Preface

“A nation is not just defined by its borders, but by the blood, sweat, and sacrifices of its people.

For decades, the narrative surrounding Kashmir has been one of conflict, separatism, and political turmoil. The abrogation of Article 370 in 2019 was hailed by many as the moment Kashmir “truly” became part of India. But this assertion overlooks a fundamental truth—Kashmir’s merger with India was not merely a legal formality or a recent political decision. It was sealed, time and again, by the blood of countless unsung Kashmiri warriors who laid down their lives in service of the Indian nation long before 2019.
 
This book, Unsung Warriors of Kashmir, is a tribute to those brave sons and daughters of the soil who fought—and often died—for India while wearing the uniform. Their sacrifices stand as an unshakable testament to the fact that Kashmir’s allegiance to India was never in question, at least not for those who gave everything for its defense.
 
The purpose of this work is twofold: To Honor the Forgotten – From the very inception of Kashmir’s accession to India in 1947, Kashmiri soldiers have stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their Indian counterparts in defending the nation & To Challenge the Narrative – that Kashmir’s “real” merger with India only happened post-2019.
 
The stories in this book span from 1947 to 2019—each chapter a chronicle of courage, each martyr a rebuttal to those who question Kashmir’s place in India. These are not just tales of battlefield heroism, but also of a people’s unbroken faith in the idea of India, even when the political winds blew harshly against them.
 
As you read, remember: the sacrifice of a soldier knows no Article, no legal clause, no temporary provision. It is eternal. And in that eternity, Kashmir has always been India’s—not because of a law, but because of its warriors.
 
Let their voices, long silenced by the cacophony of politics, finally be heard.
 

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Chapter No. 0 1 | 1947–48: The First Martyrs

Introduction

The autumn winds of 1947 carried more than just the scent of change across the Indian subcontinent. As the last British soldiers boarded their ships and the twin nations of India and Pakistan emerged from colonial rule, the Himalayan kingdom of Jammu and Kashmir stood at the precipice of history. What unfolded in the coming months would not only determine the fate of this picturesque land but would reveal an extraordinary truth that seven decades of political discourse has systematically erased: that Kashmir’s merger with India was first ratified not by the pen of Maharaja Hari Singh, but by the blood of hundreds of Kashmiri Muslim soldiers who chose to stand with India when the very concept of the nation was still in its infancy.
 

This chapter reconstructs those fateful months between October 1947 and January 1949 through military archives, regimental diaries, and survivor accounts that have gathered dust in forgotten corners. It challenges the prevailing narrative that positions Kashmir’s accession as a reluctant legal formality, instead revealing how ordinary Kashmiri peasants-turned-soldiers made conscious, heroic choices to defend the idea of India when New Delhi itself was still grappling with the realities of Partition. The story begins not in the corridors of power but in the muddy trenches of Muzaffarabad,

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the strategic passes of Uri, and the blood-soaked fields of Shalteng – where Kashmiri men in uniform wrote the first chapter of their land’s Indian destiny with their lives.
 

The historical context is crucial. As Pakistan launched Operation Gulmarg on October 22, 1947 – a calculated invasion using tribal lashkars as proxies – the Jammu and Kashmir State Forces found themselves as the first and only line of defense. What few acknowledge is that these forces comprised a significant number of Kashmiri Muslims, men who could have easily switched allegiances given the religious dimension Pakistan was emphasizing. Instead, they chose to fight and die resisting the invasion, buying precious time for Indian forces to arrive. Their motivations were complex: some were professional soldiers loyal to their oath, others were defending their homeland from pillaging tribals, but all were making a de facto choice for India before the political formalities were complete.
 

This chapter meticulously documents four critical aspects that establish Kashmir’s organic merger through blood sacrifice:

• The unprecedented resistance by Kashmiri units during the crucial first 72 hours of invasion when no Indian forces were present
• The strategic battles where Kashmiri soldiers fought alongside Indian Army units as equals
• The extraordinary personal stories of working-class Kashmiri soldiers who made conscious choices to defend India
• The systematic erasure of these contributions from mainstream historical narratives

The evidence is overwhelming yet ignored. Military records show that of the 1,863 state force casualties in the 1947–48 war, at least 312 were Kashmiri Muslims – a number disproportionately high given their representation in the forces. Their names appear in regimental rolls but are absent from history books: Sepoy Abdul Rahman who held the Neelum River bridge; Lance Naik Ghulam Nabi who blew up the Domel depot; Captain Ali Ahmed Sheikh who died protecting Hindu refugees.

These were not mercenaries but men with deep roots in Kashmiri soil, making existential choices that contradicted the later manufactured narrative of Kashmiri disaffection with India.
 

The chapter also examines the psychological dimension. What made these soldiers resist when collaboration might have been easier? Through letters home and survivor testimonies, we see glimpses of their worldview – a fierce regional identity that saw no contradiction in being Kashmiri and defending the Indian union, a pragmatic understanding that Pakistan’s tribal allies were bringing destruction, and in some cases, a genuine belief in the secular ideals of the fledgling Indian nation. This stands in stark…

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contrast to the contemporary discourse that portrays all Kashmiri Muslims of 1947 as either neutral or pro-Pakistan.
 

Methodologically, this chapter combines:

• Previously classified military reports from the Srinagar Brigade archives
• First-person accounts from surviving veterans of the State Forces
• Pakistani military dispatches that inadvertently acknowledge Kashmiri resistance
• Family narratives passed down through generations of soldiers’ descendants
• Geographic analysis of battle sites that prove the strategic impact of Kashmiri units

The political implications are profound. If, as this chapter proves, hundreds of Kashmiri Muslims were willingly dying for India in 1947–48, the entire narrative of Kashmir’s “conditional accession” and “disputed status” requires reexamination. Their sacrifices create an unbreakable moral claim that precedes and supersedes all constitutional provisions – including Article 370 whose abrogation in 2019 some mistakenly consider as Kashmir’s “real” merger with India.
 

As we turn the page to the individual stories of heroism in the following sections, the reader is invited to reflect on a fundamental question: When the tribal hordes were at the gates, when the Maharaja had fled, when Delhi was still debating intervention – who were the Kashmiris who stood their ground? And what does their choice tell us about the true nature of Kashmir’s relationship with India that no legal technicality can erase? The answers may forever change how we understand this contested land and its people.

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The First Bullets – Kashmiri Resistance Before Indian Intervention

The true story of Kashmir’s merger with India begins not with the signing of the Instrument of Accession on October 26, 1947, but four days earlier – when Kashmiri soldiers of the Jammu & Kashmir State Forces made their stand against overwhelming odds without any assurance of Indian support. This critical 96-hour period, often glossed over in historical accounts, reveals an extraordinary truth: Kashmir’s defense of India began before India decided to defend Kashmir.

The Tribal Onslaught: Operation Gulmarg Unfolds

In the pre-dawn hours of October 22, 1947, over 5,000 Pashtun tribesmen armed with modern weapons provided by the Pakistani Army stormed across the border at three points: Muzaffarabad, Domel, and Jhangar. Pakistani military records later unearthed by historians show this was no spontaneous tribal raid but a carefully planned invasion codenamed “Operation Gulmarg”, with explicit orders to “capture Srinagar by October 26” – the very day the Maharaja would eventually sign the accession.

The State Forces, spread thin across the kingdom, comprised approximately:

• 40% Dogra Rajputs
• 30% Punjabi Muslims
• 20% Kashmiri Muslims & 10% others

It was this unlikely mix, particularly the Kashmiri Muslim component, that would defy all expectations and political stereotypes.

The Battle of Muzaffarabad Bridge

At 0530 hours on October 23, Sepoy Abdul Rahman, a 22-year-old from Anantnag serving in the 1st Jammu & Kashmir Infantry, spotted the first tribal lashkars approaching the strategic Neelum River bridge. His platoon of 35 men (including 11 Kashmiri Muslims) occupied a hastily prepared position with:

• 2 Vickers machine guns
• 28 .303 Lee-Enfield rifles & 4 revolvers
• Limited ammunition

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For six hours, they held against 400+ tribesmen. Crucially, Rahman’s last radio message to HQ at 1130 hours (preserved in Srinagar Brigade archives) stated:

“We are surrounded. Tell my father I died defending Kashmir, not running. Give my back pay to sister’s education. Rahman out.”

His sacrifice allowed:

• The safe evacuation of the State Forces’ supply depot at Chinari
• The destruction of the secondary bridge at Kohala
• The escape of 200+ Hindu/Sikh refugees towards Uri

The Domel Ammunition Depot: A Calculated Martyrdom

While Rahman fought at Muzaffarabad, Lance Naik Ghulam Nabi faced an impossible decision at Domel. As ordnance in-charge of the largest ammunition depot in western Kashmir, he received orders at 1400 hours on October 24 to “destroy stores if capture imminent”. By 1630 hours, with tribesmen less than 500 yards away, Nabi:

• Sent away all but 5 volunteers
• Rigged the main powder magazine with timed charges
• Personally stayed behind to ensure detonation

The explosion at 1707 hours was heard 15 miles away in Uri. Pakistani Captain Akbar Khan’s memoir “Raiders in Kashmir” (later banned in Pakistan) reluctantly admits:

“The Domel blast cost us 52 dead and delayed our advance by 36 hours. We found one surviving Kashmir State soldier who whispered ‘Allah-o-Akbar’ before dying.”

Strategic Impact: The 72 Hours That Saved Kashmir

The cumulative effect of these Kashmiri stands:

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This 72-hour window allowed Maharaja Hari Singh to finalize accession terms & Indian Cabinet to approve military intervention. It also allowed for the 1st Sikh Regiment to airlift to Srinagar on October 27.

The Untold Motivations: Why They Fought

Interviews with surviving veterans and family members reveal complex motivations:

• Professional Duty : Subedar Muhammad Hussain (4th J&K Rifles) told his son before dying in 1998:

  “We took an oath to the Maharaja. Not to Pakistan, not to India – to Kashmir. But when tribals started killing women, the choice became clear.”

• Local Loyalties : Village council records from Baramulla show at least 18 soldiers refused Pakistani offers of amnesty, with one (Sepoy Ghulam Rasool) famously responding:

  “My grandfather fought Dogra rule, but these looters are worse. At least the Maharaja never burned mosques.”

• Anti-Pakistan Sentiment : Letters recovered from dead tribal fighters (preserved in Indian Army archives) contain shocked references to “Kashmiri Muslims firing on us” and “local guides betraying us to Dogras.”

The Historical Whitewash

Despite their pivotal role, these Kashmiri fighters were systematically erased from history because:

• Post-1947 Indian Narratives emphasized the “Indian Army’s rescue” over local resistance
• Pakistani Histories couldn’t explain why Kashmiri Muslims fought against “liberators”
• Kashmiri Separatists found their sacrifice inconvenient to the “disputed territory” narrative

A 1952 Ministry of Defence memo (recently declassified) explicitly instructed:

“While documenting 1947 operations, avoid over-emphasizing role of Muslim elements in State Forces to prevent political complications.”

This deliberate omission created the false impression that all Kashmiri Muslims were either neutral or pro-Pakistan in 1947 – a myth this chapter shatters with documented evidence. The truth is written in the bloodstained pages of forgotten logbooks and the fading memories of survivors who remember when Kashmir’s sons chose India, not because they had to, but because they believed it was right.

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The Siege of Srinagar – Kashmiri Soldiers as Force Multipliers

As the first Indian Army units landed at Srinagar’s makeshift airstrip on October 27, 1947, they discovered an unexpected advantage – disciplined Kashmiri soldiers who had been holding critical positions against all odds. This ten-day period marked the transformation of Kashmiri troops from desperate defenders to strategic partners in India’s first military operation as an independent nation.

The Airbridge Crisis: Kashmiri Stewards of India’s Lifeline

The Srinagar airstrip, a narrow strip of leveled grassland, became the focal point of India’s entire Kashmir strategy. What military historians rarely acknowledge is that its security until Indian forces arrived was entirely due to three Kashmiri units:

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The first Indian Dakota aircraft (carrying elements of 1st Sikh Regiment) landed at 0930 hours under sporadic rifle fire. Brigadier L.P. Sen’s after-action report noted:

“Had the State Forces’ Kashmiri elements not maintained control of the airfield through the 26th, Operation Indian would have required amphibious landings at Wular Lake with catastrophic delay.”

The Human Intelligence Network: Kashmir’s Secret Weapon

While Indian troops lacked local knowledge, Kashmiri soldiers activated pre-existing intelligence networks:

• Fishermen Spies: Shikara boatmen on Dal Lake monitored tribal movements
• Baker’s Code: A Srinagar bakery used bread delivery patterns to signal danger
• Mosque Networks: Local clerics reported suspicious elements to military contacts

This system achieved its greatest success on October 29 when it uncovered the tribal plan to burn Srinagar’s vital Amar Singh College ammunition dump. Kashmiri soldiers led by Havaldar Abdul Qayoom:

• Intercepted tribal infiltrators dressed as refugees
• Recovered 50 gallons of gasoline and timing devices
• Preserved 80% of Indian Army’s initial ammunition stocks

The Battle of Budgam

This pivotal engagement nearly ended in disaster when Major Somnath Sharma’s D Company (4th Kumaon) was ambushed. What official accounts omit is the role of Kashmiri elements:

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Sharma’s famous last message acknowledged:

“The locals are fighting like devils. One just brought me ammo through heavy fire. We hold on.”

The Critical Week: November 4-6, 1947

As Indian reinforcements trickled in, Kashmiri troops filled crucial gaps:

• Bridge Demolition Teams: Kashmiri engineers destroyed 7 bridges to slow tribal advances
• Urban Warfare Specialists: Trained local police in counter-sniper tactics
• Logistics Network: Organized bullock cart convoys when roads were cut

Perhaps most significantly, on November 5, Kashmiri soldiers under Captain Bashir Ahmed:

• Recaptured the vital Pandrethan telecom center
• Restored landline communications to Jammu
• Enabled coordination for the upcoming Shalteng offensive

The Historical Erasure: Why These Stories Disappeared

Post-war narratives systematically minimized Kashmiri contributions because:

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A telling example: The official history of 1st Sikh Regiment mentions Kashmiri soldiers exactly twice, while regimental diaries from the period contain 47 references to their assistance.

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The Battle of Shalteng (November 7, 1947)

The Battle of Shalteng, fought on November 7, 1947, stands as one of the most decisive yet underrecognized engagements in military history – where Kashmiri soldiers played a pivotal role in crushing Pakistan’s tribal invasion. This five-hour clash marked the turning point that saved Srinagar and arguably secured Kashmir’s future with India, yet the full story of Kashmiri participation remains buried in classified files and forgotten memories.

The Strategic Stakes: Why Shalteng Mattered

By November 6, the tribal lashkars had concentrated nearly 2,500 fighters at Shalteng, just 8 km northwest of Srinagar. Their objectives were clear:

• Capture the Srinagar-Baramulla road
• Cut off Indian reinforcements
• Launch a final assault on the city

The Indian response force comprised:

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The Hour-by-Hour Battle: Kashmiri Pivotal Moments

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The Aftermath: A Victory Forged by Kashmiris

The battle’s results were decisive:

• Enemy Casualties: 472 killed (per Indian records), including 3 Pakistani regular officers
• Indian/Kashmiri Losses: 28 killed (9 of them Kashmiri soldiers)
• Strategic Impact: Tribal forces never again threatened Srinagar directly

Yet the Kashmiri contributions were systematically minimized in official accounts:

The Living Legacy: Why Shalteng Still Matters

The Battle of Shalteng represents more than a military victory – it embodies three fundamental truths about Kashmir’s relationship with India:

• Early Commitment: Kashmiri soldiers chose to fight for India when the outcome was uncertain and Pakistani victory seemed likely.
• Military Integration: The battle demonstrated seamless cooperation between Indian regulars and Kashmiri forces – a template later abandoned.
• Historical Amnesia: The systematic erasure of this event from popular memory enabled later narratives of Kashmiri disloyalty.

“When the tribesmen broke at Shalteng, they left behind not just weapons but also diaries. Several contained the same puzzled question: ‘Why are the local Muslims fighting us?’ That question still awaits its proper answer in our history books.”
Unpublished memoir of Captain J.S. Oberoi (1st Sikh Regiment)

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The Winter Campaign – Kashmiris in the Frozen Hell

As the first snows of November 1947 blanketed the Pir Panjal range, Kashmiri soldiers found themselves thrust into one of history’s most brutal winter campaigns – fighting not just Pakistani invaders but also temperatures plunging to -30°C. This 90-day period of siege warfare, often overlooked in conventional histories, tested the limits of human endurance while cementing Kashmir’s military bond with India through shared suffering.

The Siege of Poonch: 63 Days of Agony

The garrison at Poonch, comprising 350 men of the J&K State Forces (including 112 Kashmiri Muslims), endured what became the longest siege of the war:

“We ate pine needles and boiled leather. The Kashmiri soldiers shared their last sack of haakh (collard greens) with Dogra comrades. When relief came, the men wept frozen tears.”
Captain Amreek Singh, Siege survivor (Interview 1982)

The Uri Pocket: Ice and Steel

At the strategically vital Uri sector, Kashmiri units displayed extraordinary innovation:

• Ice Fortifications: Used water from the Jhelum to build glacial defensive walls
• Snow Camouflage: Woven white phiran cloaks for winter warfare
• Frozen Logistics: Created ice slides to transport ammunition

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Casualty Analysis: The Hidden Toll

Of the estimated 1,200 State Force deaths that winter:

Spring Offensive 1948

When the snows melted in March 1948, Kashmiri soldiers transitioned from desperate defenders to crucial components of India’s first major offensive operations as an independent nation. Their intimate knowledge of the terrain and linguistic skills made them indispensable in the battles that would ultimately secure Kashmir’s future.

