I write today not just as an academic, but as a Kashmiri and, more importantly, as someone who has always believed in the power of communication, education, and understanding.

For the last two years, I have been an assistant professor of journalism and mass communication in the Malwa region of Madhya Pradesh. I teach students about the ethics of journalism, the responsibility of the media, and the influence narratives hold over societies.

Yet, today I find myself trapped—a victim, not of the legal system but of a narrative spun carelessly by some among the media.

The recent attack in Pahalgam has shaken the country, and I mourn the loss of every innocent life. But alongside that rightful grief, something far more dangerous has been unleashed—a wave of generalised hatred against Kashmiris. Once again, the image of an entire community has been distorted. Once again, Kashmiris living outside the Valley—students, workers, professionals—are paying a price for something they had no hand in.

In this interview to a French TV channel, Jammu and Kashmir Students Association convenor, Nasir Khuehami, who tracks attacks and abuse of Kashmiri students nationwide and seeks help from local police to address these, said, “Kashmiri students are being harassed, intimidated, even assaulted. Young boys and girls, far from home, here only to study and build a future, are now being treated as suspects, as outsiders, as threats.”

Article 14 reported how hatred against Kashmiris and Kashmiri students in particular surged in at least four northern states and Jammu, fuelled by right-wing groups. Kashmiri students who had exams to write hid in their rooms, hoping for the worst to pass without violence, speaking of mental and emotional trauma. 

Al Jazeera reported how many landlords had evicted Kashmiri tenants, and shopkeepers refused to serve them. Many sought refuge at airports while attempting to return home. 

The hatred against Kashmiris has not stopped there. The Guardian quoted  Vishnu Gupta, president of the hardline group Hindu Sena as saying, “The attack in Kashmir was an attack on Hindus, and we will respond in kind—not only against Kashmiris but against every Muslim in India, if the government does not take action. There should be a complete boycott of Kashmir by tourists to teach them a lesson.”

A video made by Lalit Sharma, the leader of the Hindu Raksha Dal in Uttarakhand circulated widely on social media, where he issued an ultimatum to Kashmiri Muslims to leave Dehradun. 

“We won’t wait for the government to take action,” raged Sharma. “Kashmiri Muslims, leave by 10am (on 24 April 2025), else you will face action you can’t imagine.  Tomorrow, all our workers will leave their homes to give this treatment to Kashmiri Muslims.” 

That statement by a seemingly obscure representative of a seemingly obscure outfit sent shockwaves among Kashmiri students across northern India. The Times of India had this headline, Spooked by threat video, Kashmiri students flee Doon.

Coming back to my story—I have lived in the Malwa region of Madhya Pradesh for the last two years. I have experienced the warmth of its people and their hospitality. I found a home here beyond the politics and prejudices that often plague the national discourse.

Today, that warmth feels distant.

People who once greeted me with smiles now avert their eyes. Their silence speaks of fear, suspicion, and confusion. I feel scared to move freely—scared that my Kashmiri identity, once invisible in the everyday fabric of life, has suddenly become visible and dangerous. 

Last winter, I drove nearly 1,500 km from Srinagar to Malwa in my car, which has a Jammu and Kashmir registration. I enjoyed the three-day drive, a memorable trip shared with my mother, sister and her two-year-old. 

I don’t think I would attempt anything like that today.

Driving my car for simple things, such as going to buy groceries and visiting friends, is a fraught experience; even driving 1 km from my rented house to my university feels unsafe. 

As someone who teaches journalism, the pain of suspicion and rejection cuts even deeper. I spend my days explaining to students how narratives are built, how biases can seep into storytelling, how the choice of words, images, and frames can either unite a country or set it on fire. 

Today, I see firsthand the consequences when that happens, when journalism abandons its ethics, when speed, sensationalism, and blame take precedence over truth, sensitivity, and responsibility. 

I refer you to a couple of incidents that happened in the city centre of Lal Chowk in Srinagar after the attack: some national media anchors were arguing with locals, who urged the anchors not to spread hatred against Kashmiris. 

Many media houses today seem to be operating under the dangerous assumptions of the Hypodermic Needle Theory—also known as the Magic Bullet Theory—a communication model from the early 20th century that suggests audiences are passive recipients of media messages, easily influenced without critical thought.

The theory imagines media content as a "needle", injecting ideas directly into the minds of a defenseless public. In times of grief and rage, this model becomes even more potent—people consume information rapidly, emotions override reason, and complex realities are reduced to dangerous oversimplifications. 

That model was questioned later, but it certainly seems to apply to Kashmir where the media frame Kashmiris not as diverse individuals, but as a monolithic "other," and the audience, overwhelmed by emotion, accepts these frames without scrutiny.

As a British communication scholar, Denis McQuail, once warned, "Media framing can structure the public's perception of an event, group, or issue," often creating rigid attitudes that are hard to reverse.

We are witnessing this process unfold, not in theory, but in our everyday lives.

The media have the power to heal and to harm. Many of our media houses have chosen harm. They amplify anger without nuance, stoke fear and hatred, often devoid of fact.

My message to the media is that they are not just reporting events, they are shaping public consciousness. Every careless word, every loaded headline, every distorted frame has real consequences on real lives. Today, it is Kashmiri students, teachers, and professionals. Tomorrow it could be someone else. 

Please, choose responsibility over ratings. Choose truth over theatrics. Choose healing over hatred.

Kashmiris are not your enemy, they are not your scapegoat. We are fellow citizens, sharing in this nation's dreams, struggles, and sorrows.

Despite the darkness of this time, I still hold on to hope that someday we will find the courage to see each other not through the prism of suspicion and fear, but through the simple, stubborn truth of our shared humanity.

(Zia Shakir is Assistant professor of journalism & mass communication, pursuing a PhD in Film Studies.)

This newsletter is a part of our weekly perspectives from our team of editors on the working of democracy, the justice system and the constitution.