by Arshdeep Singh
In every tear, every improvised boat, and every small act of kindness, I saw a Valley that refuses to drown, no matter how high the waters rise.
As September began, the Kashmir Valley and several other states experienced heavy rainfall. On 25 and 26 August, the rains intensified, and the fear of floods returned to the minds of the people.
I was at the University of Kashmir when a massive network breach struck the Valley. Everyone was asking what had happened and why there was no network. I could not contact my family or friends inside campus. Somehow, I managed to reach home, hoping the fibre connection would work, but that too failed me.
The next morning, when I returned to campus, I found the university closed. I contacted some media colleagues to understand the situation. At Jahangir Chowk, a huge crowd had gathered on the bridge to check the rising water levels. Fear had once again gripped the Valley. I called a journalist, Faisal Bashir, who advised me to head to Zero Bridge. Upon reaching there, the same picture unfolded. Residents lived in fear as the Jhelum swelled.
On September 4, heavy rainfall lashed the whole of Jammu and Kashmir. It felt like 2014 all over again. Social media overflowed with panic. “Nazreen Brigade” influencers pretended to be news anchors, urging people to share updates as widely as possible, adding to the anxiety. I even saw an electronics page streaming live updates about the flood situation. Some Facebook page owners went as far as creating their own gauge systems instead of relying on official government data.
That morning, as water entered parts of Srinagar city, I called my friend Shoaib Nazir from Kashmir Life Magazine. We met in the Shalina area. It was my first real experience covering a flood-like situation. I began taking photographs of fear, distress, and rescue operations. Shoaib suggested that we enter the Shalina area.
We walked in as the entire locality was submerged, the railway track serving as the only route inside. After walking two to three kilometres, I felt thirsty. I asked a railway policeman for water. He looked at me with moist eyes and replied that there was none. I smiled silently and walked away.
Between Nowgam and Pampore railway stations, flood victims had taken shelter near the railway track. A woman in her mid-thirties was preparing a meal for her children inside a temporary tent. I asked if I could get some water. She paused for a moment, then smiled and said yes. She offered me a glass of water. When she tried to pour another glass, I noticed she had only two left for her family. I was speechless. She smiled again and said it was all right, and that I should drink.
As we moved deeper into the village, water surrounded us on all sides. Women whispered to each other with teary eyes. Young boys floated on tyre-tube boats. Some residents, even amid despair, invited us for tea.
In every tear, every improvised boat, and every small act of kindness, I saw a Valley that refuses to drown, no matter how high the waters rise.
