It was a sunny mid-morning in South Kashmir, the kind of heat that slows everything down. Beneath the wide shade of a chinar tree, a group of young boys had gathered, their laughter ringing out as they huddled over a mobile phone. An elderly man walking past shook his head and muttered, “Today’s generation, always laughing at themselves.” Still clutching his stomach from laughter, one of the boys shot back, “No, uncle, we’re laughing because our politicians trying to speak Kashmiri is hilarious.”
In their laughter was a quiet reminder that politics in Kashmir is no longer only about power or parties, but about language that connects or divides. That laughter echoed a wider anxiety; the heirs of Kashmir’s political dynasties often cannot speak the people’s language.
That sentiment echoes in tea shops and village squares across Kashmir as well. “When our leaders can’t speak our language properly, how can they understand our problems?” asked Ghulam Hassan, a farmer in Pulwama. “My children speak better Kashmiri than our chief minister, but they’re not running the government.”
This disconnect is most visible in Omar Abdullah, the current chief minister of the union territory of Jammu and Kashmir, who was elected last year to a second non-consecutive term. He is the son of former Jammu and Kashmir Chief Minister Farooq Abdullah and grandson of Sheikh Abdullah, the founding leader of the All Jammu and Kashmir Muslim Conference (later renamed the Jammu and Kashmir National Conference). In 2009, he became the youngest chief minister of Jammu and Kashmir at age 38.
Omar remains an awkward and hesitant speaker of Kashmiri. Rarely has he addressed public gatherings in the language, and on the few occasions when he attempted to, his halting delivery and mispronunciations turned into a source of ridicule rather than resonance.
Earlier this year, his two sons, Zahir and Zamir, traveled to Ganderbal with him, addressing party workers. Both brothers addressed the gathering in fluent Urdu, but neither could speak Kashmiri, the language of the very people they hoped to represent.
During his campaign, when Abdullah requested voters to vote for him and removed his skull cap as a mark of a pleasing gesture, he delivered a line in Kashmiri: “myoun toup,” my cap. He mispronounced the words; the moment quickly became a source of memes and went viral, underscoring how fragile and performative political connections to the language have become.
Ayesha Kidwai, a professor of linguistics at the Centre for Linguistics at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), noted: “When mistakes in pronunciation or even the non-use of a language become the subject of mockery, it paradoxically signals vibrancy. People are alert to the symbolic weight of language. In a multilingual country like India, tolerance for linguistic diversity is high, yet political figures are rarely allowed the same latitude.”
Despite his inability to speak Kashmiri, Omar Abdullah twice rose to the position of chief minister. Yet his father, Farooq Abdullah, built his mass appeal by peppering speeches with Kashmiri slang, and Sheikh Abdullah famously blended Urdu and Kashmiri with ease.
Linguists point out that the past two generations of Kashmiris largely spoke the language fluently but rarely read or wrote it. With Kashmiri now part of the school curriculum, a new electorate is emerging that not only speaks but is learning to write and read the language.
This shift poses a real political risk: Candidates who cannot connect linguistically may find themselves increasingly irrelevant to younger voters who see language fluency as a mark of authentic representation.
“A slip by a political leader is not easily forgotten because the reaction is deeply political, not merely linguistic. The memes and satire generated by young people, then, are not simply ridicule; they represent a form of democratic messaging, an assertion that language matters and getting it wrong cannot be dismissed. Far from being discouraging, this cultural playfulness reflects the vitality of a politically aware society,” Kidwai added.
Kashmiri gained official constitutional recognition as an official language of the territory only in 2020, decades after other regional languages, reflecting its long marginalization in India’s linguistic hierarchy.
This late recognition reflects a deeper historical pattern. Kashmiri writer Zareef Ahmad Zareef declared that Kashmir has never truly been governed by its own people, from the Mughal era to the present day.
When rulers have little stake in the land’s cultural soul, he argued, they repeatedly barter away its identity. Today’s linguistic disconnect among political heirs, Zareef suggested, continues this tradition of leaders who cannot truly represent the people they govern.
Robert Phillipson, professor emeritus in the Department of Management, Society, and Communication at Copenhagen Business School, Denmark, widely regarded for his seminal work on linguistic imperialism and language policy, argued that the marginalization of mother tongues in governance and education can fracture societies rather than unify them.
“If you want to produce a society that is loyal to the government, providing appropriate education that builds on the culture and language of local people should be established as a principle,” Phillipson told Foreign Policy. “This is what UNESCO has long recommended, that mother tongue-based bilingual or multilingual education gives more people a fair chance to succeed. Kashmiri, with its large demographic strength, should not only have a role in schools but also the administration of the region.”
In Pulwama, Touqeer Ashraf runs Keashur Praw (Shimmering Light), an Instagram page where he films heritage sites, historical places, traditional foods, etc., and overlays them with fluent Kashmiri audio, an attempt to keep the language alive and relevant for a new generation.
Ashraf argued that the silence of leaders in their mother tongue carries deeper consequences. “When the political representatives of Kashmir, who are seen as the face of our land and culture, choose to speak in languages other than Kashmiri in parliament or with the capital, Delhi, it silently pushes our mother tongue to the margins. Language is not just a tool of communication but the foundation of identity and cultural continuity,” he said.
