On the night of January 25, 1998, militants entered the village of Wandhama in central Kashmir. They didn’t come to intimidate. They didn’t come to threaten. They came to finish what had started years before. Despite the major exodus in 1990, the remaining Kashmiri Pandit families in Wandhama refused to leave their homeland. They stayed after practically everyone else had left. They believed that coexistence remained feasible. They trusted guarantees of safety. They believed that being quiet, non-political and rooted in their land would keep them safe.
That night showed how incorrect they were. The militants took men, women and children from their homes. They lined them up. They shot them at point blank range. Twenty-three Kashmiri Pandits were killed. Entire families were wiped off. Infants, elderly ladies and men were murdered together. There was no uncertainty, crossfire or confusion. This was execution. Wandhama is not mentioned frequently enough in national conversation, but it should be. Because Wandhama dispels the myth that what happened to Kashmiri Pandits was merely displacement. Eight years after the alleged “migration”, militants returned to execute those who remained behind. That single fact disproves any notion that this was solely about fear. It was all about elimination. Wandhama wasn’t an exception. This was confirmation.
If the intention was only to scare Pandits away, why kill those who had already been silent for years? Why search out the last families? Why slaughter children in their own homes? The solution is uncomfortable but unavoidable. The goal was not relocation. It was eradication. Wandhama was the ultimate indication for my family and thousands of others that returning was not only dangerous, but also impossible. It warned us that even silence would not save us. Even devotion to the country would not save us. Even staying back wouldn’t help us. Genocide does not usually occur in a single wave. Sometimes it returns to complete the task.
January 19, 1990: When the ground shattered beneath our feet
On January 19, 1990, the ground disappeared beneath the feet of Kashmiri Pandits. I did not learn this date from a history book. It is not an abstract political milestone for me. It is the night my family evacuated our home in Kashmir, along with tens of thousands of other Kashmiri Pandits. It is the night that dread overcame hope, when survival took precedence over dignity and an ancient community realized that it had no protection left. What started that night wasn’t migration. It was not a voluntary movement. It was not a tragedy but rather an unavoidable displacement driven by conflict.
This was genocide. I use the word intentionally, not emotionally. Genocide explains what occurred more precisely than any milder term could. A religious community was methodically attacked, terrorized, killed and forced to leave its homeland, with the clear goal of eradicating its presence. That is genocide, according to any honest interpretation of history. For months before January 1990, the Valley’s environment had been progressively altering. Violence was increasing, but not indiscriminately and it followed a clear pattern that those who lived there recognized instantly. Kashmiri Pandits were singled out.
Fear infiltrated households silently at first, through whispers and warnings, then loudly with gunfire, threats and slogans. Names were discussed quietly and then printed on posters. What started as anxiety quickly became conviction.The killings were both targeted and symbolic. Advocate Tika Lal Taploo was killed in 1989. Justice Neelkanth Ganjoo was assassinated in Srinagar. Engineer Lassa Kaul, the Director of Doordarshan Srinagar, was assassinated at his home. Nurse Sarla Bhat was kidnapped, raped and killed. These were not random victims caught in the crossfire. They were chosen based on who they were. Their deaths were intended to terrorize an entire community into submission or fleeing.
What made the situation intolerable was how openly the threats were expressed. Mosque loudspeakers were used to broadcast nighttime warnings. Slogans openly called on Kashmiri Pandits to leave, convert or die. Walls were covered with posters featuring the names of Pandit officials, teachers, doctors and intellectuals. Lists circulated freely. Homes were indicated. This was not a spontaneous rage. It was a coordinated intimidation. On the night of January 19, 1990, the terror reached a point where denial was no longer an option. Families sat together in darkened houses, listening to slogans echo over the streets.
Parents glanced at their children and realized that hesitation may cost lives. Many people assumed they would return in a few days or weeks. They closed their doors, left food in the kitchen and carried keys with them. Those keys would someday become sad reminders of lives frozen in time. My family, like many others, left with almost nothing. There was no plan, no packed suitcase and no specific destination. The only certainty was that remaining meant danger. Migration entails a choice and for us, that choice was to flee under the fear of death.
The evidence, the numbers and the intent to erase a community
Prior to 1990, the Kashmiri Pandit population in the Valley was estimated to be between 120,000 and 140,000. These were not new settlers or temporary residents. Kashmiri Pandits were native to the region, having origins that dated back thousands of years. They were ingrained in the Valley’s culture, language, administration, education and spiritual practices. Within months after the militant uprising of 1989-90, more than 90 per cent of this community departed. A living civilization was demolished practically immediately.
The scale of the destruction is confirmed by the Indian government’s own records. Parliamentary answers and Ministry of Home Affairs data show that there are around 60,000 registered Kashmiri migrant families. Approximately 38,000 families dwell in Jammu, 19,000 in Delhi and the National Capital Region, while the others are spread throughout India. These aren’t activist assertions. They are official government figures. These data suggest something extremely unsettling. Even 35 years after the massacre began, the victims are still officially labeled as migrants. In reality, we are refugees within our own country.
