Shazia Ashraf Khawaja
Another day, another sensational headline from Indian occupied Jammu & Kashmir (IIoJK). The script, by now, is numbingly familiar. A “national news channel” executive, acting as a conduit for unnamed “officials,” announces a major breakthrough: a “women-centric radicalisation module” busted, links to banned outfits like Jaish-e-Mohammad and Dukhtaran-e-Millat unearthed, “incriminating jihadi material” recovered. The language is deliberate—sinister, conclusive, and designed to paint a picture of imminent danger. Before the ink is dry on the First Information Report (FIR), before a single charge is proven in a court of law, the trial begins. But this trial is not held in a courtroom; it is broadcast into millions of homes, and the defendants are not just the named suspects, but an entire community. This is not law enforcement; it is the machinery of collective punishment, lubricated by a complicit media.
The recent claims by the CIK, as amplified by the so-called “Godi media,” are a stark reminder of a pattern that has defined the experience of Kashmiris for decades. The revelation, we are told, is of a “suspected women terrorist module.” The word “suspected” is the fragile hinge on which this entire edifice of accusation swings, yet it is the first word to be discarded in the rush to judgment. The moment these stories break, suspicion morphs into established fact in the public imagination. The individuals named—Dr. Umar Farooq, his wife Shehzaada—are no longer citizens entitled to the presumption of innocence. They are characters in a pre-written narrative of treachery and terror. Their reputations are assassinated long before any legal process can even begin.
This media trial has devastating, real-world consequences. It creates an atmosphere where any form of dissent, any association, any digital footprint can be twisted into “incriminating material.” For Kashmiri men and women, be they professionals, students, or the unemployed, the shadow of suspicion is a constant companion. The accusation itself becomes the punishment. Even if, after years of legal battle, a court pronounces them “not guilty,” the stain remains. Their years spent in detention, their careers shattered, their families traumatised—these are losses for which there is no reparation, no apology. The state’s machinery moves on to the next headline, leaving broken lives in its wake. This is a form of slow, institutional violence, where the process is the punishment.
The ghost of Afzal Guru looms large over this discourse. His execution remains a festering wound in the collective conscience of Kashmir, precisely because it was a verdict delivered as much by the frenzied media as by the Supreme Court. The clamour for a “quick hanging ”, fueled by a narrative that bypassed legal nuances and due process, created a political imperative that overshadowed judicial scrutiny. The court itself acknowledged that the evidence was circumstantial, yet the media’s portrayal of him as the quintessential “face of terror” ensured that the demand for a sacrificial lamb was met. His case is the ultimate testament to how a media trial can subvert justice, transforming a legal process into a political spectacle.
Today, scores of Kashmiri political leaders and activists languish in jails under the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA), a legislation that makes bail nearly impossible and allows for indefinite incarceration without trial. Their cases are periodically resurrected in media reports, not as legal matters, but as evidence of the state’s relentless campaign against “terror.” Each headline is a reminder to the Kashmiri people of their precarious existence, where their political aspirations can be criminalised overnight. The message is clear: dissent is terrorism, and anyone associated with it, even tangentially, is a legitimate target. This is the very definition of collective punishment—holding a community responsible for the actions of a few, and using the law not to ensure justice, but to enforce silence.
The current claims of a “dark web” module add a new, technologically sophisticated layer to this old tactic. The vagueness of terms like “dark web” and “OGW networks” (Over Ground Workers) allows for an expansive and elastic definition of guilt. It creates a boogeymen that is everywhere and nowhere, justifying widespread surveillance, raids, and arrests. When the evidence is allegedly hidden in the impenetrable depths of the internet, the burden of proof is conveniently lightened. An individual’s inability to disprove a vague allegation becomes, in the media narrative, confirmation of their guilt.
Condemning terrorism is a moral imperative for any society. Ensuring national security is the paramount duty of any state. However, these objectives cannot be achieved by dismantling the very foundations of justice and fair play. A counter-insurgency strategy that relies on branding entire communities as suspect is not only morally bankrupt but also strategically futile. It alienates the very people whose trust is essential for lasting peace. It creates more resentment, more anger, and more reasons for the cycle of violence to continue.
The constant media trials of Kashmiris, the weaponization of laws like the UAPA, and the institutional acceptance of collective punishment represent a grave failure on both counts. Until the sensational headlines are replaced by a commitment to due process, until the presumption of innocence is restored for every citizen, regardless of their ethnicity or religion, these “revelations” will reveal nothing but the deepening crisis of Indian democracy itself. The handcuffs featured in the news clips are not just on the wrists of a few suspects; they are a symbolic shackle on the entire community, and a stain on the nation’s conscience.
Writer is research associate at Kashmir Institute of International Relations and can be reached at;- shaziahashrafkhawaja@gmail.com