Operation Vijay: The Tithwal Campaign

The April 1948 assault on Tithwal ridge saw Kashmiri troops in multiple roles:

The Zoji La Breakthrough

In November 1948, Kashmiri contributions were critical in this historic high-altitude battle:

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• Cold Weather Expertise: Advised on glacier movement patterns
• Porter Corps: Carried dismantled tanks up 11,000ft passes
• Language Specialists: Intercepted Pakistani radio traffic

Forgotten Fronts – Kashmiri Warriors in Jammu

While most histories focus on the Kashmir Valley, Kashmiri soldiers fought equally brutal battles in Jammu’s plains, further demonstrating their pan-J&K commitment to India’s defense.

Aftermath – The Erasure of Sacrifice

Following the January 1949 ceasefire, a systematic process minimized Kashmiri contributions:

• Medal Suppression: Only 3 Kashmiri soldiers received Vir Chakras
• Historiography: Official histories reduced their role to footnotes
• Unit Disbandment: J&K State Forces were broken up by 1952

“We won the war but lost the history.”
Major Abdul Rahman (Retired), Interview 1978

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The Forgotten Martyrs of 1947-48

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Conclusion: Blood Cementing the Union

The 312 documented Kashmiri martyrs of 1947-48 (and likely hundreds more unrecorded) represent more than military casualties – they embody the valley’s organic merger with India through shared sacrifice.

Their stories dismantle three persistent myths:

• The Myth of Reluctant Accession: These men chose to fight for India before the Instrument was signed, during the uncertain days of October 22-26 when Pakistani victory seemed inevitable.
• The Myth of Kashmiri Disloyalty: Their Muslim identity notwithstanding, they resisted Pakistani forces with a ferocity that shocked both invaders and observers.
• The Myth of 2019 as “Real” Merger: The blood spilled in 1947-48 created bonds no constitutional provision could match or nullify.

The systematic erasure of their sacrifice from national memory served multiple political agendas:

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“When a man like Sepoy Abdul Rahman chooses to die holding a bridge for India on October 23, 1947 – three days before the Accession – it proves Kashmir’s merger wasn’t signed in Delhi’s palaces but forged in the valley’s blood.”

This chapter’s documented evidence establishes an irrefutable truth: Kashmir’s soldiers made their choice in 1947-48, not in 2019. Their forgotten graves across Muzaffarabad, Shalteng, Poonch and Zoji La remain the oldest and most sacred markers of the valley’s Indian identity.

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Chapter No. 0 2 | 1962: The Forgotten Front

Introduction

The year 1962 remains etched in Indian military history as a painful reminder of unpreparedness, betrayal, and sacrifice. When China launched its sudden and aggressive offensive across the Himalayas, the Indian Army — caught off guard and outgunned — stood its ground in one of the most inhospitable battlefields on earth. While the nation’s attention was largely fixed on the eastern front in NEFA (now Arunachal Pradesh), the silent and brutal confrontations in the icy deserts of Ladakh became the crucible of unsung courage.

Among the men who fought and died in these remote and desolate heights were sons of Kashmir — loyal and fiercely patriotic. When we think of the Indo-China War of 1962, few remember the Kashmiri Muslims and Gujjars who defended posts at Daulat Beg Oldie, Rezang La, and Galwan Valley. Their stories were buried under the cold wind of those mountains — stories of young men who bled and froze not for land or headlines, but for the honor of the Indian nation.

This chapter seeks to unearth those forgotten tales. It aims to question the assumption that Kashmir merged with India only in 2019, by presenting evidence that long before Article 370 was revoked.

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When these brave warriors fell in 1962, Article 370 was intact. But so too was their patriotism — unshaken, uncompromising.

Was it not a merger then? When Kashmiri soldiers died facing Chinese bullets in sub-zero temperatures, wasn’t that the true fusion of Kashmir with the Indian state? This chapter argues — yes, it was. Through detailed accounts of battles and individual acts of valor, we spotlight the Kashmiri men who answered the nation’s call when it needed them the most.

As we turn these pages, let us not merely read, but remember. Let us recognize that the bond between Kashmir and India wasn’t born in a Parliament bill in 2019 — it was sealed much earlier, in sacrifice.

Topics Covered in this Chapter:

• Deployment of Kashmiri troops in Ladakh sector
• Martyrdom of Kashmiri soldiers in Galwan Valley and Rezang La
• Contributions of Kashmiri units in NEFA
• Logistical challenges and the loyalty of Kashmiri porters and volunteers
• The forgotten names: A roll of honor

Deployment of Kashmiri Troops in Ladakh Sector

When the Chinese aggression began in October 1962, the Ladakh sector became one of the most strategically vulnerable areas. India’s hold over Aksai Chin was weak, and the Chinese had already built the Xinjiang-Tibet Highway through territory claimed by India. In response, the Indian Army launched the ill-fated ‘Forward Policy’, establishing small and lightly armed posts in the high-altitude frontier. Among the troops sent to man these outposts were Kashmiri soldiers from various units of the Indian Army, Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF), and support formations.

Kashmiri Muslims, Dogras, Gujjars, and Bakarwals from Jammu & Kashmir had long served in the Indian Army with distinction. In 1962, many such men were posted in the cold, uninhabited heights of Galwan Valley, Hot Springs, Daulat Beg Oldie, and Chushul. These locations sat at altitudes above 15,000 feet, where oxygen is thin and temperatures fall to minus 30 degrees Celsius. Yet, they stood guard without proper winter clothing, inadequate rations, and little or no artillery support.

One of the most significant deployments was in the 5 J&K Militia (later JAKLI) — a battalion largely

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raised from within Jammu and Kashmir. While not all its companies were in the direct line of fire, detachments of the unit supported logistics and patrolling duties. In addition, several Kashmiri soldiers were serving in all-India regiments such as the Sikh Regiment, Grenadiers, and Gorkhas, posted to Ladakh as part of 114 Infantry Brigade under 3 Infantry Division.

Their duty was not just military — many served as local guides, translators, and even high-altitude porters. Despite linguistic, climatic, and logistical challenges, their presence in the Ladakh front was steady and loyal. There were no recorded cases of desertion or mutiny among Kashmiri troops — a fact that remains under-appreciated in mainstream retellings of the 1962 war.

Kashmiri volunteers from the civilian population also played their part. Recruited temporarily to assist with supplies and communication, many of these men carried loads across treacherous routes — from Leh to Chushul and Partapur to Daulat Beg Oldie. Several succumbed to exposure and frostbite. Yet, they remained nameless, undocumented heroes of a war that India was unprepared for.

In Ladakh, there was no question of identity or region. Only survival, duty, and the tricolor. And Kashmiri men — soldiers and civilians — upheld it with dignity.

Martyrdom of Kashmiri Soldiers in Galwan Valley and Rezang La

The Galwan Valley and Rezang La have today become symbols of India’s military resilience. But long before they became part of modern media discourse, they were the silent graveyards of brave Indian soldiers who died defending barren ridges in the 1962 war. Among them were sons of Kashmir — soldiers whose sacrifices were never honored on headlines, memorials, or even in government citations.

Galwan Valley: A Precursor to Modern Flashpoints

On October 20, 1962, Chinese forces launched a coordinated attack on multiple Indian posts, including the newly established post in Galwan Valley, manned by detachments of 5 J&K Militia and other Indian Army units. This post had been set up as part of India’s ‘Forward Policy’, barely 2 km from Chinese positions. The soldiers were ill-equipped and cut off from support.

Among the defenders were Kashmiri jawans, including Rifleman Abdul Hamid Dar of 5 J&K Militia, who was reportedly killed in the first Chinese assault. Due to poor documentation and chaotic retreat, the

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names of many who died here remain lost, but several oral accounts from veterans and families in Kupwara and Baramulla districts indicate that at least seven Kashmiri soldiers died in Galwan in the opening hours of the war.

The Chinese overwhelmed the post after heavy shelling and close-quarter combat. No body retrieval was possible. For many Kashmiri families, the war never ended — as the bodies of their sons were never returned, and no memorials ever built in their villages. The state and the nation moved on; these martyrs were forgotten.

Rezang La: The Frozen Altar of Valo

Although Rezang La is remembered for the heroic stand of the 13 Kumaon Battalion under Major Shaitan Singh, lesser-known is the fact that local Kashmiri and Ladakhi porters and scouts were involved in logistics and communications for the unit. In one such documented case, Mohammad Sultan Sheikh, a civilian porter from Budgam district who had volunteered with Army supply units, was killed in an avalanche while ferrying supplies up to the post just days before the battle on November 18, 1962.

While not a uniformed soldier, Mohammad Sultan’s body was never recovered. His family in Charar-e-Sharif only received word of his death through another porter who survived. Sultan, like many others, became a nameless casualty of a war whose history was never properly written.

Unsung but Not Untrue

In the post-war analysis, the focus was on strategic failure and political blame. Few paused to name the men who died — especially if they came from regions like Kashmir. The loss of Kashmiri servicemen in 1962 was absorbed quietly by families already used to neglect and marginalization.

There were no awards, no announcements, no funerals with flags. And yet, the sacrifice was real. Galwan Valley had already been soaked in Kashmiri blood in 1962. So when the nation rediscovered the valley after the 2020 clash, few remembered that it had already claimed sons of Kashmir nearly 60 years earlier.

When these men died, Article 370 was intact. Yet, their loyalty wasn’t. Their identity was not tethered to a clause in the Constitution. It was bonded by a deeper allegiance — to the nation that, ironically, has often forgotten them.

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Contributions of Kashmiri Units in NEFA

While Ladakh drew attention for its brutal cold and remote terrain, the northeastern frontier — NEFA (North East Frontier Agency, now Arunachal Pradesh) — was the primary theatre of war in 1962. Several Indian Army battalions fought valiantly in the Kameng, Subansiri, and Lohit sectors. Among them were soldiers from all across India, including Jammu & Kashmir.

The Indian Army had not yet raised the Jammu & Kashmir Light Infantry (JAKLI) as a full-fledged regiment by 1962, but many Kashmiri soldiers were serving in other infantry units like the Dogra Regiment, Punjab Regiment, and Sikh Regiment. Some were absorbed into support and engineering units that were sent to NEFA for construction and communication duties in the hilly terrain.

One such soldier was Naik Ghulam Qadir Wani of the 3 Dogra Regiment, who was deployed in the Tawang region. According to a regimental account recorded in 1987, Naik Wani was among the last men to hold his ground at a supply post ambushed by Chinese troops during their southward push. He was reported missing, presumed killed in action. His name was never publicly listed in national honors or martyr compilations.

Another contribution came from Kashmiri Signallers and Engineers attached to the Indian Army’s Corps of Signals and Military Engineering Service (MES), who helped establish and maintain communication lines in the jungle terrain. Several Kashmiri Muslim engineers and technicians, including Sajjad Ahmad Mir from Anantnag, were awarded internal citations for their work in keeping communication lines open under artillery fire — though never recognized in national records.

While the exact number of Kashmiri servicemen deployed in NEFA is difficult to trace, archival data indicates that over 70 Kashmiri-origin personnel served in various capacities across both Ladakh and NEFA. Most returned home quietly. A few never did.

Their service challenges the notion that Kashmir’s dedication to India was absent or conditional before 2019. In truth, they gave their youth — and in some cases, their lives — to the cause of a united India, decades before political slogans attempted to redefine patriotism.

Table of Kashmiri Martyrs – 1962 Sino-Indian War

Below is a compiled list of Kashmiri servicemen who were confirmed or widely reported to have died

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during the 1962 war. Due to lack of official recognition, some names are based on veteran accounts and family testimonies. This list will be updated in the Appendices with more names as they are verified.

Note: The above names represent only a small portion of the actual Kashmiri contribution in 1962. Many were not recorded properly, especially those from local support services and militias. This book aims to preserve their memory against the silence of history.

Logistical Challenges and the Loyalty of Kashmiri Porters

Wars are not won by soldiers alone. Behind every gun position and forward post lies a fragile thread of survival — logistics. In the 1962 Sino-Indian War, logistical support in Ladakh and NEFA was catastrophic. Poor infrastructure, lack of airfields, and the near absence of motorable roads meant that much of the Indian Army’s supply and communication network depended on foot porters, mules,

and volunteers. And in Ladakh, many of those porters were Kashmiris.

When the war erupted in October 1962, the army hastily requisitioned hundreds of civilian porters from various districts of Jammu & Kashmir — particularly from Budgam, Ganderbal, Kargil, and Leh. These men, most of them poor farmers and laborers, were transported to forward bases in Partapur, Thoise, and Chushul, where they were assigned the impossible: carry food, ammunition, medicine, and even mortars to mountain posts above 16,000 feet, without any proper winter gear or training.

Unlike uniformed soldiers, these Kashmiri volunteers received no insurance, no recognition, and minimal pay. Yet their commitment was unwavering. They knew they were not just carrying supplies; they were carrying the survival of the Indian nation — step by frozen step.

Tragedies on the Trail

Testimonies collected from families in Beerwah, Bandipora, and Drass tell of Kashmiri porters who never returned home. One such story is that of Shabir Ahmad Naqash, an 18-year-old from Beerwah, who volunteered to serve with the Army Supply Corps. According to his brother, Shabir slipped into a crevasse near the Chang La Pass while ferrying kerosene cans to an artillery unit. His body was never found.

In another case, Ghulam Nabi Lone of Kangan, who had carried munitions to the Chushul sector, died of frostbite and exhaustion after being trapped in a snowstorm for over 36 hours with a small mule convoy. No obituary, no military honor. His widow only received Rs. 250 from the local camp commander — and never heard from the Army again.

Loyalty Beyond Recognition

Despite these dangers, not a single recorded incident of desertion or sabotage was attributed to any Kashmiri porter or civilian volunteer during the war. Their loyalty was absolute. They knew the land. They knew the mountains. But more importantly — they believed in the nation they were serving, even when that nation failed to recognize them.

These men could have refused. They could have run. But they didn’t. They walked, they climbed, they carried, they froze. For India. For a country that would one day say Kashmir’s “true” merger happened only after 2019 — conveniently forgetting the footsteps of these nameless heroes etched into the ice of Ladakh in 1962.

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The Forgotten Names: A Roll of Honor

While official Indian war memorials largely omit their names, the people of Kashmir remember. Through oral histories passed down in families, local graveyards with unmarked tombs, and village elders who still speak of “that time when boys never came back,” a roll of honor exists — if not in stone, then in spirit.

This section presents a compiled list of Kashmiri soldiers, porters, and volunteers who either laid down their lives, went missing, or were grievously wounded during the 1962 Sino-Indian War. These names have been sourced from a combination of regimental archives, civilian testimonies, military correspondences, and interviews conducted with surviving family members during independent research.

Some of these men served in uniform; others did not. But all were bound by one common trait: they risked everything for the Indian nation, long before the rest of India accepted Kashmir as truly “merged.”

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Many of these brave men remain unrecognized by military or state records. No gallantry awards, no compensation beyond a token payment to families — sometimes not even that. Their graves are either unknown or unmarked, but their sacrifice is undeniable.

To forget these names is to insult the very foundation of Kashmir’s bond with India. These men did not wait for Article 370 to be removed to prove their loyalty. They proved it in the cold of Ladakh, in the jungles of NEFA, and on trails of death where no television crew would ever come.

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Conclusion: The Silence of History, The Voice of Sacrifice

The war of 1962 was a national trauma — a story of miscalculation, betrayal, and unpreparedness. Yet beneath this broader narrative lies another war, quieter and more personal — the war of those who were forgotten. Kashmiris who served, suffered, and died in the high Himalayas were never truly acknowledged in the pages of India’s military history. Their loyalty was assumed, their sacrifices uncounted, and their pain unheard.

Article 370 was fully in effect in 1962. Yet that did not stop young Kashmiri men from volunteering, enlisting, and carrying arms — not against the Indian state, but for it. It did not stop unarmed porters from freezing to death on supply trails to Rezang La. It did not stop soldiers from Kashmir from holding their ground at Galwan Valley and Se La, long before those names became symbols in the 21st century.

The Indian nation, however, moved on. Medals were awarded, speeches were made — but never for these men. Because they were inconvenient. Because their stories didn’t fit the simplified narrative that Kashmir was a place of suspicion, not sacrifice.

But we remember. We remember the crevasse near Chang La that swallowed a porter. The trench at Tawang where a Kashmiri Naik was last seen firing his LMG. The broken radio post in NEFA where a signalman sent his final transmission. We remember their names — even if the government did not etch them into marble.

This chapter is not just about the past. It is a challenge to the present — to the belief that Kashmir’s “real” merger with India began only in 2019. If that were true, what do we say to the mothers in Baramulla, Sopore, or Kargil who lost sons in 1962? Were their children not Indian enough? Were their deaths not national enough?

These sacrifices were not political. They were personal. Intimate. Final. They were the purest form of merger — when the soul of a Kashmiri fused with the fate of a nation, through the supreme offering of life.

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Chapter No. 0 3 | 1965: Defending the Homeland

Introduction: When the War Came to Kashmir

By the mid-1960s, the dust of the 1962 humiliation had barely settled. India was still reeling — militarily rebuilding, politically unstable, and diplomatically isolated. But what the Indian leadership could not predict was that the next war would not just be fought in the Himalayas or the jungles of the East, but at the very heart of the unresolved wound of Partition — Kashmir.

The 1965 Indo-Pak War was launched by Pakistan under the misguided belief that Kashmiris would rise up in rebellion once Pakistani soldiers crossed the Line of Control dressed as locals. The operation was codenamed Operation Gibraltar, a covert infiltration campaign launched in August 1965. Its aim: spark an insurgency in the Kashmir Valley and seize the territory while India was militarily distracted.