Even these statistics underestimate the truth. Thousands of households never applied for aid. Some people rebuilt their lives quietly. Some were too fatigued, humiliated or disillusioned to wait in line for ration cards. Some moved several times, sneaking through bureaucratic processes. The actual number of displaced people is more than government data indicate. Killings were the backbone of the terrorist effort. Government data presented to Parliament recognizes hundreds of Hindu civilian deaths in the early years of insurgency.
Independent journalists and Kashmiri Pandit organisations have documented between 300 and 700 Pandits slain in targeted attacks over time. These killings were not accidental. They were deliberate. Genocide is not defined solely by numbers. It’s characterized by intent and the International law defines intent to eliminate a group, whole or in part. That goal was clear in Kashmir. The threats were public. The killings were symbolic. Fear was methodical. The outcome was demographic annihilation.
Today, less than 2,000 to 4,000 Kashmiri Pandits remain in the Valley, the majority of whom are working professionals and live under constant army surveillance. Entire districts that used to have thriving Pandit communities no longer have them. A civilization that had survived invasions, famines, and political upheavals for thousands of years was reduced to a fortified remnant in a couple of months. Calling this migration conveys a decision. Calling it displacement implies inevitability. Both are false. Communities do not vanish unless they are purposefully attacked. This is why genocide is the appropriate term.
Exile, denial and the genocide that never ended
Leaving Kashmir did not alleviate the anguish. Exile was, in many ways, a continuation of the previous punishment. When Kashmiri Pandit families landed in Jammu, Delhi and other places, they were unprepared. Refugee camps were quickly put up. Families resided in tents or overcrowded one-room tenements. Jammu’s summers were severe, with temperatures exceeding 45 degrees Celsius. People used to Kashmir’s environment collapsed from the heat.
Elderly men and women died from heatstroke and sickness. Children became ill repeatedly. Education was disturbed. Careers were destroyed overnight. Doctors, engineers, teachers and civil servants waited in ration lines to survive. These were not minor hardships. Many families have lived in this manner for years.
I grew up listening to these stories at home. Stories about camps, humiliation and relatives who passed away as a result of neglect and displacement rather than gunshots. My generation inherited memories of a homeland we had never visited. We grew up hearing about houses, temples and neighborhoods that only existed in words. We inherited keys for doors that no longer existed.
Over the years, governments have announced rehabilitation schemes. Housing colonies were built. Monthly monetary relief was offered. Employment plans were introduced. Official data reveal that thousands of housing units have been developed since 2004. However, survival does not equal justice.
Most Kashmiri Pandits never reclaimed their homes or land. Properties were encroached on, illegally sold or destroyed. Temples were vandalized or allowed to degrade. Land records were manipulated. Economic damages, estimated by community organisations at thousands of crores of rupees, were never fully analyzed or paid. Cultural loss, which cannot be measured, was never addressed at all.
Even more destructive is the lack of accountability. No competent judicial panel with actual prosecution authority was ever finished. Many FIRs involving Pandit killings were never registered or thoroughly investigated. Witnesses were displaced. The evidence disappeared. Most of the criminals were never punished. Many still wander free today, living normal lives unaffected by the law. This is why genocide does not end when the bloodshed stops. It continues when survivors are denied justice, offenders go unpunished, and exile becomes permanent.
Political responses throughout the years have frequently exacerbated the wound. When politicians trivialize the atrocity, they convey a clear message: Pandit pain is negotiable. Farooq Abdullah’s recent remarks suggesting “genocide hua toh hua” reveal a mindset that sees mass suffering as an inconvenience rather than a crime. Genocide is not fate. It doesn’t just happen. It occurs when threats are disregarded, safeguards fail and accountability is avoided. Denial is not neutrality. It is another type of violence. It eliminates discomfort. It delegitimizes memory. It implies that survivors’ pain can be ignored for political reasons.
Some feel that admitting genocide will bring back old wounds. The opposite is true. Denial keeps the wounds open. Truth is the first step toward healing. Recognition does not necessitate vengeance. It demands honesty. We’re still refugees. The next generation of children are born in exile. Our temples remain empty. Our homes remain occupied or destroyed. The culprits go mostly unpunished. This is why genocide is more than simply a historical occurrence for Kashmiri Pandits. It’s a continuous condition.
January 19 should not be reduced to a ceremonial memorial. It should face the country with a reality that it has evaded for decades. Genocide occurred in Kashmir. A community was destroyed because of its religious affiliation. Justice was denied. Silence ensued. For families like mine, this is not history. It is a lived reality. We do not recall January 19 every year. We deal with it every day. The genocide of Kashmiri Pandits will not be complete until perpetrators are held accountable, reparations is made, rehabilitation is done and the truth is accepted without hesitation. Soft language will not change this but the truth might.
