by Aamir Altaf
Every Kashmiri student, artisan, and professional striving for dignity becomes a suspect. Our identity, once a source of pride, is being devalued.
The journey from the valleys of Jammu and Kashmir to the city of Hyderabad is one many undertake in search of education, employment, or a better future. Yet, for some, this movement carries a darker turn. What I have witnessed on the streets of this city reveals a disturbing reality. People from my homeland, including some from the Pir Panjal region, the Chenab Valley, and the Kashmir Valley, are not here to study or to work. They are here to beg.
They sleep on footpaths, huddle outside shops, and gather near places of worship. They recite stories of suffering to draw sympathy. They plead that there is no food in their villages, that the state has silenced them, and they invoke faith by asking for alms in the name of Allah. It is a manipulation of the very empathy our community holds sacred.
What unsettles me most is the scale of this activity. It is not limited to a handful of individuals. It is an organised operation. Conversations with some of them revealed a grim picture: almost fifty people from one small area in Pir Panjal are engaged in this trade. Their fluency in deception makes it clear that this is not new to them.
The deceit does not stop with begging. Some approach strangers with offers of saffron, walnuts, and dry fruits, claiming they are authentic products from Kashmir. They accept money, promise delivery, and then vanish. These acts are not isolated incidents. They form a pattern of fraud that corrodes the trust others have in us.
This is not confined to Hyderabad. Friends in Delhi, Mumbai, and Uttar Pradesh recount similar stories. It is widespread, leaving a stain on the image of our people across India.
For students like myself, the consequences are direct and painful. We strive to build lives through study and honest work, yet we are made to carry the weight of suspicion. A few days ago, my friend fractured his finger during a cricket game. When we visited a doctor’s home for help, he met us with suspicion. He said, “You Kashmiris are coming every day to beg.”
The words struck us with humiliation. We explained, uneasy and ashamed, that we needed medical attention, not charity. He apologised, but the moment had already scarred us. He then told us of his own encounters with fraudsters from Kashmir. That incident was not an exception. Increasingly, we find ourselves judged not for who we are, but for what others have done in our name.
This phenomenon is more than a financial scam. It is a crisis of identity and integrity. The actions of these individuals exploit the compassion of people while constructing a false perception that Kashmiri society is dishonest. They project a picture that does not belong to us. They betray the culture and the history of our homeland.
Some of those we observed on the streets are not poor. They belong to families that are relatively comfortable back home. This reveals that their actions are not simply born of poverty. They are calculated choices, a deliberate use of community struggles for personal gain. This betrayal of trust is unforgivable.
The harm is not confined to those who are defrauded. Every Kashmiri student, artisan, and professional striving for dignity becomes a suspect. Our identity, once a source of pride, is being devalued.
This issue calls for closer scrutiny, not only of the poverty that drives some to desperate measures, but also of the organised deception that stains the entire community. Silence is no longer an option. We must speak against it, not to vilify our own, but to defend our dignity. Trust, once lost, is difficult to regain.
The way our community is perceived in India is being shaped today by these acts. That future must not be surrendered to deceit. It must be reclaimed with integrity and honesty.
(The writer is a student of political science and international relations. Ideas are personal.)