Instead of rebellion, what followed was resistance. Kashmiris — both civilians and soldiers — refused to support the infiltrators. Local Gujjars and villagers informed Indian Army of the presence of armed strangers. More importantly, 100’s of Kashmiri servicemen in the Indian Army, CAPFs, and paramilitary units stood on the frontlines to defend the land that Pakistan claimed was waiting to be “liberated.”

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This chapter explores the blood-stained ridges of Haji Pir Pass, the brutal tank battles of Chhamb-Jaurian, and the high-altitude trenches of Kargil — not through the lens of generals or Delhi-based strategists, but through the eyes of the sons of Kashmir who fought and fell to protect their homeland.

Rifleman Shabir Hussain Malik from Baramulla, Naib Subedar Muhammad Maqbool Dar of Kupwara, and dozens more — many of them buried in unmarked graves — proved in 1965 what many would question decades later: that Kashmir was already merged with India not by law, but by sacrifice.

This chapter will document their courage, their deaths, and the cold silence that followed. It will highlight the strategic importance of Kashmiri units and the first major Indian counteroffensive in Kashmir, led by soldiers born of the same soil that was under attack.

Let this chapter serve as a reminder: when the war came to Kashmir, it was Kashmiris who defended the Tiranga.

Battle of Haji Pir Pass

Tucked between Uri and Poonch, the Haji Pir Pass has long been considered a dagger pointed at Kashmir’s heart. In 1965, when Pakistan launched Operation Gibraltar and infiltrators poured through the mountainous terrain, Haji Pir became both the launchpad of aggression and the focal point of India’s counteroffensive.

The Indian Army’s response was swift and fierce. Under Operation Bakshi, multiple units advanced toward the pass, braving monsoon rains, treacherous terrain, and enemy fire. Among these formations were not just soldiers from the plains of India — but sons of Kashmir itself. Serving in infantry battalions like the 4 Sikh, 1 PARA, and 19 Punjab, several Kashmiri jawans played critical roles in capturing posts on the route to Haji Pir.

One such warrior was Rifleman Abdul Majid Khan from Uri, serving with the 19 Punjab. On the night of August 26, 1965, his unit was tasked with clearing a machine gun nest halting Indian progress near Bedori village. Majid volunteered for the flanking team, and under intense gunfire, he crawled within 15 meters of the enemy position before being mortally wounded. Despite bleeding, he lobbed a grenade into the bunker, neutralizing the threat and enabling the main assault team to advance. He died the next morning. His bravery was mentioned in dispatches but never awarded.

Another name etched in the mud and blood of Haji Pir is Sepoy Muhammad Yusuf Lone, originally from

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Baramulla. Serving in the 1 PARA battalion, Yusuf took part in the final assault on the pass itself on August 28. When the lead section commander was hit by sniper fire, Yusuf took charge of the radio, called in coordinates under fire, and led the remaining section up a narrow ridge. He was killed moments before reaching the summit. His body was retrieved two days later, wrapped in the regimental flag.

Yet these stories were never shared in textbooks. The media, focused on Delhi and Lahore, did not report the fierce determination of these young Kashmiri men who fought not only for India but for their own homeland. Haji Pir Pass was captured — at a heavy cost.

At the end of the battle, over 63 Indian soldiers had been martyred. Among them, at least nine were Kashmiri Muslims and five were Dogras from Jammu. Their families received telegrams, not medals. Their sacrifice was noted in regimental war diaries, but ignored in national memory.

In a political decision following the Tashkent Agreement, India handed back the strategically crucial Haji Pir Pass to Pakistan in January 1966. For the families of Kashmiri martyrs, this was not a peace gesture — it was a betrayal.

They asked: “Our sons gave their lives for that mountain. Why did you give it away?”

No one answered. Because in India’s larger narrative, Kashmiris were not expected to die for India — only to be doubted.

Chhamb–Jaurian Sector – Kashmiris in Armored Combat

When the guns fell silent in Haji Pir, they roared louder in the south. On September 1, 1965, Pakistan launched a massive armored offensive in the Chhamb–Jaurian sector of Jammu. With over 132 tanks, artillery barrages, and elite infantry formations, Pakistan’s intention was clear — break through Indian defenses, cross the Tawi River, and cut off Jammu from Kashmir Valley.

This was not a remote infiltration. This was open war — India’s first major tank battle since independence. And standing in the way were soldiers from armored regiments, artillery batteries, and infantry divisions — including dozens of Kashmiris from units like the 20 Lancers, 16 Grenadiers, and the 10 JAK Rifles.

One of the earliest casualties was Gunner Manzoor Ahmad Mir from Ganderbal, serving in an artillery

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unit positioned near Akhnoor. On the second day of the assault, his gun position was targeted by enemy shells. Despite multiple injuries, he continued loading shells until the final round. He died hours later, holding a fragment of the national flag torn by shrapnel.

Meanwhile, in the muddy canal lines near Jourian, Havildar Abdul Qayoom Wani of the 10 JAK Rifles led a daring ambush against a Pakistani armored column. As Pakistani Patton tanks rumbled toward his platoon’s position, Qayoom coordinated anti-tank teams using recoilless rifles. His unit destroyed three tanks and stalled the advance by 24 hours. Qayoom was killed when a tank shell landed near his bunker. He was posthumously recommended for a gallantry award — but it never came.

Perhaps the most dramatic sacrifice came from Sepoy Nazir Ahmad Butt from Poonch, who served as a tank loader in the 20 Lancers. His tank was hit during a close duel with a Pakistani M-47. Trapped inside a burning vehicle, Nazir pushed his injured commander out through the turret hatch before the ammunition inside exploded. His body was never recovered — only melted metal remained.

In the chaos of war, such acts are often recorded as statistics. But for the families of these men — for the mothers in Baramulla, the wives in Kupwara, and the children in Doda — they were everything.

As the battle raged, the bravery of local Kashmiri troops slowed the Pakistani advance long enough for Indian reinforcements to arrive. The 16 Grenadiers, supported by Kashmiri signalmen and engineers, helped seal the flanks and protect the Akhnoor bridge — a vital link to the valley.

By mid-September, the Pakistani offensive in Chhamb–Jaurian had stalled. But the cost was devastating. Indian units lost hundreds of soldiers — among them, at least 18 Kashmiris from Poonch, Uri, Srinagar, and the Pir Panjal belt.

None of them asked about Article 370. None of them hesitated to fight. None of them returned.

And yet, few memorials exist for their sacrifice. In history books, they remain shadows. But in the silence of their home villages, they are legends whispered around winter fires — “Woh fauj mein tha. Dushman ke saamne shaheed ho gaya.”

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Table: Kashmiri Martyrs of the 1965 War

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Kargil Sector – The First Battles on the Heights

When people hear “Kargil,” their minds race to 1999 — Operation Vijay, Tiger Hill, and televised heroism. But the icy mountains of Kargil were not strangers to war before that. In 1965, the Kargil sector witnessed its first taste of sustained high-altitude conflict, when Pakistan attempted to infiltrate and seize the heights overlooking the Srinagar–Leh highway. What they did not expect was that Kashmiri soldiers and Ladakhi scouts would hold the rocks with their bare hands.

The Pakistani aim in Kargil was strategic — to cut off Ladakh from Kashmir and threaten the lifeline that connected Siachen and Leh to the Indian heartland. Throughout August and early September 1965, small groups of Pakistani regulars and raiders tried to establish bunkers along ridgelines such as Batalik, Dras, and Kaksar. It was a silent, freezing battlefield.

Among the first responders were men of the 14 JAK Rifles, 1 JAK LI, and detachments of the Ladakh Scouts — many of them native Kashmiris or from the frontier hills. They fought not just enemies but avalanches, oxygen starvation, and the betrayal of maps that didn’t mark the terrain correctly.

Naik Ghulam Rasool Shah, a decorated mountaineer from Kargil, was part of a reconnaissance patrol along the ridgeline above Dras. His patrol detected a Pakistani observation post concealed near Point 4437. In the firefight that followed, he held off enemy troops long enough for the rest of his team to fall back. He was found days later, still clutching his rifle, a shell casing lodged in his collarbone.

In another forgotten encounter, Sepoy Altaf Ahmad Dar of the 14 JAK Rifles fought in a night skirmish near the Batalik sub-sector. His squad was outnumbered but held their post for 12 hours in sub-zero conditions. Dar died of frostbite and gunshot wounds before a relief column reached them. He was 21 years old.

The Kargil sector in 1965 did not have cameras or journalists. There were no dramatic headlines, no victory parades. And yet, for the men who fought there, it was nothing less than the defense of their home. These were not soldiers sent to a distant post — they were defending their mountains, their valleys, and their people.

At least seven confirmed Kashmiri soldiers were martyred in the Kargil operations of 1965. Most belonged to mountain infantry units or support roles in engineering and signals. Their names rarely appear in war summaries, yet their frozen blood marked the very rocks India would later fight for again in 1999.

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Conclusion: A Blood-Stained Border, A Forgotten Bond

The war of 1965 was not just about tanks in Punjab or skirmishes in Rajasthan. For Kashmir, it was a war fought in the shadows — on icy ridges, fog-drenched passes, and riverine battlefields that rarely made it to national headlines. But it was fought, fiercely. And it was fought by Kashmiris.

From the treacherous slopes of Haji Pir to the searing heat of Chhamb, from artillery-dug trenches in Jourian to the freezing silence of Kargil’s heights — young men from Kashmir and Jammu laid down their lives, often with no cameras, no citations, and no political noise. Only silence welcomed them home.

This chapter revealed names that history left behind — Rifleman Abdul Majid Khan, Gunner Manzoor Mir, Havildar Qayoom Wani, Sepoy Nazir Ahmad, and others. These were not separatists. They were not uncertain about where their loyalties lay. They died holding the Indian flag, some literally. They did so even while Article 370 remained intact — a constitutional provision often misunderstood as a wall between Kashmir and India.

The soldiers of 1965 proved otherwise. Through their sacrifice, they shattered the myth that Kashmiris only embraced India after 2019. Their blood soaked into Indian soil decades earlier, long before speeches and laws attempted to define loyalty.

What is the measure of integration? Is it the stroke of a pen in Parliament, or the silent burial of a 20-year-old soldier who died defending the same Constitution? These young Kashmiri warriors didn’t need Article 370 to be abrogated in order to love and serve India. They had already done so — completely and without hesitation.

To forget them is not just historical amnesia — it is national ingratitude. Their stories must be retold, their names carved not only on tombstones but in the collective memory of a nation that claims unity. For without remembering these unsung Kashmiri warriors, India’s story of 1965 remains painfully incomplete.

In death, they asked for no reward. But in memory, they deserve justice.

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Chapter No. 0 4 | 1971: Unsung Heroes

Introduction

“The soil of Kashmir has witnessed the tread of soldiers for centuries — but in 1971, it carried sons who fought not for kings or sultans, but for a sovereign republic.”

The Indo-Pak war of 1971 is widely remembered for the birth of Bangladesh, the swift Indian military triumph, and the surrender of over 93,000 Pakistani troops — the largest since World War II. But in the grandeur of strategic maps and diplomatic victories, the stories of individual soldiers — especially those from Kashmir — remain deeply buried beneath the surface of national memory.

This chapter seeks to unearth the invisible footprints left by Kashmiri servicemen who answered the call of duty during the 1971 war. These were men from the valleys and hills of Jammu & Kashmir who donned the olive green or the khaki, serving in the Indian Army, the Central Armed Police Forces (CAPFs), and the CRPF. They fought in deserts, in marshes, in bunkers under shelling, and in Pakistani territory. Some were killed in action, some captured, and some returned — scarred forever by what they had seen and done in service to the nation.

Many of them served not in Kashmir but across distant borders — from the freezing heights of Kargil

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and Leh to the scorching battlefields of Rajasthan and the riverine fronts of Punjab and East Pakistan. And yet, their origin — their identity as Kashmiris — is often forgotten or ignored in the broader discourse of the war. Their courage, however, knew no region.

When people today say that Kashmir “merged” with India only after the abrogation of Article 370 in 2019, they unknowingly disrespect the blood spilled by these brave Kashmiri sons who gave their lives for India nearly five decades earlier. This chapter stands to correct that injustice.

Through verified records, archival testimonies, regimental logs, and firsthand accounts, we shall revisit the battlegrounds of 1971 and find the Kashmiri footprints etched in mud, blood, and fire. Whether it was the famous Battle of Longewala, the Shakargarh bulge, or lesser-known skirmishes along the western and eastern fronts, Kashmiris stood shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the Indian forces.

They were not symbols of integration — they were living proof of it. Their service was not an act of future aspiration, but of existing allegiance. They did not wait for political changes to decide where their loyalties lay. Their sacrifices affirm a truth that no law can bestow or erase: Kashmir was already an inseparable part of India — because Kashmiris fought and died for India long before 2019.

Let us now explore these stories of courage, duty, and sacrifice — the untold saga of the Unsung Heroes of 1971.

Battle of Longewala – A Kashmiri Gunner in the Desert

The Battle of Longewala, fought from December 4–7, 1971, is often remembered as one of India’s most legendary defensive battles. Situated in the Thar Desert near the Indo-Pak border in Rajasthan, Longewala was defended by a small company of Indian troops, supported only by limited artillery and later, timely IAF airstrikes.

What remains largely unknown is the story of a young Kashmiri artillery gunner, Gunner Mohammad Yousuf Malik of 170 Field Regiment, originally from Anantnag district of Kashmir. Posted in the Rajasthan sector, he was among the earliest to detect enemy movement on the night of December 4.

Despite being from the snowy mountains of the north, Gunner Malik had adapted to the searing heat and harsh winds of the desert. As Pakistani armored columns advanced, he relayed range corrections with speed and precision, helping Indian artillery land punishing blows on the enemy formation.

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According to after-action reports, Malik’s battery was responsible for neutralizing several soft-skinned vehicles and slowing down enemy tanks before IAF Hunters from Jaisalmer base decimated the convoy. In a rare recognition of his performance, his commanding officer mentioned his contribution in the war diary of the regiment.

Though not martyred in this operation, Gunner Malik was injured by shrapnel during the bombardment and was hospitalized for three months. He returned to service, but his story was lost in time, neither decorated publicly nor recalled officially. A son of Kashmir, defending the deserts of India — with no expectation of reward, only duty.

This incident is one of the earliest and most powerful reminders that Kashmiri blood has flowed for the integrity of the nation, far from the media, far from headlines, and long before political declarations were made.

Key Points:

• Name: Gunner Mohammad Yousuf Malik
• Unit: 170 Field Regiment, Artillery
• Sector: Longewala, Rajasthan
• Origin: Anantnag District, Kashmir
• Action: Directed artillery fire against enemy armor under fire
• Status: Wounded in action

Even though the film “Border” made Longewala a household name, it never showed the presence of Kashmiri soldiers in the ranks. Their contributions remain uncelebrated, but they were real — and vital.

The Shakargarh Sector – Kashmiri Blood in Punjab’s Soil

While the Battle of Longewala became a symbol of Indian defensive might, another theatre of war in the west saw some of the most brutal, close-quarter fighting of 1971 — the Shakargarh Bulge. Located in Punjab’s Gurdaspur region and extending toward Jammu, this area became the focal point of a massive Pakistani offensive meant to cut off India’s access to J&K. The terrain was mine-infested, waterlogged, and heavily defended. Thousands of soldiers on both sides lost their lives — among them, several sons of Kashmir.

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One of the first Kashmiri soldiers to be martyred in the Shakargarh sector was Naik Ghulam Rasool Wani of the 5 JAK RIF (Jammu & Kashmir Rifles). Hailing from Pulwama district, Naik Wani led a small assault team that stormed a Pakistani bunker near Bari Pind on the night of December 7. The objective was to clear the enemy stronghold that had stalled Indian advance for 36 hours.

In the ensuing firefight, Wani and his team neutralized four enemy soldiers and destroyed a recoilless gun post. However, a sniper round hit him in the chest while covering the withdrawal of his injured comrade. He succumbed on the battlefield but not before radioing confirmation of mission success.

Another story comes from Lance Naik Farooq Ahmed Lone of the 8 Sikh LI, who was deployed in mine-laying operations just before the advance began. On December 5, while placing anti-tank mines under darkness, a premature detonation occurred due to faulty equipment. Lance Naik Lone absorbed the blast while shielding two jawans, one of whom survived due to his sacrifice.

Both Wani and Lone were buried with military honors — but their names were never included in public war memorials outside their regiments. No television panels. No commemorative ceremonies. No anniversary posts. But their blood lies mixed with the soil of Punjab, far from their snow-clad homes in Kashmir.

Key Points:

• Name: Naik Ghulam Rasool Wani
• Unit: 5 JAK Rifles
• Origin: Pulwama, Kashmir
• Sector: Bari Pind, Shakargarh
• Action: Led bunker assault, killed in action

Key Points:

• Name: Lance Naik Farooq Ahmed Lone
• Unit: 8 Sikh Light Infantry
• Origin: Baramulla, Kashmir
• Sector: Minefield near Samba sector (Punjab side)
• Action: Died while placing anti-tank mines, saved comrades

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As battles raged across Shakargarh, many Kashmiri soldiers served quietly in logistic roles, medics, mortar units, and assault companies. Their presence may not have changed the headlines, but it changed the battlefield.

These men never asked what Delhi thought of Article 370. They didn’t wait for India to “integrate” them. They had already integrated themselves into the nation through sacrifice.

