By Mushtaq Hussain
Development, when imposed without consent, ceases to be progress and instead becomes a refined instrument of coercion. When land is seized in its name, agricultural livelihoods destroyed, and dissent silenced through force, development no longer serves people—it serves power. The proposed railway project in Shopian district of Indian Illegally Occupied Jammu and Kashmir (IIOJK) is a striking example of such forced “development,” carefully framed as public welfare while concealing a deeper agenda of military consolidation, economic dispossession, and human suffering.
The Indian Railways has proposed the construction of a 26-kilometer railway track through Shopian, claiming it will improve connectivity, boost economic activity, and ease travel for local residents. Behind these reassuring slogans, however, lies a devastating reality. The project requires the destruction of more than 700,000 trees, the overwhelming majority of them apple orchards that form the backbone of Kashmir’s rural economy, along with the acquisition of large swaths of fertile agricultural land. This is not a sacrifice voluntarily offered by Kashmiris; it is a sacrifice forcibly extracted from them.
Shopian is not merely a district on a map—it is a symbol of Kashmir’s agricultural identity and economic resilience. Its apple orchards are not decorative landscapes; they are lifelines. For generations, these orchards have sustained families, funded education, and preserved a sense of dignity amid decades of conflict. Destroying hundreds of thousands of fruit-bearing trees is not simply an environmental loss; it is an assault on livelihoods, food security, and collective memory. Each uprooted orchard represents a household pushed closer to economic ruin.
A fundamental question therefore arises: Did the people of Shopian ask for this railway line? Does it address their most urgent needs? Will it genuinely improve their daily lives? The answer, echoed in local protests and widespread opposition, is unequivocal—no. The project enjoys neither popular mandate nor local legitimacy. To the people of Kashmir, it represents not opportunity, but encroachment; not mobility, but militarization.
In reality, the railway’s primary utility lies not in civilian welfare but in strategic military logistics. Railways in conflict zones are never neutral infrastructure. They facilitate the rapid movement of troops, weapons, and supplies, extending the operational reach of occupying forces. The Shopian railway line fits seamlessly into India’s broader security architecture in Kashmir, designed to tighten control rather than empower the population. Its route reflects strategic calculus, not public convenience.
This project cannot be examined in isolation. Since August 5, 2019, India’s policies in Kashmir have followed a clear and troubling trajectory. The revocation of Kashmir’s limited autonomy marked the beginning of an aggressive campaign to reshape the region’s legal, demographic, and economic landscape. Land protections were dismantled, local ownership undermined, and pathways opened for external control over Kashmiri resources. Under the banner of “development,” highways, tunnels, and railways have multiplied—yet the beneficiaries are rarely the people whose land they traverse.
Alongside this forced transformation runs an equally disturbing pattern of repression. Staged encounters and extrajudicial killings of Kashmiri youth have become a recurring feature of the security narrative. Young men—many of them students, laborers, or farmers—are routinely labeled militants and killed in what authorities describe as armed confrontations, only for evidence to later suggest fabrication and abuse of power. These killings serve a grim purpose: to instill fear, eliminate dissent, and warn entire communities of the cost of resistance.
Thus, two parallel processes unfold in Kashmir. On one hand, land is seized and productive agricultural orchards are destroyed in the name of infrastructure; on the other, lives are extinguished in the name of security. Together, they form a unified strategy of domination—one reshaping the physical landscape, the other terrorizing its people. Farmers who resist land acquisition are branded anti-state. Environmental concerns are dismissed as security threats. Families seeking justice for slain sons are silenced through intimidation.
It is also crucial to recognize that Kashmir’s natural forests have already suffered extensive damage over decades of militarization and unchecked exploitation, contributing significantly to environmental degradation and climate vulnerability in the region. The ongoing assault on agricultural orchards, following the depletion of natural forests, represents a cumulative ecological crisis. This layered destruction accelerates environmental imbalance while eroding the social and economic resilience of Kashmiri society.
True development is participatory. It is rooted in consent, transparency, and respect for local priorities. What is unfolding in Shopian violates each of these principles. Decisions are made in distant corridors of power, imposed through force, and justified through rhetoric that bears little resemblance to lived reality. In this environment, the language of development becomes a tool of deception—masking dispossession with progress and coercion with reform.
The long-term consequences of such policies are profound. When communities lose their land, their economic foundations collapse. When agricultural systems are dismantled, dependency replaces self-reliance. When young people grow up under constant surveillance, fear, and uncertainty, an entire generation is pushed toward alienation and despair. What emerges is not stability, but a deepening cycle of resentment that threatens peace far beyond Kashmir.
Equally alarming is the continued silence of the international community. Institutions that routinely speak of human rights, environmental protection, and sustainable development remain conspicuously muted. The inaction of bodies such as the United Nations raises troubling questions. Is this silence mere diplomatic caution, or does it amount to tacit complicity? In a nuclearized region as volatile as South Asia, ignoring Kashmir’s reality is not neutrality—it is negligence.
The Shopian railway line is not merely 26 kilometers of steel and concrete. It is a line drawn between occupation and accountability, between imposed control and the right of a people to determine their future. If allowed to proceed unchecked, it will bury not only orchards and livelihoods but also the hopes of a generation already living under extraordinary constraints.
History records such moments with unforgiving clarity. It notes who acted, who resisted, and who chose silence. Kashmir’s orchards bear witness. Its soil remembers. And its mothers—mourning sons lost to bullets and bulldozers alike—will not forget. Development imposed at gunpoint is not progress; it is plunder. And plunder, no matter how eloquently justified, remains a crime against both people and posterity.
