roads that remain crowded and structures that replaced memory.
A society is not defined only by what it builds, but also by what it chooses to protect. True progress is not measured by taller buildings, but by deeper roots that people refuse to destroy. This is not an argument against development, roads, schools, and hospitals are necessary, but development should not come at the cost of everything that sustains life and identity. A thoughtful system finds ways to build without erasing nature. A responsible administration protects heritage before permitting its removal. A conscious society asks difficult questions instead of accepting easy answers.
Why must the tree always be the first sacrifice? Why are alternatives not explored? Why is something that has lived for decades considered less valuable than a few extra feet of space? These questions deserve more than silence, they demand accountability and awareness.
Responsibility does not lie with one group alone. It belongs to everyone. Leaders must act as caretakers rather than decision makers detached from consequence. Educators must pass on ecological awareness. Writers must record these losses. Voices of influence must speak with responsibility. And ordinary people must understand that silence is not neutrality, in moments like these, it becomes participation.
When a Chinar falls, a part of Kashmir falls with it. It is a reminder that while a tree cannot defend itself, people can choose whether to protect or destroy. Such moments should disturb us, force reflection, and make us question the direction we are heading in. If we continue without change, we may end up deserving the barren landscapes we create, but those who come after us do not.
They deserve shade, not regret. They deserve living trees, not explanations. They deserve birdsong, blossoms, and seasons that still make sense. This is not just an expression of grief, it is a warning. Protect what remains. Question unnecessary destruction. Refuse to celebrate projects built on loss. Plant trees not out of trend, but out of responsibility.
Because one day, history will ask a simple question, when the trees were falling, where were we? And may we never be remembered as the generation that stood in borrowed shade and still chose to raise the axe.
The author can be reached at ramizspeaks77@gmail.com