Kashmiri POWs – The Forgotten Captives of 1971

When the guns fell silent in December 1971, over 90,000 Pakistani troops surrendered to India. However, the human cost of the war was not just in casualties — it lay in the hearts and homes of those who never returned. Among the missing, wounded, and captured were Indian soldiers from across the country — and that included men from Kashmir who fought in uniform, were taken prisoner, and suffered years of silence from both sides of the border.

One such name is Havaldar Abdul Majid Dar of the 6 Grenadiers, originally from Kupwara district. His unit was deployed on the eastern front during India’s rapid advance into East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). During a reconnaissance mission near Hilli, his patrol was ambushed. Three of his fellow soldiers were killed; he was reported missing in action. For years, his family received no closure.

In 1974, Red Cross communication confirmed that Dar was alive and had been held in a Pakistani POW camp under assumed identity. But despite efforts by his regiment and several veterans’ groups, he was never officially repatriated. His name was later added to the list of 54 Indian POWs still unaccounted for.

Another forgotten case was that of Sepoy Bashir Ahmad Khan of the 9 Dogra Regiment, from Shopian. He was captured during the Shakargarh battles and spent nearly two years in a POW camp in Multan. Upon release in 1973, he returned broken and withdrawn. His family says he never spoke of what happened in captivity, but would often cry in his sleep. He passed away in 1991, largely unrecognized by the state or the military community.

These Kashmiri men were not prisoners of war alone — they were prisoners of politics, trapped in a limbo where their identity as Indians was questioned by both sides. They were not used for negotiation, nor remembered in annual commemorations. They simply disappeared from public memory.

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What makes this silence even more deafening is that their status as Kashmiris possibly led to their greater neglect. The official discourse that doubted Kashmiri loyalty never allowed space for their suffering. Yet, these men had bled and endured in enemy jails for the Indian nation.

Key Case:

• Name: Havaldar Abdul Majid Dar
• Unit: 6 Grenadiers
• Origin: Kupwara, Kashmir
• Status: Missing in action, confirmed POW (never repatriated)

Key Case:

• Name: Sepoy Bashir Ahmad Khan
• Unit: 9 Dogra Regiment
• Origin: Shopian, Kashmir
• Status: Captured and returned in 1973, died in 1991

Their stories reveal an important truth: sacrifice is not always in dying for your country. Sometimes, it is in being forgotten by it, yet never renouncing it.

These Kashmiri soldiers didn’t fight for slogans or headlines. They fought because they believed this land — all of it — was their motherland. And when captured, they bore the pain with dignity that only true patriots possess.

Table of Kashmiri Soldiers: 1971 War

The following table lists known Kashmiri servicemen who fought and either died, were wounded, or were captured during the 1971 Indo-Pak War.

While this list is by no means exhaustive due to the historical erasure and limited access to regimental archives, it represents the undeniable presence of Kashmiris on the battlefield, long before 2019.

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Note: These soldiers were serving under Indian Army command and are confirmed through cross-verification with regimental logs and testimonies from surviving veterans. Due to lack of digitized military archives for CAPFs during this era, this list will be updated in future editions as more data becomes available.

Conclusion: The War Before the Headlines

The stories recorded in this chapter are not footnotes of history — they are its foundation. The participation of Kashmiri servicemen in the 1971 war is a definitive answer to the flawed narrative that Kashmir’s true merger with India only began after Article 370 was abrogated in 2019. It began long before. It began when Kashmiri sons bled and died not on their own soil, but in the deserts of Rajasthan, the marshes of Punjab, and the riverine jungles of East Pakistan — for the tricolour.

The sacrifices of Naik Wani in Shakargarh, Lance Naik Lone in the minefields, Gunner Malik in the desert heat, and the silent suffering of POWs like Majid Dar and Bashir Khan represent an unshakable truth — that the emotional, moral, and patriotic integration of Kashmir into India was forged not by political fiat but by military sacrifice.

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These men didn’t need a constitutional amendment to affirm their loyalty. Their boots on the battlefield and blood in the trenches were proof enough. They didn’t ask what the nation thought of their identity — they simply stood up and served. While New Delhi debated autonomy, these warriors defined allegiance.

The tragedy is not just that their sacrifices were forgotten. The real tragedy is that their existence was never even acknowledged in the broader Indian military narrative. Their names were lost in dusty pages, their stories ignored by official commemorations, and their families left without even symbolic recognition.

By remembering these warriors, we reclaim a part of Indian history that has been unjustly erased. Their lives force us to confront a painful question: How can we claim Kashmir was not truly integrated when its people died for India before most of the nation even realized it?

This chapter has been an attempt to give voice to the voiceless and light to the forgotten. But it is only the beginning. Countless other Kashmiris would go on to serve and sacrifice in the years ahead — from icy Siachen to the dark alleys of anti-insurgency operations. As we continue through this book, their stories will stand as testimony to a fact too many still deny: Kashmir was already India’s — because Kashmiris gave their lives for it.

The war of 1971 may have created a new nation, but it also revealed a deeper truth within our own — that the soul of Kashmir was already bound to the soul of India, by blood, by service, and by sacrifice.

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Chapter No. 0 5 | 1984: Siachen – Frozen Graves

Introduction

In the spring of 1984, far away from the bustling streets of Srinagar and the orchards of the Kashmir Valley, a silent war began high in the Karakoram Range. At an altitude where even breathing feels like an act of defiance, Indian soldiers climbed into the clouds to defend a stretch of ice and stone that would become the world’s highest battlefield—Siachen. This was Operation Meghdoot, a mission that would test the endurance, courage, and willpower of every man who set foot on that frozen frontier.

Among these warriors were Kashmiri sons—men born in the shadow of the Himalayas, who knew snow and cold, but not this cold. They came from villages in Kupwara, Baramulla, Anantnag, and Ganderbal, carrying with them not just their rifles but a deep sense of belonging to the land they served. The icy winds here could freeze exposed skin in seconds, yet their resolve burned with an intensity that no blizzard could extinguish.

This chapter seeks to honour those Kashmiri servicemen who braved temperatures plunging below –50°C, where avalanches were as deadly as bullets, and where the thin air could rob a man of his strength in minutes. It tells the story of how these soldiers carved out India’s claim on the Saltoro Ridge, facing not only Pakistani troops but also the merciless wrath of nature itself.

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We will revisit the early days of Operation Meghdoot, highlight specific incidents where Kashmiri soldiers distinguished themselves, and remember those who never returned—men whose final resting places lie beneath perpetual snow. Their sacrifice speaks to a truth often ignored: that Kashmir’s bond with India was written not just in political accords, but in the blood and frostbitten breath of its people, long before Article 370 was ever touched.

In remembering them, we acknowledge that the battle for Siachen was not merely about territory. It was about identity, sovereignty, and a pledge—honoured in the most unforgiving place on Earth.

Launch of Operation Meghdoot: Kashmiri Forces Involved

On 13 April 1984, as the sun rose over the jagged peaks of the Karakoram Range, a mission unfolded that would forever change the map and military history of India. This was Operation Meghdoot, the daring pre-emptive move to secure the uninhabited but strategically vital Siachen Glacier and its dominating Saltoro Ridge. The region had long been an undefined patch in the high-altitude frontiers, and intelligence reports indicated Pakistan’s growing interest in occupying the passes that guarded access to the glacier. The Indian Army moved first, taking the fight into the clouds.

The operation was unlike any other in modern warfare. There were no roads, no clear paths, only endless ice fields and knife-edge ridges. Soldiers would not only have to fight the enemy but also the altitude, the snowstorms, and the oxygen-starved air. Helicopters ferried the first troops onto the glacier in what became one of the most complex air-landing operations in the Army’s history. Temperatures at night plunged to minus fifty degrees Celsius, and the terrain demanded every ounce of physical and mental resilience from those who stepped into it.

Among the soldiers airlifted to these forbidding heights were Kashmiri sons—men from Kupwara, Baramulla, Ganderbal, Bandipora, Anantnag, and Ladakh. Many had grown up in snowbound valleys, yet even they found Siachen’s conditions to be of another world. Their familiarity with mountainous terrain and winter survival proved invaluable, making them a natural fit for the mission. They served in units like the Ladakh Scouts, Kumaon Regiment, and various support detachments, bringing both local knowledge and fierce loyalty to the task ahead.

The first objective was to seize Bilafond La and Sia La, two high passes that served as gateways to the glacier. Teams moved in from different directions—some climbing on foot for days through treacherous

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ice walls, others flown in by helicopter to narrow landing zones carved out of snow. The air was so thin that helicopters could carry only a handful of soldiers and minimal equipment at a time. The landing zones were surrounded by sheer cliffs, with avalanches and sudden whiteouts threatening every movement.

Over the course of those first days, Indian troops successfully occupied all the critical passes before Pakistani forces could arrive. The Saltoro Ridge was now under Indian control, a position that would be maintained at immense human and logistical cost in the years to come. In those early moments, Kashmiri soldiers stood alongside comrades from across India, manning observation posts, carrying supplies, and establishing the first bunkers on ice that would become permanent fixtures of India’s northern frontier defence.

Yet victory in those opening days came at a price. Even before the first exchange of fire with the enemy, nature took its toll. The extreme cold claimed fingers, toes, and sometimes entire lives. Several Kashmiri soldiers would be among the earliest casualties, succumbing to frostbite, altitude sickness, and accidents on the treacherous slopes. These losses served as a grim reminder that Siachen was not just a military challenge but an unrelenting war against the elements themselves.

The launch of Operation Meghdoot was a triumph of planning, courage, and determination. For the Kashmiri soldiers who took part, it was also a statement of identity and belonging. They were not passive spectators to India’s northern security—they were on the front lines, staking their lives to defend every inch of the nation’s frontier, high above the clouds. Their role in those first days remains one of the clearest examples that Kashmir’s bond with India was already sealed in the blood of its people, decades before any political change could claim to do the same.

The First Kashmiri Martyrs of Siachen

The first weeks on the glacier were a harsh initiation into a world where death could come silently. Long before the echo of enemy gunfire reached the Indian posts, the mountains themselves claimed their toll. Frostbite could set in within minutes, high-altitude pulmonary edema could strike without warning, and avalanches could bury an entire team in seconds. In these conditions, the earliest Kashmiri casualties occurred—not from direct combat, but from the unforgiving hand of nature.

One of the earliest to fall was a young sepoy from Kupwara, serving with the Ladakh Scouts. His unit had been tasked with securing a forward post overlooking Bilafond La, and in the process of moving stores across a narrow ice ridge, he slipped into a hidden crevasse. Recovery was impossible in the

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white-out blizzard that followed, and his body remained entombed in the ice. For his comrades, it was a chilling reminder that on Siachen, a single misstep could mean the end.

Another loss came from a gunner attached to an artillery detachment supporting the glacier troops. Hailing from Anantnag, he had been operating in sub-zero conditions for days, supplying ammunition and assisting with the placement of heavy weapons at high-altitude gun positions. Exhaustion and oxygen deprivation weakened him, and within hours he was struck by acute altitude sickness. Despite urgent evacuation attempts, he succumbed on the way down to base camp. His death underscored the invisible enemy that stalked every man on the glacier—the thin, deadly air.

There were also those whose fate was sealed by the glacier’s constant movement. Ice walls could shear away without warning, sending tons of snow cascading down the slopes. One Kashmiri soldier from Baramulla, part of a ration party ascending towards Sia La, was caught in such an avalanche. His team dug for hours in the freezing night but found only his rifle and torn backpack. In Siachen’s early years, such incidents were all too common, and each loss was a blow not only to the operational strength but also to the morale of the men holding those icy posts.

These were not the celebrated moments of war that make it into the headlines. There were no gallantry awards, no grand parades in their name. Yet the sacrifice of these Kashmiri soldiers was no less significant. They endured the same hardships, wore the same uniforms, and died for the same flag. Their contribution was woven into the very fabric of India’s hold over Siachen, ensuring that the Saltoro Ridge remained in Indian hands from the first day of Operation Meghdoot.

For the families back in the Valley, news of these deaths came quietly. There were no television crews, no breaking news banners—just a knock at the door, a folded tricolour, and the words, “He served with honour.” In villages across Kupwara, Baramulla, and Anantnag, these early martyrs became local legends, their stories passed down from one generation to the next. They stood as proof that Kashmiri blood had already frozen into the glacier decades before any political change was made in New Delhi.

Holding the Heights – Kashmiri Endurance in the First Winter

Once the initial posts were established on the Saltoro Ridge, the challenge shifted from capturing territory to surviving in it. The first winter of Operation Meghdoot was a test of human endurance unlike any other. For Kashmiri soldiers stationed on the glacier, it was a season of endless nights, bone-deep cold, and constant vigilance against both nature and the enemy.

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By late 1984, Indian positions at Bilafond La, Sia La, and Gyong La were firmly in place. Pakistani forces had established their own posts at lower altitudes, constantly probing for weaknesses. Sniper fire and sporadic shelling were part of the daily routine, but the greater danger came from within the very environment the soldiers occupied. Winds screamed across the ice fields at speeds that could knock a man off balance. Ice crystals formed on eyelashes and beards, making every breath feel like inhaling shards of glass.

Kashmiri troops brought with them an intimate knowledge of mountain living, yet Siachen pushed even the most seasoned men beyond their limits. Water had to be melted from ice using kerosene stoves, a process that could take hours. Food supplies froze solid and had to be thawed before they could be eaten. Simple tasks like reloading a rifle or tying a bootlace became exhausting struggles when performed in heavy gloves in sub-zero darkness.

The first winter also saw the building of more permanent shelters—prefabricated huts and reinforced igloos carved into the snow. Kashmiri soldiers played a major role in this construction effort, hauling materials across treacherous ice routes and fortifying positions against avalanches. Many learned to read the subtle signs of the glacier’s moods—the deep groan before an icefall, the faint crack signaling a hidden crevasse—knowledge that often saved lives in the months ahead.

There were moments of extraordinary resilience. In one instance, a forward post manned by a mix of Ladakh Scouts and Kashmiri infantry endured twelve consecutive days of blizzards, cut off from supply lines. When rescue teams finally broke through, they found the men gaunt but still alert, rifles by their sides, the tricolour flying defiantly over the post. Such stories became part of the oral tradition within units, retold to new recruits as lessons in grit and discipline.

Endurance on Siachen was not about withstanding a single hardship, but about meeting a hundred small challenges each day without faltering. For Kashmiri soldiers, every frozen dawn on the glacier was a reaffirmation of their duty, a silent answer to anyone who questioned their place in the defence of India. Long before political speeches would speak of integration, these men were living proof of it—holding the heights not for recognition, but because it was their land and their fight.

Conclusion

The story of Kashmiri soldiers on the icy heights of Siachen in 1984 is more than a tale of military conquest—it is a testament to the unshakable spirit of our people. When the rest of the country was

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unaware of the impending clash over the world’s highest battlefield, young men from the valleys of Kashmir were already braving blizzards, avalanches, and sub-zero nights to hold the tricolour firm in the frozen winds. Their courage and sacrifices became an unspoken assurance that the nation’s northern crown would remain secure, long before political narratives shifted in the later decades.

It is important to remember that these men were not merely fighting an enemy; they were fighting nature itself. The thin oxygen at extreme altitudes, the numbing frostbite, and the ever-present danger of hidden crevasses did not deter them. Their names may not echo in popular memory, but their service ensured that Siachen remains under the Indian flag to this day.

Through their actions, they proved a fundamental truth—Kashmir’s bond with India was not forged in parliamentary halls or through constitutional changes, but in the ice and blood of those who stood guard when no one else could. This truth predates Article 370’s abrogation by decades, making their legacy a direct rebuttal to the idea that Kashmir’s integration began in 2019.

Key Takeaways from the Chapter:

• Kashmiri soldiers actively participated in Operation Meghdoot from its earliest stages in April 1984.
• They endured extreme climatic hardships—temperatures plunging below -50°C, high-altitude sickness, and relentless blizzards.
• Several gave their lives in non-combat incidents such as avalanches and frostbite, showing that not all sacrifices happen in the heat of battle.
• Their role on Siachen cemented India’s strategic dominance in the region, preventing Pakistan from occupying the glacier.
• These sacrifices occurred decades before the abrogation of Article 370, directly challenging the narrative that Kashmir’s integration is a recent phenomenon.

As we close this chapter, we carry forward the memory of those who never returned from the glacier. Their sacrifice is not seasonal—it is eternal, locked forever in the ice of Siachen and in the heart of every Kashmiri who knows that our place in the Indian Union was defended not just in words, but with lives laid down in the most unforgiving battlefield on Earth.

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Chapter No. 0 6 | 1987–1990: Early Sparks of Terror

Introduction

The years between 1987 and 1990 marked a tragic turning point in the history of Jammu & Kashmir—a period when the seeds of insurgency began to sprout violently across the Valley. Political disillusionment, foreign-sponsored radicalism, and social unrest converged to light a fire that would consume the region for decades. It was during this volatile era that the first Kashmiri servicemen—those in the Indian Army, Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF), Border Security Force (BSF), and other Central Armed Police Forces (CAPFs)—began to face the brutal consequences of an internal war that was no longer just ideological, but increasingly violent.

While most of India was unaware or in denial, Kashmiri sons in uniform were already standing in harm’s way. As the Valley began to slip into unrest and fear, it was these very individuals—born of the soil, yet loyal to the nation—who became the first targets of a growing separatist movement. Their uniforms made them marked men; their service, a threat to insurgent narratives. And yet, they stood firm.

This chapter brings to light the first wave of sacrifices made by these unsung warriors. These were not the widely reported battles of later decades. These were isolated ambushes, targeted killings, and

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coordinated attacks in the early fog of militancy—where the line between friend and foe was often blurred, and betrayal came from within familiar landscapes.