Yet not everyone sees the stakes in the same way. Mudasir Nazar, an engineer by training with a keen interest in politics, highlights that Kashmiri politics has always functioned as a “clientele system,” and he believes it won’t change anytime soon. “The political class manages Kashmir for the sake of Delhi in exchange for perks and privileges. So, which language they use, in the literal sense of the word, won’t matter much.” As for the cultural fallout, he added, “Their slips and mispronunciations will certainly become part of the ever-growing corpus of memes in Kashmir.”
Among contemporary leaders, Mehbooba Mufti stands apart. She studied English literature and law before entering politics in the 1990s, eventually helping found the People’s Democratic Party (PDP) with her father in 1999. As president of the PDP, she served as the first woman chief minister of Jammu and Kashmir (from 2016 to 2018), leading a coalition government with the Bharatiya Janata Party before its collapse.
Unlike many of her peers, she is a fierce orator in Kashmiri, able to deliver speeches that resonate across villages and towns, capturing the cadence and idioms of everyday life. This fluency gives her a distinctive presence, especially when compared to Omar Abdullah, whose public image is often tied more to English and Urdu. Where Abdullah appears cosmopolitan, Mufti projects rootedness, her words weaving the political with the cultural, speaking directly to those who see their identity in the Kashmiri language.
Yet Mufti’s linguistic mastery highlights an emerging generational divide. Her daughter, Iltija Mufti, who recently lost her maiden election running for Kashmir’s Legislative Assembly election, represents a new generation of political heirs who grew up speaking different languages than their constituents. Where Mehbooba built bridges through Kashmiri fluency, Iltija faces the challenge of connecting across a linguistic gap.
At one rally, she tried to rally supporters with the phrase “zyon hoo,” meaning “we won,” but her mispronunciation sparked a wave of memes and satire. What was meant to project confidence instead deepened the perception that she was out of touch with the linguistic and cultural pulse of the people. That moment of ridicule was more than a meme cycle; it reflected a deeper anxiety about leaders drifting away from the linguistic roots of their people.
“Because of the militancy and political turbulence in the 1980s, my family moved to Delhi, which severed my linguistic ties to Kashmir,” Iltija Mufti told Foreign Policy. “I understand Kashmiri but am not a fluent speaker, and I wish I could orate in it as well, as Mehbooba ji. That said, if language were truly decisive, senior politicians fluent in Kashmiri wouldn’t have forfeited their deposits in last year’s elections. Kashmiris are politically astute; they value intent over language. My heart is in the right place, and I am confident my political journey has only just begun.”
Like Iltija, Zahir Abdullah shifted the debate from fluency to intent. “Many senior leaders speak flawless Kashmiri,” he said, “yet they have never spoken for Kashmir. We may still be learning the language, but we promise to speak for Kashmir’s cause.”
By moving the focus from language to intent, these young heirs reveal a bigger problem: Kashmiri identity is being treated more as a symbol than as a lived political reality.
Kidwai, the professor at JNU, said, “At an individual level, displacement and family circumstances can explain why someone might not speak Kashmiri. But if they have political aspirations, the language should be non-negotiable. When it is normalized among political elites, their children grow up speaking every language except Kashmiri, it signals something deeper.”
Historically, Kashmiri politicians have rarely championed their language, and this silence has seeped into how the political class defines itself. The real danger, Kidwai warned, is that when leaders treat Kashmiri as optional, it undermines the broader social commitment to the language.
Ashraf, the creator, highlighted that the absence of Kashmiri in political spaces does more than silence a tongue; it risks hollowing out the link between leaders and the people they claim to represent.
“By neglecting Kashmiri in the most important spaces, we risk creating a cultural gap between the people and their leaders, and we weaken the future significance of our language. If our voices do not carry Kashmiri forward in the highest platforms, generations to come may see it as less valuable, which can ultimately endanger its survival.”
Zareef said: “Earlier, politics was about serving the people, and those at the helm were statesmen. Now politics has become trade and business; no one is willing to carry the Kashmiri community forward, whether it’s language or otherwise. The key to any culture is its language, but ours is a community trapped in a mindset of ghulami (slavery). We do not reflect on what we have lost, what we are losing, or what must be reclaimed.”
Kashmir’s story is one of decline under external rule, where language and culture were left undefended. What the region needs today, he insisted, are leaders who carry the pain of the land within them, because only then can the course of history begin to change, Zareef pointed out.
Kidwai and other scholars warn that when the political class distances itself from Kashmiris, it does not just weaken a language but erodes trust and fuels a sense of exclusion.
“When an elite does not understand or use the local language that the majority identifies with, it creates a serious disjuncture. People feel alienated and unrepresented by the state, and this has been the case in Kashmir since 1947. But there are lessons from places like Kerala or Tamil Nadu, where affirming regional languages has gone hand in hand with integration into the wider Indian polity. Strengthening Kashmiri, therefore, is not a threat to national identity, but a way to deepen democracy and cultural continuity,” Phillipson added.
Grassroots communities continue to keep Kashmiri alive—in homes, memes, and digital campaigns. But the silence at the top, as Zareef warned, steadily normalizes its marginalization.