Dr.Fiaz Maqbool Fazili
“Panus, Panus” is a Kashmiri expression that quietly reveals a profound social shift. It means I am concerned only about myself. It signals emotional detachment, a shrinking of empathy, and an unsettling indifference to the suffering of others.
There was a time in Kashmir when life was not measured by the things we owned, but by the people who owned a place in our hearts. When neighbours were the first responders in every crisis. When a sigh was heard across lanes, when a whispered grief travelled faster than any announcement, and when joy, too, was something that naturally overflowed into each other’s courtyards. That world has not ended dramatically; it has evaporated quietly. And perhaps that is what hurts the most — that we did not even notice when our collective warmth began to disappear, when caring and sharing, the very core of Kashmiri social identity, became near extinct.
Kashmir has undeniably changed, but not every change is an improvement. We built roads, buildings, and noise, yet lost warmth, trust, and shared humanity. What did we truly gain if our emotional spaces shrank and our collective soul dimmed? Progress feels hollow when the heart of a people grows quieter. It is heartbreaking to see how Kashmir’s culture of caring and sharing , once our greatest strength, is slowly slipping away. People are surrounded by noise, yet no one truly listens; everyone is in a rush, emotionally exhausted, guarded, or distracted. Where we once shared each other’s burdens naturally, today pain feels too heavy for others to hold, and vulnerability feels unsafe. The tragedy is not just that people don’t have time — it’s that our social spaces, trust, and emotional bonds have quietly eroded, leaving us more alone with ,”my pain is my pain,’ than ever in a place that once healed us simply by being together. In Kashmiri we also say,” Raghi Hind Chi Saeri Aasaan Daggi Hund Chu Aasan Khal Konh.( Many share your blood. But rarely does anyone share your pain). Kashmir’s collective caring is near extinct exhibiting fading spaces, fading souls — what has changed.
Today, Kashmir is more crowded than ever, yet lonelier than ever. People live closer physically, but farther emotionally. We are surrounded by more buildings, more cars, more networks, more noise — but fewer genuine conversations, fewer safe spaces, fewer places where a heart could open without fear of being judged, misunderstood, or used. Our traditional values have not collapsed in a day; they are fading slowly, like the dying fragrance of a dried-out attar bottle kept on a forgotten shelf. Something deep within our social fabric has changed. And unless we speak about it honestly, we risk losing not just customs, but a civilization of compassion.
Where have the shared emotional spaces gone? Once, Kashmir’s neighbourhoods were living organisms. A child’s cry would summon three houses; an elder’s cough would alert five; a wedding felt like a community project. Even conflicts, misunderstandings, and arguments were resolved by sitting together, not drifting apart. Our spaces were porous, our lives intertwined.
Today, people live behind walls — some made of concrete, others made of suspicion. The modern Kashmiri heart has become heavily guarded terrain. The slightest vulnerability is stored away like contraband. The old ease of connection — the freedom to express sadness, fear, longing — feels unsafe in an age where trust is rare and every word carries risk. Identities have become fragile currencies; people carry them defensively, fearing they might be devalued, attacked, doubted, or appropriated.
Walk into our mohallas now — what do you hear? Doors shutting quickly. Conversations whispered. A fatigue of the soul. Even the traditional morning greeting exchanged through windows has thinned out. We have become experts in self-preservation, but amateurs in compassion.We lost more than we realized.
“Wanna pend- ,”Our bakeries were once social theatres. Men gathered there not merely to buy bread but to talk, to exchange warmth, to comment on the day’s news, to tease, to laugh, to share worries they could not share at home. Today, most walk in quietly, keep their eyes low, pick the bread, leave. No lingering. No bonding.
Barbershops — once a sanctuary for stories, banter, philosophy, and the emotional debris people carried silently — have also changed. They were places where men who could not cry at home would find comfort in the gentle pat of a barber’s hand and the uncomplicated acceptance of strangers who understood life’s struggles. The mirror reflected not only a face but an inner fatigue. Now, even barbershops speak in silence. People scroll through their phones, trapped in digital worlds while avoiding the humans seated inches away.