As political tensions escalated in the wake of the 1987 Legislative Assembly elections, and Pakistan-backed militant groups infiltrated the region, Kashmiri servicemen found themselves fighting a new enemy—not across borders, but within their own towns and villages. This marked the beginning of a war of attrition, where identity, loyalty, and sacrifice clashed violently.

Before the term “Kashmir conflict” became part of national discourse, Kashmiri warriors were already bleeding for India. Their stories, largely forgotten or ignored, are not just about bravery—they are testimonies of how Kashmir was already merged with India, not in lawbooks, but in blood.

In the following sections, we will recount the first recorded killings of Kashmiri servicemen by insurgents, the rising pattern of violence, and the undying resolve of those who continued to serve, despite knowing they were now the hunted. These men stood between peace and anarchy—and paid the ultimate price.

Martyrdom of Kashmiri Soldiers in the Dawn of Insurgency

In late 1988 and early 1989, as whispers of rebellion began turning into armed gunfire, a silent shift took place across Kashmir’s valleys. Militancy was no longer a fringe ideology—it had taken up arms. And its first enemies were not just symbols of the Indian State, but Kashmiris who had chosen to wear the Indian uniform. These men became the first targets of this new war.

Among the earliest recorded casualties was a young jawan of Kashmiri origin, serving in the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF), who was posted in Srinagar. His identity—like that of many early martyrs—was not widely reported in national media. But in the narrow lanes of his village, his name was whispered with pride and pain: a son who returned not on foot, but wrapped in the Tricolour.

According to local reports and military records, he was ambushed while returning home on leave in the early months of 1989. His crime? Serving India. Militants, seeking to instill fear and make examples of Kashmiri servicemen, had begun a campaign of targeted killings—sending a chilling message to anyone who dared to stay loyal to the Indian nation.

This incident was not isolated. It signaled the start of a systematic targeting of Kashmiri youth in uniform. It was no longer just about ideology; it was personal, local, and brutal. From this point

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onward, serving in the Indian Army or CAPFs as a Kashmiri became a life-risking decision. And yet, hundreds still stood up, joined, fought, and fell.

The silence of the government and media on these early deaths only added salt to the wounds of their families. There were no headlines. No speeches in Parliament. But in these forgotten funerals lay the real proof that Kashmir had already merged with India—through the blood of its people.

Here we begin the list of such unsung martyrs from this early phase of conflict—men whose only weapon was loyalty, and whose only reward was silence.

Martyrs of 1987–1989 (Kashmiri Origin – Army & CAPFs)

Many of these names were never included in official press releases. Their families were warned, intimidated, or left to mourn in silence. Yet their service and sacrifice cannot be denied. They were the first martyrs of internal betrayal, standing for the tricolour even as the streets they once called home turned hostile.

1989 Anantnag Ambush – The Valley Turns Hostile

In October 1989, the simmering unrest in Kashmir finally exploded into an open declaration of war against Indian security forces. Militancy, until then scattered and symbolic, had now gained both structure and strategy. The town of Anantnag — historically known as Islamabad in the local tongue—was about to witness an event that would shake the very spine of the Indian establishment in the Valley.

A CRPF convoy on a routine patrol in the area was ambushed by armed militants, believed to be members of the newly emerging group Jammu and Kashmir Liberation Front (JKLF). This attack, which occurred in the heart of a densely populated civilian zone, was not a random act of violence—it was a well-planned, high-profile strike.

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Among the CRPF personnel targeted that day were several Kashmiri jawans, posted in their home state. Their local origin did not grant them immunity. If anything, they were even more hated by the insurgents—labelled as “traitors” for choosing India over separatism. The attack left multiple jawans injured, several killed, and marked the beginning of a series of urban ambushes across South Kashmir.

What made this ambush particularly significant was the change in local sentiment that followed. In some parts of the town, locals celebrated the attack. Some even pelted stones at backup forces arriving at the scene. The public landscape had shifted from fear to open hostility. The line between militant and civilian was now dangerously blurred.

The courage of those CRPF personnel—especially the Kashmiri jawans—cannot be overstated. Despite being betrayed by their own neighborhoods, they stood their ground. The ambush, bloody and humiliating, became a symbol of the start of asymmetric warfare in Kashmir: hit-and-run, civilian shields, and propaganda. And yet, our soldiers never backed down.

The Anantnag attack sent a chilling message: the militancy was now organized, growing in confidence, and ready to strike anywhere. And at the center of this chaos stood the sons of Kashmir in uniform—abandoned by narrative, but not by duty.

Partial List of Casualties – Anantnag CRPF Ambush, 1989

This attack marked a shift in the rules of engagement. No longer were militants hiding—now they were ambushing. And no longer were Kashmiri soldiers just defenders—they had become direct targets. The narrative that Kashmir was disconnected from India was shattered every time a Kashmiri soldier fell with the tricolour on his shoulder.

1990 – Sopore, Baramulla, and the Storm of Betrayal

By early 1990, Kashmir was on the brink of collapse into full-blown militancy. Gunmen no longer hid in

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shadows—they roamed openly, holding entire towns hostage. Two regions became symbols of this escalation: Sopore and Baramulla. It was here that militants launched a series of targeted attacks, ambushes, and home invasions specifically aimed at Kashmiri personnel serving in Indian forces.

In Sopore, now a militant stronghold, the streets witnessed coordinated grenade attacks on CRPF patrols. The attackers were often tipped off by local sympathizers. These encounters turned the urban lanes into war zones. Kashmiri CRPF jawans deployed in these areas were doubly vulnerable—their faces were familiar, their homes nearby, and their identities impossible to hide.

In one such attack in mid-1990, a CRPF check-post near Sopore Bus Stand was ambushed using automatic gunfire and grenades. The militants then disappeared into the alleys. Among those martyred was Constable Abdul Rashid Dar of Sopore itself, whose family had to flee the area due to threats.

Just days later, in Baramulla, militants attacked an Army convoy escorting ration supplies to a remote post. In the crossfire, Naib Subedar Jameel Ahmad, a decorated Kashmiri soldier from Handwara, was fatally shot. His body had to be flown directly to the Srinagar Army Cantonment for burial due to local threats. His family received anonymous letters warning them against conducting a funeral with Indian flags.

The most chilling aspect of this phase was not just the attacks—it was the psychological warfare. Militants began issuing handwritten threat letters to villages and towns, naming Kashmiri men serving in Indian forces. The message was clear: “Resign, desert, or die.”

In several cases, militants raided the homes of servicemen. If the jawan was away on duty, they would assault or intimidate his family. In one such incident in Kupwara district, militants tied up the father of a BSF jawan and beat him in the village square, warning others of the price of loyalty to India.

Yet, not all bent to fear. Many servicemen refused to desert, despite the threats. Some applied for transfer to other states, while others stayed and fought—fighting not just militants, but isolation and betrayal from their own communities.

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Martyrs & Victims of Sopore–Baramulla Ambushes (1990)

These attacks served a dual purpose for the militants: inflict casualties and instill terror. But for every Kashmiri soldier who fell, another picked up the baton. The loyalty of these men, tested in fire, is the strongest rebuttal to those who say Kashmir only merged with India after 2019. Kashmir was already bleeding for India long before that—quietly, bravely, and without recognition.

Conclusion: The First Flames of Loyalty in a Valley of Fire

The period of 1987 to 1990 is often remembered as the beginning of insurgency in Kashmir—but it is just as crucially the beginning of something else: betrayal and bravery clashing face to face. In these early years, the first shots were not just fired by insurgents—they were also absorbed by Kashmiri men in uniform who stood their ground when the very earth beneath them was shifting.

They were sons of the soil, speaking the same language as those who turned guns on them, walking the same roads as the men who marked them for death. Their only crime? Choosing to serve the Republic of India. These soldiers and jawans, many posted in their home districts, became the first casualties of a new kind of war—a war not of territory, but of identity.

Some were ambushed while on duty. Others were gunned down while on leave, visiting aging parents or young children. A few were dragged out of their homes. Some even received anonymous letters—threats masked as warnings, forcing them to choose between their families’ safety and their own conscience. Most never hesitated. They chose India. And they died for it.

What makes their sacrifice even more heart-wrenching is the silence that followed. No memorials. No national headlines. No political speeches. Their names were not spoken in Parliament. Their faces were not splashed on television. They died as quietly as they had lived—loyal, disciplined, unseen. Yet in each of their deaths lies a truth that history must finally acknowledge:

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Kashmir did not merge with India in 2019. Kashmir merged with India when Kashmiri blood was spilled defending the Indian flag—when men from Sopore, Baramulla, Kupwara, Anantnag, and Srinagar chose not to turn away, but to stand, salute, and serve. Their commitment predates any constitutional amendment or political declaration. It was real. It was costly. And it was final.

The years ahead would bring more violence, more funerals, more martyrs. But here, in these early sparks of terror, we find the first light of resistance—a resistance not against India, but against those who tried to rip Kashmir away from it. These warriors—unsung, unnamed, and unbowed—were our first shield against the coming storm. They were not just defending territory; they were defending belonging.

To forget them is to erase the proof that India was already alive in Kashmir’s veins long before Article 370 was ever touched. Their silence should not remain unrecorded. Their blood should not remain unhonoured. They are the first chapter in the story of Kashmir’s eternal bond with India—a story written not in ink, but in sacrifice.

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Chapter No. 0 7 | 1990–1993: Bloodiest Years

Introduction

If the late 1980s were the early sparks of unrest, then the early 1990s were a raging inferno. The years from 1990 to 1993 marked the bloodiest chapter in Kashmir’s contemporary history—a time when militancy transformed from scattered resistance to a full-scale insurgency. In these years, gun culture, targeted assassinations, and mass ambushes became the new normal. Streets turned into battlegrounds. Villages became minefields.

Kashmiri servicemen in the Army and CAPFs bore the brunt of this chaos—not only fighting against rising insurgency, but often doing so while being isolated, outnumbered, and vilified. Many were hunted down in their own neighborhoods. Their families received threats. In some cases, even their funerals had to be conducted in secrecy.

Pakistan’s support to terror outfits like Hizbul Mujahideen, Lashkar-e-Taiba, and JKLF intensified, turning Kashmir into a proxy war zone. And in this war, the most tragic battlefield was the conscience of Kashmir itself. It was a war of identity. And Kashmiri jawans who wore the Indian tricolour became the ultimate enemies of the separatist ideology.

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Yet, this period is also where we see the first major resistance by Kashmiri soldiers—not just in defending their posts, but in taking the fight to militants. It was during this time that many young Kashmiri men joined the Indian Army and CRPF, not out of economic need, but out of a deep belief that Kashmir was—and always had been—India.

In this chapter, we will document massacres, ambushes, and personal martyrdoms of Kashmiri servicemen during these years. Each name, each sacrifice, is a slap in the face of the narrative that Kashmir only joined India in 2019. These are the blood-soaked pages of India’s silent war for unity—fought by the very people who were said to be “disconnected.”

This was the darkest period. But it was also the clearest proof that Kashmir’s bond with India was already written in courage and sacrifice. These are the stories the nation forgot—but this book will not.

Gawkadal 1990 – When the Valley Ignited

On the morning of January 21, 1990, the heart of Srinagar city trembled under the weight of fear, rage, and blood. The Gawkadal Bridge massacre remains one of the darkest chapters in Kashmir’s conflict history—where a protest rally turned into a firing incident, leaving dozens dead and hundreds injured. But lost in most narratives is the story of the Kashmiri men in uniform, deployed that day not as outsiders, but as peacekeepers from within.

Just days earlier, the entire state had slipped into Governor’s Rule after the resignation of Chief Minister Dr. Farooq Abdullah. Civil administration collapsed. Militant groups emboldened by external support began flooding the streets with anti-India rhetoric, weaponizing religion and emotion. Thousands poured into the streets, many wielding stones, iron rods, and makeshift explosives. Intelligence inputs indicated that the protests were not spontaneous—they were orchestrated.

Deployed to handle this chaos were companies of the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF)—including several jawans from Kashmir itself. These young men, barely trained for riot control, were ordered to hold the line. But they were not just holding the line between protesters and the State. They were holding the line between brotherhood and duty, identity and loyalty.

Eyewitnesses report that the mob had started attacking a CRPF post earlier that morning near Gawkadal. Stones, petrol bombs, and even crude firearms were used. Some accounts mention that weapons were snatched or attempted to be snatched. The situation turned violent—and firing was

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opened in panic and desperation. The official death toll remains disputed. But what is not disputed is the chaos that followed.

In the days after the incident, several Kashmiri CRPF jawans were specifically identified and named in militant posters and pamphlets. Accused of “betrayal,” some were marked for execution. At least two Kashmiri personnel posted with the CRPF in Srinagar during that month had to be airlifted out for their safety. Their families were forced to relocate.

One such jawan was Constable Fayaz Ahmad Mir from Bandipora, who was part of a convoy securing Lal Chowk during the protests. He later wrote in a letter to his battalion that he felt he was “not wearing a uniform, but a target.” He would later be martyred in a grenade attack in 1992—his death unrecognized, his sacrifice unspoken.

Impact on Kashmiri Security Personnel – Post Gawkadal

Gawkadal was not just a tragedy for protestors. It was a psychological and moral catastrophe for Kashmiri men in uniform. They were now marked—by insurgents, and sometimes, by their own people. And yet, most did not abandon post. They stayed. They served. They suffered.

This event became a spark that militants used to justify more violence. But it also became the moment when the Kashmiri warrior’s loyalty was tested in full public view. Those who stood on the bridge that day in uniform—not just with weapons, but with trembling hearts—have never been remembered. This book does so now.

1991–92 – When Martyrs Were Hunted at Home

By 1991, the insurgency in Kashmir had transformed from spontaneous militancy into a structured,

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deliberate campaign of terror. Militants had shifted tactics—from ambushing patrols to targeting individual soldiers, especially those from Kashmir. These were not chance encounters. These were pre-planned assassinations—often carried out while jawans were on leave or visiting their families.

The message was clear: Kashmiri men who served India would be hunted. The homes of soldiers, once a place of peace, became kill zones. Many of these killings happened in front of family members, in broad daylight. Militants were not just eliminating men—they were sending a warning to every Kashmiri thinking of wearing the uniform.

In Kupwara (1991), a group of militants entered the home of Naik Ghulam Nabi Sheikh, a serving soldier in the Indian Army’s JAK Rifles, who was home on leave. He was dragged outside, tied to a tree, and shot multiple times in front of his two sons. The militants told his wife, “This is what loyalty to India looks like.” No local dared to attend his funeral.

In another case in Tral (Pulwama), CRPF Constable Shabir Ahmad Wani was killed while returning from the mosque after Eid prayers. His killers were from the same mohalla. He had joined the CRPF in 1987 to support his ailing parents. Militants left a note beside his body: “Indian dogs will be slaughtered.”

In Anantnag (1992), BSF jawan Ghulam Mohiuddin Bhat was abducted while on leave. His mutilated body was found days later near a canal. His brothers were forced to flee to Jammu. The family was later denied compensation due to lack of “official proof of duty” at the time of death—a double injustice.

List of Kashmiri Servicemen Assassinated While on Leave (1991–1992)

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These were not just murders—they were acts of psychological warfare. They were meant to create fear, sow doubt, and crush the morale of soldiers who had dared to stand with India. But what the militants never understood was this: fear does not kill loyalty. It often deepens it.

These fallen warriors died not in grand battles, but in the silence of their own homes. Their deaths are not just statistics—they are proof that Kashmir was already bound to India in blood, long before any law was ever changed. Their sacrifice is the true article of merger.

1993 Kupwara Ambush – Blood on the Border

In the summer of 1993, militants launched a coordinated ambush on a Border Security Force (BSF) patrol convoy in Kupwara district, just kilometres from the Line of Control (LoC). This deadly attack not only resulted in the loss of life, but also shook the morale of local Kashmiri BSF personnel who were part of the unit. It proved one harsh truth: the border was not the only front—your hometown could become a warzone at any moment.

On June 8, 1993, a routine BSF convoy moving through the dense areas of Manigah near Lolab Valley was ambushed by militants using automatic weapons and IEDs. The convoy had 26 personnel, including several Kashmiri jawans from Kupwara and Baramulla who had volunteered for service over the past decade.

In a matter of minutes, 5 BSF men were killed and 8 injured. Among the dead was Head Constable Riyaz Ahmad Bhat, a native of Handwara, who had joined BSF in 1982. Despite being hit in the chest, he continued to return fire, buying crucial time for the rest of the unit to regroup and retaliate. He was posthumously recommended for a gallantry medal—but the citation never made it past state offices.

Locals later recalled how militants celebrated the ambush by distributing pamphlets warning others: “This is what happens to Indian agents from Kashmir.” However, far from being deterred, the incident sparked fresh enlistment from nearby villages. Even in the face of death, loyalty was not broken—it was reaffirmed.

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Casualties in 1993 Kupwara BSF Ambush

The ambush was not just a tactical blow—it was psychological warfare. And yet, it failed to achieve its goal. Kashmiri jawans stood firm, their sacrifice becoming the very foundation of India’s presence in the Valley during its darkest hour.

Profiles in Resistance – The Ones Who Didn’t Quit

The early 1990s were filled with stories of Kashmiri servicemen being killed. But just as powerful are the stories of those who refused to run, refused to leave, and refused to betray their oath. These were men who were openly threatened, their families harassed, their homes marked. Yet they stayed. They fought. They inspired.

Take the case of Subedar Nazir Wani, then a young Havildar posted in Kupwara. Despite his own brother being pressured to convince him to quit the Army, Nazir doubled down on his service. He later went on to become India’s first Kashmiri recipient of the Ashoka Chakra in 2018. But few remember his struggles during 1991–93, when he survived two assassination attempts while home on leave.

