Aima Afraz
While India unfurls its tricolor and celebrates its democratic constitution on 26th January, the people of Indian-Occupied Jammu and Kashmir (IOJK) mark the same day as Black Day—not out of spite, but as a solemn reminder that the Indian Republic’s promises remain a cruel fiction in their lived reality. This observance is not a rejection of constitutional ideals per se, but a powerful indictment of how those ideals have been systematically denied to Kashmiris through decades of occupation, betrayal, and institutionalized violence.
The foundation of Kashmir’s Black Day lies in the betrayal of international commitments. United Nations Security Council resolutions explicitly recognized the Kashmiri right to self-determination, promising a plebiscite to determine their political future. India initially accepted these resolutions but has since rendered them dead letters through perpetual delay and denial. For Kashmiris, Republic Day thus becomes a bitter anniversary: while India celebrates its sovereignty, it simultaneously denies Kashmiris the very exercise of sovereign choice that the international community guaranteed them. This fundamental breach of trust transforms India’s constitutional celebrations into a theater of hypocrisy.
This denial of political rights has been enforced through brute military might and a legal architecture designed for oppression. With nearly a million troops stationed in the region, IOJK remains one of the world’s most militarized zones. This occupation is not merely about numbers; it is about impunity. Draconian laws like the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA) and the Public Safety Act (PSA) provide blanket immunity to security forces, shielding them from prosecution even for egregious human rights violations. Soldiers operate with the knowledge that they can detain, torture, or kill without consequence. For Kashmiris, the Indian Constitution’s guarantee of life and liberty is meaningless when its armed forces enjoy license to violate these rights with impunity.
The human cost of this impunity is measured in shattered lives and blinded futures. The use of pellet shotguns against civilian protesters—weaponry designed for hunting animals, not controlling crowds—has left thousands maimed, with hundreds of young men, women, and children permanently blinded. These “dead eyes” have become a haunting symbol of Indian democracy’s hollow claims. While India’s Republic Day parade showcases military precision and national pride, Kashmiri families mourn children who will never see again, their vision sacrificed to maintain occupation. This is not governance; it is collective punishment.
The unilateral actions of August 5, 2019, represented the final assault on whatever remained of Kashmiri autonomy. In a single day, India revoked Article 370 and 35A, dissolved the region’s special status, bifurcated the state, and imposed a total communications blackout. Thousands of political leaders, activists, and even ordinary citizens were preemptively detained. This was not constitutional amendment; it was constitutional annihilation imposed without consulting the very people whose future was being decided. The blackout—lasting months—was designed to silence resistance while a new order was forcibly imposed. For Kashmiris, this day proved that their consent was not just ignored but actively despised by the Indian state.
Since 2019, India has accelerated a systematic project of demographic engineering and political disempowerment. New domicile laws allow non-Kashmiris to claim residency and voting rights, threatening to reduce the indigenous Muslim majority to a minority in their own homeland. This is not organic migration but state-sponsored colonization, echoing settler-colonial projects elsewhere. Simultaneously, electoral boundaries have been gerrymandered to dilute Muslim political representation. Government jobs and educational opportunities are increasingly denied to Kashmiri Muslims while being offered to outsiders. This institutionalized discrimination reveals the communal underpinnings of the occupation: the target is not just Kashmiri identity, but specifically Kashmiri Muslim identity.
The criminalization of dissent has reached Orwellian proportions. Under the guise of maintaining law and order, India has effectively outlawed all forms of political expression in IOJK. Freedom of speech exists only in theory; in practice, waving a flag, attending a funeral procession, or posting on social media can lead to imprisonment under anti-terrorism laws. Journalists operate under constant threat of sedition charges, with many forced into exile. The press is either co-opted or crushed, leaving a information vacuum that India fills with its own narrative. The right to peaceful assembly is non-existent, as even silent sit-ins are met with tear gas and baton charges. In such a context, Black Day becomes one of the few remaining forms of symbolic protest available—a collective act of mourning that cannot be entirely suppressed.
Religious profiling and land grab have emerged as twin pillars of the post-2019 order. Kashmiri Muslims face systematic surveillance and suspicion, with entire communities labeled as “anti-national” based on faith alone. Mosques are monitored, religious gatherings restricted, and Islamic practices stigmatized. Concurrently, a massive land acquisition drive is underway, with Kashmiri properties being seized for “development” projects that primarily benefit Indian corporations and settlers. Ancient land rights are being dismantled, dispossessing families of their ancestral properties. This is not development; it is dispossession disguised as progress.
For the people of IOJK, 26th January is not a day of celebration but a stark reminder of their ongoing colonization. While India showcases its military might and democratic credentials on Delhi’s Rajpath, Kashmiris observe shutdowns, display black flags, and wear black clothing to mourn the death of their political aspirations. This is not anti-nationalism; it is anti-occupation. The message is clear: you cannot celebrate democracy while denying it to millions; you cannot preach constitutionalism while suspending constitutions; you cannot claim unity while practicing systematic discrimination.
Black Day serves as a moral appeal to the conscience of ordinary Indians and the international community. It asks: what kind of republic requires blinded children, silenced journalists, and caged politicians to sustain itself? What kind of democracy needs a million soldiers to enforce its “integration”? The observance is a testament to Kashmiri resilience and a declaration that despite all attempts to break their spirit, they continue to resist non-violently, demanding nothing more than what was promised to them: the right to determine their own future.
Until India honors its international commitments, withdraws its military boot from Kashmiri necks, and allows genuine political freedom, Republic Day in IOJK will remain Black Day—a symbol of unfulfilled promises, broken treaties, and a republic built not on consent, but on conquest. The black flags flying in Kashmir on 26th January are not flags of surrender; they are flags of resistance, reminding the world that true democracy cannot exist without self-determination, and that no republic is legitimate when it is maintained through occupation.
Writer is a student of BS-International Relations at National University of Modern Language and is currently serving as an intern at Kashmir Institute of International Relations.