Sheikh Unis Amin
Jammu and Kashmir has never been an ordinary political landscape. Its history, particularly after Independence, has been shaped by circumstances fundamentally different from those that governed the political evolution of most other parts of India. Its strategic location, the history of conflict, external intervention and the extraordinary political sensitivities surrounding the region have ensured that politics here has always carried consequences far beyond the electoral arithmetic of a single constituency.
In such a peculiar environment, New Delhi has, at different points in history, sought to consolidate its position in Jammu and Kashmir by accommodating and relying upon different sections of the political establishment. From the era of Sheikh Mohammad Abdullah to the present day, political formations and individual leaders have, in varying degrees and circumstances, survived and exercised power with the support, acceptance or backing of the Union establishment.
There is nothing inherently wrong with a relationship between the Centre and the political leadership of Jammu and Kashmir. In a place as strategically sensitive as J&K, political stability and a working relationship with New Delhi are both necessary and inevitable. The problem begins when proximity to power becomes a substitute for merit, competence and democratic legitimacy.
Over the decades, this has helped create a political ecosystem in which access matters enormously. A section of the political class has acquired influence in New Delhi, and that influence often appears to travel through generations and personal networks. Sons, daughters, relatives, friends and favourites can find the doors of political opportunity considerably easier to open—not necessarily because they are more capable, but because they inherit something far more valuable in politics: access.
In such a system, the question is often not “What can you contribute?” but “Whom do you know?” And sometimes, more bluntly: “How close are you—or your family—to those who matter?”
The same conflict that produced instability, violence and prolonged uncertainty also produced an extraordinarily politically conscious society. Decades of political turbulence have made even ordinary citizens deeply aware of politics. The young person in a Kashmiri village can discuss not only local and national politics but also developments taking place thousands of kilometres away.
The conflict has, in its own tragic way, accelerated political maturity.
It has produced a generation of young Kashmiris who have grown up observing governments, elections, political movements, violence, negotiations, constitutional changes and shifting relationships between Srinagar and New Delhi. Many possess an understanding of politics that is not acquired in classrooms or political academies, but through lived experience.
Among these young people are individuals with remarkable intellectual ability, political instinct, courage and an instinctive understanding of society. Many have the potential to lead Jammu and Kashmir.
But potential alone does not open political doors.
A large number of these young people come from families without political connections. They are neither influential nor wealthy. They do not have powerful relatives in established political circles. They do not have access to the corridors of power in New Delhi. They enter politics with little more than conviction, ambition and a belief that public life should be about service.
And that is precisely where the real test begins.
One of the most uncomfortable realities of politics in Jammu and Kashmir is the importance of political inheritance.
There are political families whose influence has continued across generations. There are individuals who inherit networks, relationships, resources and recognition long before they enter electoral politics. Their political journey often begins from a platform that takes others decades to build.
This is not unique to Jammu and Kashmir; political dynasties exist across India and the world. But in a relatively small and highly networked political ecosystem such as Kashmir, the consequences can be particularly pronounced.
A young person without political lineage may spend years building a constituency, developing relationships and working at the grassroots. Yet when the moment arrives to distribute political opportunity, established networks frequently prove stronger than the record of work.
The result is not merely unfairness to an individual. It is a loss to society.
Because every time merit is pushed aside for proximity, politics loses a potentially capable leader.
Perhaps the greatest exploitation occurs in the relationship between political parties and young political workers.
Young people are indispensable during elections. They organise campaigns, mobilise crowds, travel through villages, knock on doors, manage social media, defend their leaders, persuade voters and work day and night.
They are told that their time will come. They are told to remain patient.
They are told that hard work will eventually be recognised. But what happens after the election?
For many, the doors close.
The young worker who was indispensable during the campaign suddenly finds himself without a meaningful political role. The meetings stop. The calls become fewer. The promises become vague. The political future that appeared so close during the campaign suddenly looks distant.
He is left in a peculiar state of political uncertainty—neither inside nor outside the system.
After repeating this cycle election after election, many young people are left disillusioned.
Some withdraw from politics altogether. Some return to their professions. Some migrate in search of opportunities. And some carry the burden of years spent believing that political recognition was just around the corner.
That should concern us.
We frequently speak about merit. Political parties speak about giving opportunities to young people. Leaders speak about talent, competence, grassroots workers and the next generation. But what does merit actually mean if the individual with the strongest family connection gets the opportunity before the individual with the strongest record of public work?
Merit cannot remain a slogan. It must become a principle.
A political system that repeatedly rewards proximity over competence eventually produces a dangerous consequence: capable people stop entering the system.
That is perhaps the greatest damage of all.
When talented young people conclude that political success depends not on what they know, what they have done or what they can offer, but on whom they know, politics loses its most valuable resource—people who genuinely believe they can change things.
Yet it would be unfair to place all the blame on political parties and established leaders. Our society also plays a role.
We often complain about political dynasties while simultaneously celebrating political surnames. We complain about the absence of merit while continuing to equate influence with capability. We hesitate to support an unknown young person, even when that person may be more competent, sincere and hardworking than the familiar political face.
We often choose the known over the deserving. We follow influence.
We follow the political wind.
And, perhaps most importantly, we sometimes mistake access for ability.
For a young Kashmiri contemplating a career in politics, the truth can be uncomfortable. Politics is not necessarily a meritocracy.
Hard work does not guarantee recognition. Competence does not guarantee opportunity. Loyalty does not guarantee a position. And years of political labour do not necessarily translate into a ticket, an office or even a meaningful place at the table.
If you choose politics, choose it with your eyes open.
Do not enter it believing that someone will necessarily hold your hand. Do not assume that your intellectual ability alone will be enough. You may possess the political wisdom of Aristotle and Plato, but politics is not an examination in which the most competent candidate automatically receives the highest marks.
Networks matter.
Resources matter.
Organisation matters.
Public trust matters.
And, unfortunately, proximity to power often matters too.
But this should not become an argument for abandoning politics. Quite the opposite.
It should become an argument for changing it.
Jammu and Kashmir cannot afford a political culture in which an entire generation of talented young people is treated merely as campaign material. Young people must not be summoned when elections arrive and forgotten when they end.
They deserve genuine political space. They deserve institutional opportunities.
They deserve to be heard before tickets are distributed, not merely mobilised after tickets are distributed.
And they deserve a political system in which their surname is not more important than their substance.
The real question before Jammu and Kashmir is therefore not whether its youth are politically capable. They clearly are.
The question is whether the political system is capable of making room for them.
If it is not, we should not be surprised when the best and brightest eventually walk away.
Politics should not be a family inheritance, a reward for proximity or a temporary employment programme for election season.
It should be public service.
And if we genuinely believe that Jammu and Kashmir belongs to its people, then its political future must also belong to its people—including those young men and women who have no political surname, no powerful patron and no door to knock on in New Delhi, but possess the one thing every democracy ultimately needs:
The courage, competence and conviction to lead.
The author can be reached at sheikhyounis123@gmail.com