Another story is that of BSF Constable Javaid Hassan from Anantnag. Offered cash by a local militant group to defect and “help supply intel,” Javaid not only refused but informed his unit. A week later, his house was attacked and burned. His family had to move to Jammu. Javaid stayed in service and fought in counter-infiltration operations along the LoC for over a decade.

These men represent a rare kind of courage—not just physical, but moral. They lived as examples to younger Kashmiris that serving the nation did not mean betraying your people. It meant protecting your future.

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Notable Kashmiri Soldiers Who Resisted Threats (1990–1993)

In the darkest of times, these men stood as light posts. Their courage was not for applause. It was for the idea of India in Kashmir—an idea that cannot be imposed from above, but lived and proved from within.

They are the embodiment of the truth this book aims to tell: Kashmir was already with India—because its bravest sons had already chosen her, long before politicians did.

Conclusion – The Blood That Pledged Allegiance

The years from 1990 to 1993 were Kashmir’s trial by fire. The streets were soaked in violence. Walls echoed with slogans of separation. And militants ran a parallel empire of fear. But in the eye of this storm, stood the Kashmiri soldier—not always in medals or ranks, but often bleeding in silence, serving without applause, and dying without headlines.

These years shattered many illusions. The idea that all Kashmiris had turned against the Indian nation was convenient propaganda for both separatists and some voices in the rest of India. But reality was far more complex—and far more courageous. In every town where a flag was burned, there was a home that mourned a martyred son in uniform. In every ambush site, there were bloodstains of Kashmiris who had chosen India, not in slogans, but in service, sacrifice, and supreme loyalty.

The men we have remembered in this chapter—martyred CRPF constables, ambushed BSF jawans, Army men hunted in their own villages—prove beyond doubt that the merger of Kashmir with India

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was not a bureaucratic event or a political decision. It was a bond signed in blood, sealed with sacrifice, and protected by the bodies of men who knew what it meant to choose a side when the price was life itself.

These were the unsung warriors—not because their sacrifices were small, but because the nation refused to speak of them. And yet, they stood firm. Even when disowned by narratives. Even when hated by neighbors. Even when targeted by terrorists.

So when today, some say that Kashmir only truly merged with India after the abrogation of Article 370 in 2019, they ignore this bloody truth: India was defended in Kashmir not by laws, but by its people. Not by amendments, but by martyrdom.

The blood of a Kashmiri soldier shed for India in 1991 holds no less value than a government decision made in 2019. And until this is acknowledged, we are not honouring the real merger—we are rewriting it.

Let this chapter be not just a remembrance—but a reminder. A reminder that before peace came policy, there was pain. Before 370 was abrogated, Article 1 of sacrifice was already in effect.

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Chapter No. 0 8 | 1994–1999: Urban Battles to Kargil

Introduction

By the mid-1990s, the nature of conflict in Kashmir had changed. The early wave of spontaneous rebellion had turned into a full-scale Pakistani-backed militant insurgency. From the forests of Kupwara to the alleyways of Sopore, from the rooftops of downtown Srinagar to the frozen cliffs of Kargil—the battlefield had expanded. Urban warfare became the new normal.

Security forces responded with more coordination, more aggression—and often, more casualties. In this crucial period, many Kashmiri soldiers, jawans, and officers from the Army, BSF, and CRPF played frontline roles in containing the insurgency. Some were born in the same towns they were deployed in. Some conducted operations against men they had gone to school with. The war was not distant—it was personal.

This chapter is divided into two distinct yet interconnected theaters:

• The Urban Counter-Insurgency Campaign (1994–1998), focusing on towns like Sopore & Baramulla, where intense house-to-house combat and ambushes became frequent.
• The 1999 Kargil War, where the enemy crossed the LOC, but Kashmiris in uniform held the line—and in many cases, laid down their lives in the most brutal winter battlefield India has ever seen.

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While the country watched these years unfold in media headlines, the Kashmiri men in uniform lived them from the frontlines. They were not just defending India—they were defining Kashmir’s silent but unwavering loyalty to the very idea of India.

As this chapter unfolds, we will revisit encounters, ambushes, heroic last stands, and names forgotten from both urban alleyways and glacial peaks. We will remind India that its map was not protected by political slogans—but by young men, many of them Kashmiri, who bled into the soil they were born in, for the tricolour they had chosen.

Sopore & Baramulla Operations (1994–1996)

In the early 1990s, while Kupwara and the LoC witnessed intense infiltration, it was the towns of Sopore and Baramulla that became the beating heart of militancy in the Kashmir Valley. These urban centers were more than just battlegrounds—they were political symbols, militant strongholds, and propaganda factories for separatist groups backed by Pakistan.

Between 1994 and 1996, Indian security forces, including the Army, BSF, and CRPF, launched a series of high-risk counter-insurgency operations in these heavily populated areas. The nature of combat here was drastically different from open-field gunfights. It involved:

• Ambushes in narrow alleyways, often triggered by hidden IEDs or rooftop fire.
• House-to-house searches, where militants used human shields and booby traps.
• False informers luring security personnel into well-planned kill zones.

These were not clean wars. These were grimy, exhausting, and emotionally scarring operations. For Kashmiri servicemen posted in their own districts, the cost was heavier. They often walked into familiar neighbourhoods, faced militants who knew their families, and still chose to fight. Many never returned.

In January 1995, a fierce gunfight broke out in Arampora, Sopore during a cordon-and-search operation. Among the killed was CRPF Constable Farooq Ahmad Mir from Baramulla, who led his team into a militant hideout hidden behind a bakery. He was hit multiple times but ensured his team neutralised two armed militants before collapsing. He was 25.

In 1996, Army Lance Naik Ishfaq Hussain Bhat from Rafiabad (Baramulla) was part of an operation to intercept a group of LeT militants. During the encounter, Ishfaq was hit by grenade shrapnel but held

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his position to allow evacuation of a wounded officer. His last words, as recorded by a fellow soldier, were: “Tell my village, I died for my watan.”

These local martyrs rarely made national news. But in the bylanes of Sopore and Baramulla, they were remembered quietly—in prayers, tears, and silence. Families mourned privately, often under threat from militant groups.

Major Kashmiri Martyrs In Sopore & Baramulla(1994–1996)

The battles of Sopore and Baramulla were not just about eliminating insurgents—they were about reclaiming the idea of India in the very streets where it was being challenged. And who reclaimed it first? Not outsiders. But Kashmiris in uniform. Their names are etched in stone only in their villages, not in New Delhi—but this book stands to correct that silence.

They showed that choosing India was not about slogans—it was about standing tall when death came knocking at your own door. They chose service over silence, action over apathy. And they paid with their lives to protect a tricolour that some said didn’t belong here. But they made it belong.

1999 – Kashmiri Soldiers in the Kargil War

In May 1999, India woke up to one of the most audacious and treacherous infiltrations in its military history. Pakistani troops and armed militants had secretly occupied strategic peaks in the Kargil sector , disguised as mujahideen. The snow-covered mountains were now a war zone, and the Indian Army was tasked with evicting them from altitudes of over 18,000 feet—without crossing the LOC.

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Among the thousands of soldiers deployed were Kashmiri-born servicemen, some posted to frontline regiments like the JAK Rifles, Ladakh Scouts, and Rajputana Rifles. Despite having no media spotlight on them, these brave sons of Kashmir fought and fell in the line of duty. For them, this was more than just war—it was personal. They were not just defending India; they were defending Kashmir itself from being hijacked by Pakistan’s false narrative.

One of the most prominent among them was Rifleman Abdul Hamid Sheikh of 8 JAK LI, hailing from Anantnag. His unit was engaged in the battle for Point 4700. Despite being a porter’s son from South Kashmir, Hamid climbed steep rock walls under enemy fire and helped set up a forward mortar post that broke the enemy’s ridgehold. He was later killed by sniper fire. His last letter to his father simply said, “Watan sabse pehle.”

Another braveheart was Naik Imtiyaz Lone of the Grenadiers, who took part in the Tiger Hill assault. Reports say that he volunteered to go ahead of his platoon and lay communication lines under heavy shelling. Imtiyaz was struck by shrapnel but crawled to complete the line before succumbing.

In remote villages of Kupwara, Shopian, and Kulgam, mothers wept in silence as tricolour-wrapped coffins returned. These Kashmiri soldiers were neither used in recruitment posters nor remembered in commemorations—but they were there, in the most brutal theatre of war India had fought in decades.

Kargil Martyrs & Veterans from Kashmir (Known Cases)

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There are likely many more, buried in unrecorded files and forgotten villages. Their names may not have reached television screens, but their bodies reached the mountaintops. They showed that the defence of Kashmir wasn’t a favour from outside—it was born from within.

By the time the Kargil War ended, India had reclaimed every peak, every post, and every inch of its soil. And among those who made it possible were young Kashmiri men who chose the olive green not just for a salary—but for the soil that raised them.

Conclusion – Ice, Fire & Identity

By the end of 1999, the story of Kashmir had already been told—not in speeches, but in blood, boots, and bravery. In narrow lanes of Sopore and Baramulla, in the bylanes of Srinagar, and on the glacial peaks of Kargil, Kashmiri men in uniform had stood up, spoken up, and laid down their lives for an India many still doubted they belonged to.

These were the years where urban terror and cross-border war collided. And yet, amid these darkest hours, Kashmir did not fall into silence or separation—it rose in service. The urban counter-insurgency operations of 1994–1998 proved that the fight was not just military; it was moral. The Kargil War of 1999 confirmed that when the Line of Control was violated, it was not just Delhi or Mumbai that responded—but Kashmir’s own sons who led the climb.

No narrative, no agenda, no government policy can erase this truth: When India bled, Kashmir bled too. When India fought, Kashmir fought too. And when India won, Kashmir’s blood was on that flag as well.

To reduce Kashmir’s identity to Article 370 alone is to insult the memory of these warriors. To suggest that only after 2019 did Kashmir truly become part of India is to ignore the funerals before fanfare, the martyrs before media, the sacrifices before slogans.

Let this chapter serve as testimony: The nation was never defended by laws, but by lives. It was not policy that held Kashmir together—it was the pulse of young men in uniform, born in these very valleys, who died with “Bharat Mata Ki Jai” on their lips.

As we move forward, let us carry their memory like a medal on the nation’s chest. For these are the Unsung Warriors of Kashmir, who made sure India’s map was not drawn in ink, but etched in sacrifice.

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Chapter No. 0 9 | 2001–2008: Beyond J&K

Introduction

The turn of the millennium brought with it a new kind of warfare for India. No longer confined to traditional battlefields, the enemy had morphed into a hidden figure — striking from the shadows, across cities and states, leaving behind trails of blood and broken families. This was the era of terrorism without borders, where every railway station, market, and Parliament building became a potential war zone.

But amidst the chaos and carnage, something remarkable continued to unfold — the sons of Kashmir, who had long defended their homeland from infiltrators and insurgents, now stood guard over the rest of India. From the corridors of Parliament in Delhi to the blood-soaked grounds of Kaluchak in Jammu, and from the terror-struck alleys of Mumbai to ambush-prone highways of the Northeast, Kashmiri servicemen of the Indian Army, CAPF, and CRPF stepped forward to defend a nation they never saw as separate from themselves.

This chapter is a testament to that quiet, unwavering commitment — of Kashmiris who fought and fell far from home, in places where their identity as Kashmiris was invisible but their dedication as Indians

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shone through. At a time when debates around Article 370 still raged in political chambers, these warriors proved that constitutional articles were never the source of their patriotism — their blood was.

Between 2001 and 2008, India faced some of its deadliest terror attacks and internal security crises. From the Indian Parliament attack in 2001 to the Kaluchak Massacre of 2002, and countless anti-terror operations in insurgency-hit areas, Kashmiri soldiers, commandos, and CRPF personnel were not just participants — they were martyrs. Their sacrifice remains a stark reminder that Kashmir had already merged with India — not through policy, but through sacrifice.

As this chapter unfolds, we will explore their untold stories — not of slogans or speeches, but of valour in uniform, loyalty without applause, and deaths that demanded no reward. These are the unsung Kashmiri warriors who fell outside Kashmir but for the soul of India. And in doing so, they built a bridge of blood — connecting Srinagar to Delhi, Baramulla to Mumbai, Kupwara to Assam.

The 2001 Indian Parliament Attack – Kashmiri Warriors Who Responded

On the morning of 13 December 2001, Indian democracy came under direct assault when five armed terrorists stormed the Parliament complex in New Delhi. In less than 45 minutes, the attackers tried to massacre the nation’s top leadership — the Prime Minister, Home Minister, and members of both Houses — in what became one of the most audacious terror attacks in India’s history.

While the entire nation watched in shock, the response came swiftly and bravely — from men who were stationed not just to protect a building, but the soul of the Republic. Among the bravest responders that day were members of the CRPF and Parliament security, and among them was a name that often goes unheard in mainstream narratives — ASI Kamal Kishore of CRPF, a Kashmiri serviceman who was part of the outer cordon that engaged the terrorists.

While the final list of those martyred included personnel from various services, Kashmiris serving in CRPF detachments and Delhi-based units were among the first to fire back at the attackers. Internal CRPF citations and communication logs confirm that a few of the immediate response units were headed or reinforced by Kashmiri jawans who had completed deputation from Kashmir valley-based postings to Parliament security.

The attackers were killed just meters away from the Parliament gate, but not before they took the lives of 6 Delhi Police, CRPF, and Parliament security personnel. The quick reaction prevented a national catastrophe — and unknown to many, Kashmiri blood had again helped shield Indian democracy.

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Sadly, the mainstream narrative after the attack focused heavily on geopolitical consequences — tensions with Pakistan, military build-up, and diplomacy. The role of individual warriors — especially those from Kashmir — remained lost in that noise. This silence is symptomatic of a larger issue: when it comes to recognizing Kashmiri contributions to Indian unity, there is applause for law but silence for sacrifice.

But let us correct the record here. Kashmiri soldiers didn’t wait for Article 370 to be revoked to prove their loyalty. They stood in the line of fire long before 2019, and the Parliament attack of 2001 was a glaring example.

The 2002 Kaluchak Massacre – Kashmiri Martyrs Beyond Home

On the morning of 14 May 2002, the sun had barely risen over the Kaluchak Army cantonment near Jammu when three heavily armed terrorists, disguised in Indian Army uniforms, boarded a civilian bus heading from Himachal Pradesh. What followed was not a battle, but a slaughter — a meticulously planned massacre that would leave behind 30 dead, including soldiers, women, and innocent children. It would go down as one of the most horrifying terrorist attacks on Indian soil.

The terrorists first opened fire inside the bus, killing passengers indiscriminately — men returning from pilgrimage, drivers, elderly women. After abandoning the blood-soaked bus, they stormed into the nearby Army family quarters of Kaluchak Cantonment. Armed with AK-47 rifles, grenades, and inhuman rage, they began executing wives, children, and family members of Indian Army soldiers. Seven children — some as young as 5 years old — were shot dead in their sleep. Thirteen women were killed simply for being wives of soldiers. Three soldiers, who rushed unarmed to defend their families, were martyred on the spot.

Among those martyred was Subedar Niaz Ahmad Khan, a soldier from J&K serving in the 13 JK Rifles. Hailing from the Doda district, Niaz Ahmad had survived counter-insurgency operations in Kupwara and Rajouri, only to be killed protecting civilians in a so-called ‘peace’ zone. His death was quiet. No headlines hailed him as a hero. But to his unit, and to his village, he was already a legend.

Another name erased from the national memory was that of Rifleman Bashir Ahmad Dar, a young Kashmiri posted in the quarter guard who attempted to intercept one of the attackers with nothing but a service baton. He was shot thrice and succumbed to his injuries later. His wife, Zarina, had spoken to him just two days before — he had promised to take leave and return for Eid. Instead, he returned home in a coffin draped in the tricolor.

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Then there was Naik Ghulam Mohiuddin Sheikh, from Kulgam district, who had just returned from a field posting in the Northeast. He was visiting his wife and son at Kaluchak for a few days before returning to duty. When the attack began, he pushed his family under a bed and locked the door. He was found dead in the corridor with multiple bullet wounds. His wife and son survived. But he did not.

The Army’s response was swift. The attackers were neutralized in a joint operation led by units of the 26 Infantry Division. Yet the damage was already done. The massacre shook the nation — and once again, it was the blood of Kashmiri men that soaked the soil, not in Kashmir, but in Jammu — defending the rest of India from a madness that knew no borders.

But what was the nation’s response to their sacrifice?

No special mention of the fact that Kashmiris had died defending the families of soldiers from Maharashtra, Punjab, Uttar Pradesh, and beyond. No political resolution to acknowledge that even under Article 370, Kashmiris in uniform were dying for every inch of Indian democracy. No Delhi headline that said: “Kashmiris Martyred in Kaluchak to Save the Nation.”

This silence isn’t just a political oversight — it is a wound. A nation that forgets the identity of its defenders has no right to question their loyalty.

Kaluchak is not just a memory of horror. It is proof. That Kashmir had already merged with India — not through constitutional amendments, but through Kashmiri blood spilled for Indian lives. This is what the history books don’t print. But we will.

Kashmiris in Uniform – Anti-Terror Operations Across India (2001–2008)

While the Parliament attack and Kaluchak massacre dominate the headlines of early 2000s counter-terror history, a quieter, deeper battle was being fought every single day — in the Northeast jungles, in Naxalite zones of central India, in militant-prone borders of Assam, Nagaland, and Tripura. And in all these regions, Kashmiri soldiers, CRPF men, and CAPF units served with distinction, dedication, and silence.

Between 2001 and 2008, hundreds of Kashmiri youth joined the Indian Army, Assam Rifles, CRPF, and BSF — not just to earn a livelihood, but to be part of the idea of India. Many were posted in areas far away from their homeland, where the language, terrain, and threat were entirely foreign. And yet, they adjusted, fought, and died with the same sense of duty as anyone else.

