In a time when neighbors mourned, celebrated, and lived together, compassion wasn’t an act—it was a way of life.
Kashmir — a land so often romanticized for its majestic mountains, serene lakes, and poetry-inspiring sites — has also been home to a less-discussed, equally remarkable beauty: the moral compass and communal wisdom of its elders. In a time before smartphones and self-obsession, before boundary walls became metaphors for social division, our elders lived by values rooted in simplicity, compassion, and neighborly duty.
Their success stories weren’t merely about resilience and hard work; they were laced with a rare depth of character — marked by foresight, humility, fairness, and a heartfelt sense of brotherhood. These were men and women who believed in “simple living and high thinking” — not as a slogan, but as a practice. Their lives were not complicated by the clutter of ambition or ego; instead, they were anchored in the moral teachings of their faith and the lived experience of collective harmony.
One of the most powerful tenets our elders lived by was the sanctity of neighborhood. They believed — and rightly so — that when calamity strikes, it is the neighbor who reaches your doorstep first, not your distant relative. Their understanding of this truth was not philosophical; it was deeply practical and spiritual. It came from the teachings of Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), who said, “He is not a believer whose neighbor does not feel safe from his harm,” and “If you cook soup, add more water and share it with your neighbor.” These weren’t just words they quoted — they were instructions they lived by.
But how ironical our reality is today. In modern Kashmir, we’ve grown closer to strangers and friends than to the ones who live across the fence. A stranger may feel safer in our company than the man who shares a wall with us. The neighbor — once the first to be called in joy and sorrow — has now become an afterthought. At weddings, it’s social media friends who fill our halls first, while the neighbor often receives a last-minute invite, if any.
This erosion of neighborhood culture is evident everywhere — in our urban enclaves and even in our once-close-knit villages. Concrete walls have replaced open verandahs. Friendly knocks have been substituted by doorbell cameras. We now build lives that prioritize privacy over connection, rivalry over rapport. The slightest disagreement with a neighbor is now grounds for permanent hostility, a far cry from the tolerance and understanding shown by our elders, who knew how to forgive, how to coexist, and how to let go.
The elders of Kashmir may not have been highly educated in a formal sense, but their social intelligence and ethical literacy were unparalleled. They didn’t need workshops or awareness drives to understand the value of social unity. It was embedded in their hearts, practiced in their homes, and passed down in their stories.
What stands out most about their way of life was how naturally they lived as a community. Their world wasn’t divided by bitterness or ego. They were selfless, pious, generous, and never forgot their duty to those living next door — regardless of faith or background. They welcomed difference and diversity with open arms. Whether it was celebrating Eid with their Muslim brethren, lighting lamps during Diwali with Pandit neighbors, or joining in the spirit of Baisakhi and Hareth — their hearts and homes were open to all.
In fact, it is these very elders who laid the foundation of Kashmir’s celebrated interfaith harmony and cultural brotherhood. The communal warmth we still boast of today — the idea that Kashmiriyat includes kindness, hospitality, and coexistence — was not born in government files or PR campaigns. It was lived, practiced, and nurtured in the kitchens, courtyards, and shrines of these elders.
Their legacy, however, is fading fast. And unless we remember, record, and revive it, we risk losing not just values but a way of being that once defined Kashmir.
On a personal note, the memories of our elder neighbors remain etched in my heart. I recall with immense fondness how, in times of grief, the neighborhood would come together like one extended family. The moment someone in the Mohalla passed away, neighbors arrived before the clock ticked twice. Among them was a woman we all affectionately called Ma’amen. She had an uncanny instinct for sorrow — appearing at mourning homes with boiled eggs and words of comfort before anyone else could react. I still remember the day my paternal grandmother, Khatij Ded, passed. Amidst our tears, it was Ma’amen who made us eat — not out of appetite, but out of love. Her presence was consolation enough.
Women like her weren’t extraordinary because of education or wealth, but because of their goodness — the kind that expected nothing in return. Their lives left behind imprints that even time finds difficult to erase. They were our silent mentors in humanity, our daily teachers of dignity. Their quiet heroism — built on empathy, sacrifice, and sincerity — is something no modern lifestyle can replicate.
As we reflect on the legacy of these elders, we must ask ourselves: what are we passing on? Will our children remember us the way we remember them? Will they find comfort in our presence, or just see us as strangers living next door?
May God bless the souls of our elders. May their stories, their values, and their wisdom continue to live — not just in memory, but in action. And may we learn, once again, to be good neighbors — not out of tradition, but out of humanity.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this Magazine. The author can be reached at [email protected]
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