Farhan Hafiz

I was born and raised in Srinagar. My grandfather's home was in Anantnag, so our family roots are connected to both places. I left Kashmir to pursue higher education. After completing my studies, I settled outside for work and better professional opportunities.

Primarily, it was for higher education and career growth. However, the overall environment also played a role. Kashmir has been a conflict zone for decades, and growing up in a place where uncertainty and instability are frequent realities makes you think about long-term safety and stability. Wanting to avoid that constant atmosphere of tension was also part of the decision.

At home, my parents and elder relatives always conversed in Kashmiri. However, my schooling influenced my language habits significantly. I studied at Tyndale Biscoe School, which is affiliated with the Church of North India. The school had a strict no-Kashmiri-speaking policy. We were required to speak in English or Urdu within school premises.

Because of that, I naturally began speaking more Urdu even at home. It became a habit. Still, Kashmiri remained the emotional language of the household, especially among elders.

When I think of Kashmiri, I think of my roots. I think of warmth, proverbs, humor, and a certain emotional depth that is hard to translate into other languages. The language carries culture within it.

I do not remember specific lines perfectly, but I remember the tone and feeling. Proverbs shared during conversations, stories about old Srinagar and Anantnag, and everyday expressions that carried wisdom. The emotional texture of the language stayed with me, even if the exact words faded.

My mother has been the most significant influence. She is the one with whom I converse the most in Kashmiri. Through her, the language stayed alive for me.

Interestingly, after I left home, I became more conscious about preserving the language. While growing up, I would often respond in Urdu, but once I moved away, I made a deliberate effort to speak in Kashmiri with friends and family. Even today, I try to speak in Kashmiri with my wife wherever possible.

I think distance sometimes brings culture closer. When you miss something, you value it more.

The traditions changed in practice but became stronger emotionally. The daily environment of Kashmir naturally sustains culture, but outside, it requires conscious effort. Language becomes a choice rather than a default.

Kashmir means home. It is my safe place, emotionally and spiritually. Even if I live elsewhere, that sense of belonging is rooted there. It is not just geography—it is memory, identity, and feeling.

It is important to preserve the language. Once a language weakens, cultural nuances fade with it. Future generations should remember the warmth of community, the richness of proverbs and storytelling, and the resilience of people who have lived through conflict yet maintained dignity and culture.

We have family photographs from Srinagar and Anantnag. While not formally archived, these personal materials hold emotional and cultural significance.