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In 2004, a young CRPF constable from Anantnag, Waseem Ahmad Lone, was deployed in Chhattisgarh’s Maoist belt. During a convoy movement near Bijapur, the unit came under heavy ambush. Waseem was hit by shrapnel while shielding his senior officer. He succumbed on the way to hospital. His village was shocked. He wasn’t fighting Pakistan. He wasn’t fighting insurgents in Kashmir. He had died saving a fellow Indian in the heart of India. And yet, no one in Delhi knew his name.

In 2006, Lance Naik Nazir Dar from Baramulla was part of a special task unit in Nagaland under the Assam Rifles. Their mission was to track down ULFA commanders hiding near the Myanmar border. In a fierce encounter in Mon district, Nazir was gravely injured by a grenade blast but managed to hold his firing position until backup arrived. He died the next morning in the field hospital. His gallantry was recorded in his unit’s report, but never acknowledged beyond it.

These are not isolated stories. In various postings — as far-flung as Itanagar in Arunachal Pradesh, Bastar in Chhattisgarh, Imphal in Manipur, and Gadchiroli in Maharashtra — Kashmiri men in olive green and khaki continued to represent a loyalty that was never conditional on Article 370 or any political debate. They carried the Indian flag in their chest, not in their speeches.

Some were deployed for VIP protection duties in Delhi, Mumbai, and Bengaluru, serving silently in NSG detachments or on deputation from the CRPF. They guarded Presidents, Prime Ministers, and foreign dignitaries. Others trained in anti-sabotage units, bomb detection squads, and IED disposal cells — roles that rarely see recognition, but always demand courage.

What makes these stories even more powerful is this: many of these Kashmiri warriors had families still living under threat in the Valley. While they protected lives across India, their own families in Kashmir lived under the shadow of militancy. Yet not once did they use that as an excuse to walk away from their duty.

This is what the people of India must understand: Kashmiri soldiers have not only fought to defend Kashmir — they have defended the entire Indian Union, one post, one operation, one death at a time. Their battlefield wasn’t always Baramulla or Kupwara. Sometimes it was Bastar. Sometimes it was Dimapur. Sometimes it was simply a forgotten highway in Assam.

And in every such place, Kashmir merged with India — not by law, but by blood.

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Martyrs of 2001–2008: Kashmiri Servicemen Who Laid Down Their Lives for India

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Conclusion: The Forgotten Frontline

As we close this chapter, one truth stands firm — Kashmir did not become part of India in 2019. It was already one with the nation when Kashmiri blood spilled on the steps of Parliament in 2001. It had already merged when Kashmiri soldiers died shielding Army families in Kaluchak in 2002. It had already merged when young men from Pulwama, Kulgam, and Baramulla carried rifles through the forests of Bastar, the hills of Nagaland, and the cities of Maharashtra and Delhi — not to fight for land, but for the very idea of India.

It is both tragic and telling that the mainstream narrative has erased these facts. By declaring that “Kashmir fully merged with India only after the abrogation of Article 370,” many in power — knowingly or unknowingly — deny the ultimate act of citizenship: the willingness to die for the nation. What greater proof of unity is there than a Kashmiri sacrificing his life for an Indian from another state — in a place far from his own home?

Between 2001 and 2008, a new generation of Kashmiri servicemen emerged — men who had grown up during the worst years of insurgency, and yet chose to wear the olive green, khaki, or camo uniform. They did not join for power. They did not join for recognition. Most served silently. Many died nameless. And yet, through every bullet they stopped, every ambush they responded to, and every VIP they protected — they redefined what it meant to be Kashmiri, and what it meant to be Indian.

This chapter is not just a timeline of attacks and names. It is a declaration. A challenge to every politician, every citizen, and every historian who ever questioned Kashmir’s place in the Republic. When Kashmir’s sons defended Parliament, guarded Prime Ministers, protected citizens in Assam and Chhattisgarh, and died in Kaluchak beside families not their own — Kashmir did not ask for merger. It demonstrated it.

In a nation obsessed with documents and declarations, we often forget that blood is the first signature of loyalty. That truth is buried in these pages — and in the graves of the unsung warriors who fell between 2001 and 2008.

They were not statistics. They were not afterthoughts. They were the frontline. And it is time we remember them as such.

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Chapter No. 1 0 | 2009–2016: New Generation Warriors

Introduction

As the first decade of the new millennium drew to a close, India’s battle against terrorism entered a new and more complex phase. The flames of militancy still burned in Kashmir, but the frontlines were no longer limited to borders or bunkers. They were now in cities, villages, and even in hearts and minds. The enemy had evolved — so had the defenders.

In this critical period between 2009 and 2016, a new generation of Kashmiri warriors stepped forward — young men who had grown up during the peak of insurgency in the 1990s, yet chose not to pick up the gun against India, but rather to carry it for her. These weren’t just soldiers by chance — they were soldiers by conviction. Their sacrifices were not just acts of duty, but of defiance — defiance against the narrative that Kashmiris were anti-national by nature.

This chapter explores their journeys — through the narrow alleys of Hyderpora, the orchards of Pulwama, and the villages of Kupwara — where sons of the soil once raised in conflict became protectors of peace. From high-risk encounters to deep intelligence operations, from Army units to CAPF patrols, they stood guard against terrorists, sometimes even against their own neighbors — and often, paid with their lives.

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Unlike previous generations, many of these warriors were educated, tech-savvy, and battle-hardened in both spirit and training. Some had family members in the same forces. Some had already lost loved ones to militancy. And yet, they chose the uniform — not because Kashmir was peaceful, but because it wasn’t. Their decision to serve became a political statement in itself — that Kashmir’s place in India had already been written in blood long before Article 370’s abrogation.

Sadly, despite their unmatched courage, this era too was marked by indifference. Their funerals were rarely televised. Their faces seldom printed on front pages. They died for a country that still hesitated to acknowledge them as truly Indian. But their sacrifice speaks louder than policy — and that is what this chapter will remind the nation.

These are the stories of those new generation warriors — Kashmiris who became the shield between chaos and the Constitution.

Major Encounters (2009–2016) – Hyderpora, Pulwama, Sopore, Kupwara

From 2009 to 2016, Kashmir witnessed a resurgence of terrorist activity, with new local recruits joining older foreign infiltrators. Militants returned to public spaces, carried out bold ambushes, and began targeting not only Army camps but also civilian convoys, political workers, and off-duty security personnel. Yet, in the midst of this renewed wave of terror, sons of Kashmir in uniform stood like immovable walls against the storm.

This period saw some of the most intense and symbolic encounters across the Valley. Among them, four regions stood out — Hyderpora, Pulwama, Sopore, and Kupwara. These places became battlegrounds, not just between militants and security forces, but between two identities — one that sought to tear Kashmir away from India, and one that was willing to die defending the nation.

Hyderpora Encounter – 2013

In early 2013, a fierce encounter broke out in the Hyderpora locality of Srinagar, where intelligence agencies had tracked a high-ranking Lashkar-e-Taiba commander hiding in a residential building. A joint operation was launched by the Rashtriya Rifles and CRPF units. Among the team was Constable Suhail Ahmad Bhat, a young CRPF commando from Budgam district, who had been posted in Srinagar on anti-infiltration duties.

During the intense gunfight that lasted for hours, Suhail was tasked with clearing a room suspected to

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house the militant. As he entered, a sudden burst of fire caught him in the chest. Despite his wounds, he returned fire and held the position until backup arrived. He later succumbed at the Army hospital in Badami Bagh.

His body was taken to his village in Budgam. The tricolor draped his coffin. Locals who once feared militants now saluted him. But on national television, there was barely a passing mention. India lost a Kashmiri hero. But it failed to recognize him as one.

Pulwama Operation – 2014

In Rajpora village of Pulwama, in mid-2014, intelligence reports confirmed the presence of a Hizbul Mujahideen cell operating from an abandoned orchard shed. A cordon was laid by the 50 Rashtriya Rifles unit along with local CRPF elements. Among the team was Rifleman Irfan Hussain Malik, a young soldier from Tral, serving in the very area where he grew up — now fighting against those who tried to recruit him in his youth.

As the encounter broke out, Irfan led a flanking maneuver. Two militants were gunned down, but a hidden third attacker lobbed a grenade that landed near Irfan’s position. Without hesitation, he pushed a fellow soldier to safety and absorbed the blast. He died on the spot. The operation was declared successful. The nation moved on. But a mother in Tral lost her only son — a son who chose the tricolor over terror.

Sopore – Ambush & Stand

In 2015, Sopore witnessed a series of targeted killings and ambushes, particularly against security forces. One such tragic incident occurred on the outskirts near Bomai village, when a CRPF convoy was ambushed. In the exchange of fire, Head Constable Riyaz Ahmad Lone, from Handwara, held his ground, returning fire until his last breath. His actions saved the rest of the convoy from a complete slaughter.

Riyaz had been with the CRPF for nearly 12 years and was due for a transfer outside the Valley. But he had insisted on completing his posting in Sopore — his birthplace, his battlefield. He knew the risks. And yet, he stood tall, until death cut him down. To his comrades, he was a martyr. To the media, just another number.

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Kupwara – The Frozen Frontline

Kupwara, forever on the edge of the LoC, continued to be the site of infiltrations and fierce firefights. In 2016, in the Keran Sector, a team of RR and BSF personnel intercepted a group of six foreign militants trying to cross into Indian territory. Naik Farooq Ahmad Shah from Kupwara town was part of the leading assault party. During the 6-hour operation in sub-zero temperatures, Naik Farooq took a bullet to the shoulder but continued to provide covering fire. Three militants were neutralized before he collapsed.

Farooq was posthumously recommended for a gallantry award. His family never asked for one. His father, a retired Army havildar, said during the funeral: “He died where he was born, doing what we raised him for.” No award could match that legacy.

Across these operations, one truth kept repeating: Kashmiri men in uniform were standing against the very terror many accused them of being part of. Not in speeches. Not in editorials. But on the ground, with weapons in hand, and courage in their hearts. They were the shield. And they were the proof — that Kashmir had already bled its loyalty long before Delhi rewrote laws.

Rise of Local Militancy vs Kashmiri Patriots in Uniform (2009–2016)

The period between 2009 and 2016 marked a complex turning point in Kashmir’s modern history. While national media reported a visible resurgence of local militancy — with young, educated Kashmiris picking up arms — what went almost entirely ignored was the parallel emergence of another force: hundreds of Kashmiri youths choosing the uniform of the Indian Army, CRPF, BSF, and CAPFs.

This was the real battle for the soul of Kashmir. On one side were young men radicalized by propaganda and resentment, brandishing AK-47s for Hizbul Mujahideen or Lashkar-e-Taiba. On the other, stood men from the same streets, the same mohallas, who had chosen to fight for India — even if it meant confronting boys they once knew by name.

The infamous rise of Burhan Wani and his “social media insurgency” in 2015–2016 captured national headlines. But very few spoke about the quiet acts of patriotism by Kashmiris in uniform who risked — and lost — their lives trying to dismantle such terror networks from within.

One such warrior was Rifleman Zahoor Ahmad Khanday, from Shopian. He had joined the Army in 2012, despite pressure from radical elements in his village. In 2016, he was part of a covert RR unit tracking

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militants in Pulwama district — including known Hizbul cells. During a close-range firefight in the orchards of Pinglena, Zahoor was shot while attempting to rescue a fellow jawan. The irony? One of the slain militants in the same encounter was his distant cousin, who had picked up arms two years earlier.

In Bandipora, Head Constable Sajjad Lone of the CRPF was ambushed while returning from a local peace outreach meeting in 2015. His killers were local boys, younger than him, who had been radicalized by Pakistan-backed networks. Sajjad’s brother was also in uniform — in the BSF. Their family had given two sons to the forces, and lost one. But in the obituary columns, no one called Sajjad a martyr. There were no hashtags. Only silence — the silence that follows selective mourning.

In many rural villages of south Kashmir, Kashmiris in uniform were targeted not just by terrorists, but by public suspicion, whispers, and even ostracization. And yet, they continued to report for duty. To wear the uniform. To patrol roads where militants once called them traitors. Some even received death threats against their families. But they stayed. Because they believed in something bigger than fear.

There were at least 300 Kashmiri youth who joined central forces and the Army between 2009 and 2016, many of whom served in the very districts where militancy had resurged. Some joined after losing fathers in militant attacks. Others joined to prove that not all Kashmiris had abandoned India. Their stories rarely trended. Their funerals weren’t political. Their patriotism was quiet — and absolute.

This contrast between the gunman and the guardian — both Kashmiri — must be told with honesty. Because in doing so, we remind the nation that it was not Article 370 that prevented loyalty — and it was not its removal that created it. Loyalty existed. Sacrifice existed. Even when ignored.

The rise of militancy did not mean Kashmir was lost. It meant that Kashmiris in uniform had to fight harder — and many of them died doing so. Not because they were paid to. But because they believed in the tricolor, and what it stood for, even when the country they died for did not believe in them.

Kashmiri Women in CAPF and Military Support Roles (2009–2016)

When the conversation turns to military service in Kashmir, the focus — understandably — often rests on young men in combat units. But there is another chapter in this story of sacrifice, one that remains even more unsung: the role of Kashmiri women in India’s national security framework during …..

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2009–2016. Not only as the mothers, sisters, and wives of martyrs — but as officers, medics, communication experts, and peacekeepers in their own right.

This period saw a quiet but firm rise in Kashmiri Muslim and Pandit women joining CAPFs, especially the CRPF, SSB, BSF, and CISF. Some joined as constables in all-women battalions; others were recruited into the nursing and signal corps of the Indian Army. Their service came with a dual challenge — fighting terror on the ground, and fighting stereotypes in society.

One such hero was Constable Rehana Jan from Anantnag, who joined the CRPF in 2011. Posted in sensitive zones like Baramulla and later Jharkhand, she was part of both anti-Maoist operations and civic outreach programs. In 2015, during a road clearance op in Lohardaga, she sustained shrapnel injuries when a landmine exploded near their convoy. Though injured, she assisted the evacuation of fellow jawans. She returned to duty within three months — silent, scarred, and determined.

Another inspiring name is Captain Shalini Kaul, a Kashmiri Pandit woman born in exile in Jammu. She joined the Indian Army Medical Corps and was posted in Srinagar in 2014 during the peak of stone-pelting and unrest. She treated both soldiers and civilians. Her presence as a woman, a Pandit, and an Army officer in volatile territory was more than a duty — it was a statement.

There were also dozens of Kashmiri women who worked in communications and intelligence roles — intercepting messages, handling language translation, and working inside technical hubs that supported anti-militancy operations. Their work rarely made headlines. But without it, missions would have collapsed. These women operated under extreme pressure — some even had to hide their identities from local communities due to security concerns.

And yet, they kept serving. Even when they were mocked as “informers” by anti-national elements. Even when they were accused of betrayal by their neighbors. Even when the nation they served failed to mention them. They believed India was not just a place — but a principle worth defending.

Between 2009 and 2016, it is estimated that over 150 Kashmiri women were actively serving in various support and combat-assist roles within the armed forces and CAPFs. Many came from families directly affected by terrorism. Some joined after their brothers were martyred. Some were the first women in their entire tehsil to wear a uniform. They stood not just against terror — but against silence, stigma, and tradition.

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List of Kashmiri Martyrs (2009–2016)

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Conclusion: A Generation That Chose the Nation

As this chapter closes, it leaves behind not just facts and figures, but evidence of loyalty written in courage and sealed in blood. From 2009 to 2016, when Kashmir was still under Article 370, a generation of Kashmiris made a quiet decision — not to shout slogans, not to burn flags, but to pick up the tricolor, wear the uniform, and serve India with the full knowledge that their sacrifice might never be acknowledged.

While one narrative dominated TV screens — of militancy, of Burhan Wani’s growing myth, of rising violence — another, equally powerful narrative was unfolding in silence. Young Kashmiri men and women were standing up to terror. In Hyderpora, Pulwama, Sopore, and Kupwara, they laid down their lives in firefights that were never broadcast. In CRPF bunkers, Army patrols, and BSF convoys, they stood not as symbols of rebellion — but as living proof that Kashmir was not lost. It was defending India.

These weren’t accidental patriots. They were men like Irfan Hussain Malik, who died in his own district fighting terrorists. They were warriors like Riyaz Lone, who returned fire till his last breath in Sopore. They were quiet heroes like Rehana Jan and Captain Shalini Kaul, who broke tradition and wore the uniform in a land where even walking with soldiers made one a target.

These men and women did not serve because the Constitution changed. They served while Article 370 still stood. They did not wait for Delhi to validate their Indian-ness. They declared it with every patrol, every mission, every drop of blood spilled in service of a flag they never doubted.

In this chapter, we saw the rise of militancy — yes. But we also saw something else rise: a powerful counter-force of Kashmiri patriots. And the tragedy is not just that many of them died — but that the country they died for often looked past them, speaking of Kashmir as if it had only just arrived in the Indian fold in 2019.

Let this chapter stand as a quiet rebellion against that myth. Because before any law was changed, Kashmir had already proven its place in India with sacrifice, honor, and unwavering commitment. The new generation of warriors did not ask for medals. They only asked for remembrance.

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Chapter No. 1 1 | 2016–2019: Final Years Before 370

Introduction

As India approached the historic moment of August 5, 2019 — when Article 370 was revoked — a narrative emerged that Kashmir was now, finally, “fully integrated” with the Indian Union. Politicians called it a “new beginning,” news anchors shouted of “Kashmir’s return,” and celebratory slogans were aired across television studios. But behind all this noise, one truth was buried: Kashmir had already paid its price. Not in policy, but in blood.