And the riverbanks (yarbal)— the Jhelum and the streams that shaped our childhoods — were once places where young boys became men, where boys shared dreams, heartbreaks, failures, fears. Today, those spaces lie abandoned or polluted, replaced by coffee shops where identities are curated more than expressed.
Something sacred has changed. The emotional spaces that once healed us are disappearing. This transformation did not happen suddenly. Years of conflict, political instability, waves of violence, surveillance, and mistrust have conditioned us to hide our inner worlds. Trauma accumulated silently in every home — unspoken, undigested, unhealed. People learned that the safest thing was silence. Silence became survival. Then silence became habit. And habit became character.
As families migrated towards newer colonies of up city, as old houses were replaced by multi-storey structures, as neighbourhoods became denser, our intimacy thinned. Social media promised connection but delivered isolation. We scroll through hundreds of faces yet feel unseen by even one. Virtual applause replaced real listening. Validation became transactional. We now perform emotions rather than share them.
But the loss is not merely cultural; it is psychological. Humans need belonging to survive. Kashmiris, more than many others, have historically depended on collective coping — sharing the load of sorrow, distributing the burden of hardship. When that system weakens, individuals feel overwhelmed, unsupported, and emotionally overburdened. The rise in anxiety, depression, and emotional numbness in Kashmir is not accidental — it is the direct result of losing our communal emotional scaffolding.
Perhaps the most heartbreaking change is this: vulnerability has become a liability. People avoid revealing their struggles because they fear being mocked, judged, or betrayed. The deep trust that once characterized Kashmiri relationships has eroded. Even relatives speak cautiously. Even lifelong friends hesitate to open up fully. People armour themselves emotionally to survive socially.
But what kind of survival is this that costs us our shared soul?
When did compassion become a luxury? When did the Kashmiri instinct of rushing to help turn into the habit of stepping back? When did emotional generosity become something to ration? When did we stop asking our neighbours, “Are you okay?” with sincerity?And most importantly: can we reclaim what we have lost? Yes — but only if we acknowledge the crisis honestly.
Kashmir does not need only healing or economic development; it needs emotional revival. Our culture is rich, but its emotional foundations are cracking. We still use phrases like “watt myani zaane” and “yeh chu yim chi roozun gov,” but the depth behind those words has faded. Our warmth has not vanished completely; it is simply buried under layers of exhaustion, fear, performance, and mistrust.
Reclaiming our emotional spaces is not impossible. It begins with small acts — genuine listening, truthful conversations, reviving traditions of community meetings, encouraging young people to sit together without screens, bringing back neighbourhood circles where elders pass down wisdom and children learn the art of empathy. It requires courage to be open, to express care, to check on each other, to make vulnerability respectable again. But most importantly, it requires us to rediscover the essence of being Kashmiri — a people known not just for beauty and resilience, but for an unmatched emotional warmth that once held our society together. We are not helpless. What is fading can still be revived. What is fractured can still be healed. What is quiet can still be spoken again.
‘Panus, Panus”:“I am concerned only about myself” ,A Mirror to # Badalta Kashmir— has quietly become the defining phrase of our times. It signals not just personal indifference, but a deeper moral retreat: a society learning to look away.
Kashmir once drew strength from shared grief and collective resilience. Today, pain has turned private and isolating—my suffering matters, others’ does not. This quiet shift is more dangerous, as it normalizes indifference.
Kashmir’s collective caring may be near extinct, but it is not dead. Beneath the ashes of modernity, fear, and isolation, its embers still glow. All it takes is one genuine gesture, one honest moment, one courageous conversation to spark that warmth again. Let us not wait until our emotional spaces disappear completely. Let us reclaim the softness that once defined us. Let us rebuild trust, revive compassion, and restore the shared soul of Kashmir that has carried us through centuries of storms.
Because without those shared spaces and shared hearts, Kashmir will remain a place of breathtaking mountains and beautiful valleys — but with an emptiness echoing quietly between its people.
And that would be the greatest tragedy of all.
The author is a medical doctor, and columnist who writes on social evils and societal norms. He can be reached atdrfiazfazili@gmail.com)
