Er. Umair Ul Umar
While travelling from Chandigarh to my home in Kulgam, I shared a vehicle with two fellow travelers from Bihar. Like most journeys, casual conversation slowly unfolded into something more revealing. One of them was visiting Kashmir for the first time, curiosity bright in his eyes. Amid laughter and small talk, the other casually mentioned that he had secured an appointment at a barber shop in Rajbagh, Srinagar. What startled me was not the appointment itself, but the person it was meant for a boy barely sixteen years old. He spoke with quiet confidence. A monthly salary of twenty five thousand rupees. Free food. Free accommodation. For a moment, the road outside blurred, because something inside struck a nerve. It was a bull’s eye moment. In Kashmir, we have barbers with more than twenty years of experience, hands refined by decades of practice, yet their financial conditions remain painfully fragile. Why then does a young outsider command dignity, income, and opportunity, while our own skilled hands struggle for survival. The answer lies not in economics alone, but in perception. In Kashmir, a local barber is known as a Naeyid. The word is spoken casually, sometimes dismissively. But the same profession, when performed by someone from outside, is elevated and renamed a Salon. The work remains the same, the scissors cut no differently, yet respect changes the moment terminology changes. This pattern repeats itself across our society.
A Kashmiri baker is a Kandoor, often addressed without honor or warmth. A Bihari cook becomes a Chef, a title that carries prestige. Our traditional Waez, whose culinary mastery defines weddings and celebrations, is rarely celebrated as a professional artist. The labels we assign reveal the hierarchy we silently endorse. We have grown accustomed to glorifying appearances while ignoring substance. Skills rooted in our soil are treated as ordinary, almost inferior, while the same skills, packaged differently, are admired. This mindset has done immense damage to our social fabric. Ironically, those who mock skilled professions often understand the least about them. Take a simple example. A popular salon, often overcrowded, requires customers to wait hours for their turn. Three workers operate inside. On average, one hundred rupees is charged per client. By conservative calculation, the daily earnings easily surpass what many government employees make. Monthly income can exceed one and a half lakh rupees. That figure rivals, and sometimes surpasses, the salary of a gazetted officer. Yet despite this economic reality, the worker remains a Naeyid in social standing. The same disregard extends to plumbers, carpenters, electricians, masons, and mechanics. Their services are essential. Their absence brings life to a halt. Still, we reserve admiration for degrees framed on walls, not for hands that build those walls.
History offers us a lesson we are slowly forgetting. When Awliya came from the Middle East and Iran to Kashmir, they did not bring sermons alone. They brought skills. Embroidery, wood carving, carpet weaving, tilla work, architecture, and craftsmanship flourished alongside faith. Skill education was not separate from spiritual or intellectual growth. It was dignity in action.
Today, we seem to be drifting away from that legacy. We accumulate degrees like ornaments, stacking certificates without mastering applicability. Shelves fill with academic achievements, while hands remain idle. Days pass in waiting. Nights pass in lamenting unemployment. The uncomfortable truth is this the government does not have infinite resources. No administration, anywhere in the world, can provide jobs to everyone. Expecting otherwise is not realism, it is dependency. The solution lies within society itself. We must move forward. Forward thinking demands that we redefine respect. A society that truly values work does not rank professions by attire or terminology. It recognizes contribution. A skilled carpenter building a home deserves the same dignity as an engineer designing it. A plumber restoring water flow serves humanity no less than a doctor restoring health. If we begin honoring skills the way we honor medicine and engineering, a cultural shift will follow. Young minds will stop seeing skill based professions as last options. Parents will stop feeling ashamed when their child chooses craftsmanship over clerical jobs. Pride will return to labor. Unemployment is not merely the absence of jobs. It is often the absence of respect for available work. Kashmir does not suffer from lack of skill heritage. It suffers from neglecting it. Degrees have their place. Education matters deeply. But education without application becomes stagnation. Skill without dignity becomes exploitation. Balance is the need of the hour.
Let us bring skills out of the shadows and remove degrees from untouchable pedestals. Let us restore honor to work, regardless of its form. Only then will our youth stop waiting endlessly and start building fearlessly. Only then will unemployment cease to be a lament and become a challenge we are ready to overcome.
The author is an Educator at GGHSS YARIPORA KULGAM and can be reached at umairulumar77@gmail.com