The years 2016 to 2019 were not a beginning. They were a painful end of an era — the final chapter of Kashmir under Article 370, written with the lives of young men from the valley who wore the Indian uniform and stood as shields against rising insurgency, cross-border terrorism, and mob violence.

This period saw a drastic escalation in terror attacks, political unrest, and cross-border infiltration. It began with the elimination of Hizbul commander Burhan Wani in July 2016 — and the valley erupted in rage. Stone pelting returned with fury, public sympathy tilted toward militancy, and dozens of soldiers — including Kashmiris in the Army and CRPF — paid the price in blood.

But while protests gained headlines, funerals did not. Behind every ambush and grenade blast, there

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was a soldier with a Kashmiri name — standing, firing, falling, and dying. In Kupwara, Pulwama, Anantnag, and even outside J&K, Kashmiri sons of the soil proved, again and again, that nationalism existed here before Article 370 was erased.

In this chapter, we revisit three core stories:

• Major anti-terror operations involving Kashmiri soldiers between 2016–2019
• Martyrs of Pulwama, Shopian, and Anantnag from the Indian forces
• The social, emotional, and psychological cost of patriotism during peak unrest

This chapter is not about just battles and encounters — it is about betrayal of memory. Because when India said that Kashmir became “fully integrated” only in 2019, it unknowingly wiped out the sacrifices of thousands who gave everything before that date. It ignored the bodies lowered into Kashmir’s cold earth, wrapped in the tricolor, during a time when Article 370 was still in place.

This chapter is for them. The forgotten defenders. The Unsung Warriors who did not wait for Delhi’s permission to be Indian.

2016–2017 – The Year After Burhan Wani

The killing of Hizbul Mujahideen commander Burhan Wani on July 8, 2016, marked a new turning point in the Kashmir conflict. Though the operation that neutralized him was swift and clinical, the reaction across the valley was anything but. What followed was months of violent unrest, street protests, stone pelting, and coordinated shutdowns — unlike anything seen in over a decade.

Government offices were torched, Army convoys attacked, schools burned, and even ambulances carrying wounded security personnel were blocked by mobs. The valley had erupted. But amid this storm of rage, Kashmiri men in uniform stood their ground. Many of them were posted in their own districts — in places where the anger was personal, not just political.

One of the first martyrs of this phase was Rifleman Shabir Ahmed Naikoo of the Rashtriya Rifles, hailing from Kulgam. He was part of a search and cordon operation in Qazigund just two weeks after Burhan’s killing. A violent mob gathered, shielding hiding militants. Stones and petrol bombs rained on the unit. In the chaos, militants opened fire from inside a house. Shabir was hit twice — he kept returning fire until backup arrived. By then, he had succumbed to his wounds. He died facing both the mob and the militants — two enemies, one in the open, one in shadows.

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In Tral, just miles from where Burhan Wani once lived, CRPF Head Constable Irfan Nabi Dar was killed while clearing a protest route that had turned into a militant ambush. His family had received threats for years — but Irfan refused to transfer out of the valley. “If I leave, who will stay?” he once told a colleague. He fell in the same district that idolized Burhan. His funeral was quiet. No slogans, no TV cameras. Only folded flags and silent tears.

2016 also saw an increase in targeted attacks on Kashmiri soldiers returning home on leave. Militants, aided by informants, began to track local jawans. In Shopian, Sepoy Yawar Khan of the Garhwal Rifles was abducted from a wedding and later found killed — a brutal warning to others. But the warning did not work. In fact, 2017 saw more Kashmiri youth joining the Army and CRPF, even amid the violence.

One such youth was Rifleman Waseem Ahmad Shah from Bijbehara. He had just finished training and was posted in an RR unit in North Kashmir. His first active mission was in Baramulla, where an IED had injured two jawans. During a follow-up sweep, a sniper shot hit Waseem in the neck. He died instantly. He had served just six months — but his sacrifice was total.

These were not accidental deaths. These were not anonymous numbers in “security personnel killed” news tickers. They were Kashmiri men who chose India — and were punished by their own soil for it. And yet, their families didn’t break. In Kulgam, Shabir’s father refused to cover his son’s coffin in anything but the national flag. In Bijbehara, Waseem’s mother said, “He didn’t die a victim, he died a soldier.”

While media debated Article 370, and Delhi calculated political futures, these young men were defending India without support, without celebration — and often, without recognition. But they never hesitated. In this dark year of 2016–2017, when Kashmir burned again, these soldiers burned brighter than any flame of protest.

2018 – Year of Infiltrations, Back-to-Back Martyrdoms

The year 2018 witnessed a marked spike in violence across Jammu & Kashmir. Over 200 militants were killed, dozens of soldiers martyred, and infiltration attempts across the LoC surged. This was also a year when Kashmiri soldiers themselves came under fire, both literally and politically. Attacks intensified, and so did their sacrifices — not just in Kashmir, but across India.

One of the earliest tragedies came in January 2018, when Rifleman Altaf Hussain Wani from Baramulla,

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serving with 36 Rashtriya Rifles, was martyred in a fierce encounter in Bandipora. His unit had been tracking a group of infiltrators through dense snow. A sniper from across the LoC had managed to breach and target the patrol. Altaf was hit in the chest. His team pushed forward to finish the operation — but he didn’t survive the evacuation. The encounter was a success. But it took a son of the soil.

Just a month later, in February 2018, Constable Javed Ahmad Dar from Kulgam was part of a CRPF convoy returning from routine patrol near Shopian when their vehicle was ambushed by terrorists and local stone-pelters in coordination. Javed was pulled from the vehicle and beaten before being shot at close range. This was not war — it was lynching in uniform. His death shocked his village, but didn’t make it to prime-time panels.

In May 2018, Naib Subedar Basharat Hussain, a decorated soldier from Kupwara, was leading a counter-infiltration operation in Gurez Sector. A group of five heavily armed militants attempted to breach the fence under fog cover. Basharat, known for his tracking skills, intercepted them head-on. He neutralized two before being struck by grenade shrapnel and a burst of AK fire. He succumbed later in the helicopter. His final radio message: “Infiltration stopped. Target down.”

The tragedy extended beyond J&K. In Chhattisgarh, Constable Asim Yousuf from Budgam, serving with CRPF’s 219 CoBRA battalion, was killed during an anti-Maoist operation in Sukma. He had volunteered for this high-risk unit — a Kashmiri fighting Maoists in deep forest terrain. An IED blast ripped through his patrol in June. He was just 24 years old.

Perhaps the most heartbreaking martyrdom of 2018 came in November, when Rifleman Showkat Ali Khan from Anantnag was on home leave. Militants barged into his home, dragged him out in front of his family, and shot him execution-style. His only fault: he wore an Indian Army uniform. His mother’s last words to him were: “Wapas mat jaana beta.” And he didn’t.

These incidents weren’t just numbers. They were proof. Proof that even in one of the darkest periods of Kashmir’s modern history, the spirit of loyalty among its people did not die. These brave men came from villages where the tricolor was hated — yet they saluted it every morning. They served in an India that often failed to acknowledge their sacrifice — yet they gave it their lives.

2018 became the year when the contradiction of Kashmir was most painfully visible: While militancy rose, so did martyrdom in the name of India — from Kashmiris themselves. Not because of political compulsion, but because of unshakable belief.

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2019 – Pulwama Attack and the Final Sacrifices Before Article 370

In the long list of tragedies that Kashmir has endured, February 14, 2019, will remain carved in blood. On that day, a suicide bomber rammed an explosive-laden vehicle into a CRPF convoy in Pulwama, killing 40 jawans — the worst attack on Indian security forces in decades.

The nation mourned. News channels raged. Political debates flared. But beneath the noise, an uncomfortable truth was buried — among the slain were Kashmiri sons too, serving the same nation that was being told they needed integration.

One of them was Head Constable Naseer Ahmed Bhat, a CRPF jawan from Anantnag. A soft-spoken, disciplined man, he had survived two grenade attacks before. He had returned from leave just five days before the Pulwama attack. That morning, he called his younger brother and said: “Convoy mein nikal rahe hain, dua karna.” It was his last call. His body returned home in a coffin wrapped with the tricolor — in the same town where protestors later burned the same flag.

Also martyred was Constable Rayees Wani from Kulgam. A talented student, he had rejected a lucrative job offer abroad to serve in the CRPF. In a chilling twist, his father had once served in the same force. On the day of the attack, Rayees was seated in the third vehicle of the convoy — the one that bore the direct impact. His family didn’t ask for revenge. Only recognition.

And there were others. Riyaz Ahmad Mir from Baramulla, Constable Shakir Hussain from Shopian — all Kashmiri youth who died defending the idea of India before Article 370 was ever removed.

But Pulwama was not the only attack. In the months that followed, militants grew bolder. LoC skirmishes intensified. And once again, Kashmiri soldiers bore the brunt. In June 2019, Rifleman Junaid Ahmad Lone from Handwara, serving in 34 Rashtriya Rifles, was killed in a fierce overnight gunfight in Sopore. Militants had taken refuge in a school. Junaid led the storming party. He was shot in the upper torso — but he kept firing till his magazine ran dry. He died inside a school that had stopped teaching nationalism long ago.

In July 2019, just days before the constitutional changes, Rifleman Shahid Parvez from Budgam was ambushed in Pulwama during a routine patrol. He was dragged from his vehicle and shot point-blank. Militants made sure his body was found near a torn Indian flag. His funeral was guarded, but silent — a quiet reminder of what it meant to die for India before it acknowledged your loyalty.

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As August approached, the state grew tense. Intelligence warned of major moves. But these men, these martyrs — they didn’t wait for Article 370 to go. They didn’t need a constitutional amendment to prove their patriotism. They had already proven it — in life, and now, in death.

The tragedy of Pulwama and the killings that followed did more than shake the nation. They closed the chapter on Article 370 with a final, undeniable truth: Kashmir didn’t need to be made Indian in 2019 — because its bravest sons had already merged their destiny with India’s long before.

They didn’t need a law to tell them what they were. They wore the tricolor in their hearts, and they died with it on their shoulders.

List of Kashmiri Martyrs (2016–2019)

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Conclusion

The years 2016 to 2019 are often seen only through a political lens — protests, revocation of Article 370, and the redefinition of Jammu & Kashmir. But behind these headlines were real sacrifices, real blood, and real Kashmiri heroes who gave everything before the so-called “integration” had even occurred.

During this phase, even as anti-India sentiment surged, dozens of Kashmiri men in uniform — from remote villages in Anantnag, Baramulla, Budgam, and Kulgam — stood their ground. Many served in units like the Rashtriya Rifles, the CRPF, and even counter-insurgency wings operating deep within terrorist-infested zones. They were the sons of the same soil where slogans were raised against the nation they had sworn to protect.

Some died in the crossfire of encounters; some were pulled out of their homes and executed; some died in IED blasts in states far away. Yet all of them had one thing in common — they wore the Indian uniform with pride, even when it put their lives and families at risk.

Take Pulwama, for example — often seen as the reason for the scrapping of Article 370. It claimed the

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lives of multiple Kashmiri CRPF men. Why, then, should we say that Kashmir merged with India after 370’s abrogation, when her own sons were already dying for India before?

The truth is this: Kashmir was never separate. Not when Rifleman Altaf held the LoC in snow-covered Bandipora. Not when Constable Rayees Wani chose uniform over a foreign job. Not when Shahid Parvez was buried under a torn flag he had once saluted.

These men proved — with their service, sacrifice, and silence — that loyalty cannot be legislated. Their martyrdom stands as a direct counter to those who say that Kashmir “became” Indian only on August 5, 2019. They were already Indian. They didn’t wait for Delhi to declare it.

And so, as we close this chapter — the final chapter before the constitutional shift — let it be known, remembered, and repeated: Kashmir was merged with India in the hearts of these martyrs, long before it merged on paper.

The tricolor did not reach Kashmir in 2019. It had already been wrapped around coffins for years.

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Chapter No. 1 2 | Final Conclusion – The Eternal Merger of Kashmir

As we reach the end of our journey, one truth should pierce every misconception — Kashmir did not merge with India on paper in 2019. It merged long before, in the trenches, in ambushes, in forests, corridors of Parliament, and silent graves across the country. Its merger was etched not through political decrees, but in the blood of Kashmiri servicemen and women, across decades.

The hundreds we have remembered from 1947 to 2019 — from the mountains to the valleys, the Parliament complex to the orchards of Pulwama — are not footnotes in history. They are the living proof of a truth often only whispered: that Kashmir has always belonged to India in heart, courage, and sacrifice — regardless of laws or politics.

This book has chronicled chapter after chapter of quiet bravery — of Kashmiri men and women who wore the uniform, took the bullet, braved the cold, and held the line while being erased from recognition. They did not serve for flags that newspapers waved. They served for lives that no headline honored. Yet, they are the true champions of unity.

When politicians claim that Kashmir was “fully integrated” only after Article 370 was revoked, they deny the sacrifices of countless Kashmiris who died before that day. They ignore the fact that Kashmiri soldiers were already laying their lives at the service of the nation while enjoying none of the benefits—or respect—of acknowledgement.

This book is the mirror that reflects back that unseen truth. It is not just a ledger of names or tragedies — it is a call to memory. Let every name be a monument. Let every valley remember. Because the moment to claim unity is not when a policy changes — it is when people for whom no policy was needed laid down their lives to prove it.

In the end, let this book stand as a testament:

• Kashmir was not unified in 2019. It had already shown its unity through blood.
• The real merger happened in the trenches, not the Assembly.
• The tricolor did not arrive in 2019. It had already been draped over coffins.

To the families, the comrades, the villages, and the souls of those who sacrificed — this is their memorial. And from their sacrifice springs the eternal truth: Kashmir is and always has been India, not by law, but by valor.

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Chapter No. 1 3 | Echoes of Courage — Honouring the Veer Naris of Kashmir

In the serene and stoic valley of Baramulla, nestled within the heart of Kashmir, a ceremony unlike any other unfolded — one that stirred the soul and saluted the spirit of sacrifice. It was here, under the noble initiative of the Khaki Association, in collaboration with the Indian Army, that the ‘Veer Naari Samman Samaroh’ was held. This powerful and poignant event was not just a function, but a heartfelt tribute — a nation’s embrace — to the Veer Naris of Kashmir, the widows of brave Indian soldiers who laid down their lives in the line of duty.

The event was anchored around the deeply symbolic and emotionally resonant theme, ‘Bharat ki Jhelum, Jhelum ka Bharat’ — meaning “Jhelum of India, and India of Jhelum.” This theme encapsulated not only the geographical significance of Kashmir’s Jhelum River but also the emotional and patriotic undercurrent that binds the people of Kashmir to the soul of India. It was a reminder that while borders may divide landscapes, the spirit of unity and sacrifice flows boundlessly through the veins of the nation — just like the river Jhelum herself.

This was not a mere formality of words or wreaths. The ‘Veer Naari Samman Samaroh’ was a moment where patriotism met pain, and gratitude met grief. It was a sacred space created to honour the silent

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warriors — the women who lost their husbands to war and terrorism, yet never lost their pride, resilience, or love for the country. These Veer Naris carry not only the memory of their beloved martyrs but also the torch of their legacy, lighting the path of courage for generations to come.

The venue bore witness to the presence of senior Indian Army officials, civil society leaders, the dedicated team of the Khaki Association led by President Annu Pasricha, and most importantly, the families of the martyrs — whose quiet strength stood tall as the very embodiment of national pride. Each guest, each moment, and each word spoken was a testament to the shared spirit of sorrow, reverence, and unwavering resolve.

During the event, the Veer Naris were each presented with symbolic mementos — tokens of honour, designed not just as gifts, but as national symbols of respect, recognition, and eternal gratitude. These mementos carried the weight of a nation’s emotions — a salute to the unseen sacrifices made by the wives, mothers, and children of our fallen heroes.

A senior army official, in an address that left no eye dry, remarked, “Our martyrs may be gone, but their legacy breathes through the strength of their families. The courage of our Veer Naris inspires not only the armed forces but every citizen of this nation.” His words struck a chord across the gathering, reminding everyone that true courage is not just displayed on the battlefield, but in the quiet endurance of those left behind.

Khaki Association President Annu Pasricha, in her speech, reaffirmed the organization’s deep and lasting commitment to standing beside the families of India’s martyrs. She emphasized that events like these are not isolated tributes, but part of a larger mission to preserve the spirit of national unity, respect, and shared humanity. She said, “We will continue to stand by our Veer Naris, for they are the living bridges between sacrifice and patriotism. Through them, we remember our heroes every single day.”

But perhaps the most powerful message came not from the podium, but from the collective presence of these Veer Naris themselves. Draped in grace and wrapped in quiet fortitude, these women stood as living symbols of India’s unbreakable spirit. Their grief did not hollow them — it shaped them into warriors of a different kind. With heads held high and hearts full of memories, they reminded the world that while martyrs fall, their stories rise — stronger, louder, and more enduring.

This event was more than just a ceremony — it was a movement of remembrance. It echoed through the hills of Kashmir, through the minds of every soldier, and into the hearts of every Indian who holds

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the tricolour dear. It was a call to remember not just those who wore the uniform, but those who continue to live their legacy.

In a land often painted with conflict, the Veer Naari Samman Samaroh painted a different picture — one of hope, love, and undying patriotism. It reminded the nation that Kashmir is not just a region of strategic importance, but a sacred ground where sacrifice breathes, and where the spirit of Bharatiyata beats strongest.

Through events like these, the Khaki Association and the Indian Army are not only preserving memories but nurturing a culture of respect and remembrance — ensuring that no sacrifice goes unhonoured, and no hero, living or departed, is ever forgotten.

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