The Great Kashmiri Book Purge: When Ideas Become Illegal

The government of Jammu and Kashmir has banned 25 books, a decision that has left readers, writers, and educators in shock and cast a shadow over Kashmir's intellectual life. This prohibition is not a typical act of censorship; rather, it is a disturbing indication that stories that are upsetting to power cannot be accepted any more.

Some of the most renowned authors in journalism, history, and literature have had their works suddenly banned. Among the books on the list are Azadi by Arundhati Roy, The Kashmir Dispute 1947–2012 by A.G. Noorani, Contested Lands and Kashmir at the Crossroads by Sumantra Bose, and A Dismantled State: The Untold Story of Kashmir After Article 370 by Anuradha Bhasin. David Devadas's The Generation of Rage in Kashmir, Christopher Snedden's Independent Kashmir, Victoria Schofield's Kashmir in Conflict, and Hafsa Kanjwal's Colonizing Kashmir are all prohibited. The purge also extended to theoretical writings, such as Al-Jihad fil Islam by Maulana Maududi. These books, which include scholarly works, reports, and memoirs, are published by Penguin, Routledge, and Oxford University Press. They are not typically used in militancy, but they are now regarded as dangerous contraband.

National security serves as the basis for the state's defense. According to officials, these publications propagate "false narratives and secessionism," glorify terrorists, misrepresent history, and run the risk of inciting grievances and "terrorist heroism" in Kashmiri youth. The books were declared "forfeit" under the 2023 Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS) and Bharatiya Nagarik Suraksha Sanhita (BNSS). Now, possession, distribution, or publication could result in legal action. Libraries and bookshops were raided, copies confiscated, and vendors cautioned.

However, the reasoning soon breaks down. For years, even decades, these publications have been in print without causing any agitation. Early August 2025 saw their abrupt ban, which coincided nearly exactly with the sixth anniversary of Article 370's repeal. The symbolism was unmistakable: rather than marking the moment with reconciliation, the government chose to flex ideological control. It became even more ironic when the crackdown took place in Srinagar during a state-sponsored literary festival, honouring the written word while it was being policed.

This was no accident to many onlookers and academics. The restriction appears to be more about promoting a political narrative at a sensitive time than it is about actual security threats. It served as a warning that disagreements with the state's account of events would not be accepted and was equally performative as it was punishing. Writers like Angana Chatterji have termed the move a frightening “warning against free speech.” Others point out that the majority of the banned writers, such as Bose and Devadas, support communication and harmony rather than separatist. Instead of glorifying violence, their paintings, if anything, complicate the story of Kashmir.

The stated justification is inconsistent as well. Authorities point to "public order" and "religious sentiments," but these definitions are arbitrary and applied selectively. While certain historical or religious writings are attacked, others that are just as controversial are left unaffected. In the meantime, less attention is paid to incendiary speech on social media or television, which is far more immediate and accessible. Books are much less likely to cause abrupt discontent since they require context and introspection. Instead of addressing real threats, targeting them seems more symbolic than practical, an attempt to stifle scholarly inquiry.

The effect on educators has been immediate. Teachers, who frequently draw from a variety of sources, find their intellectual horizons abruptly constrained. Today, schools are plagued by the anxiety of "crossing invisible lines”. The uncertainty around what is considered appropriate undermines academic independence, which is already precarious. The prohibition serves as a clear reminder to writers as well: some realities—or even some ways of envisioning them—are no longer acceptable. Nowadays, writing itself seems like a defiant act to many. In any case, the literary landscape has become more delicate, whether people self-censor or oppose with more scathing criticism.

Students and readers are most affected by the loss. Books are typically their first contacts with worlds beyond their own, developing empathy and critical thought. Confusion and mistrust are created when titles abruptly disappear from bookshelves and curricula. Why are these concepts so risky? What's being concealed? The rejection of different viewpoints stunts the intellectual development of young people who are already negotiating a terrain of contested identities. Nowadays, there is a sense of surveillance even in the private act of reading.

This prohibition is part of a larger trend of tighter monitoring, media restrictions, and internet shutdowns that have been in place in Jammu & Kashmir since 2019. By focusing on literature, one of the few remaining channels for discussion is cut off. Books are special because they last longer than news, preserving intricacy and memory. Banning them would be an attempt to both police the present and obliterate the history. The risk of self-censorship extends beyond the loss of specific titles and affects writing, teaching, and publishing. For a whole generation, silence becomes the safer course of action.

This trend isn't limited to Kashmir either. Censorship has increased throughout India, with social media posts being removed, movies being trimmed, and history textbook parts being removed. Although the rationale is frequently the same—avoidance of offense, harmony—the line is infinitely stretches due to the ambiguity of "hurt sentiments" or "public order." It is simple to reinterpret one person's criticism as another's insult. As a result, the foundations of democratic discourse are weakened by selective monitoring of language.

Democracies around the world struggle to strike a balance between security and free expression, but the standard response to offensive speech is more speech rather than suppression. India's course runs the risk of departing from that custom. Suppressing books is a sign of weakness for a democracy that values plurality, indicating that society is unable to handle the challenge of differing viewpoints.

However, history indicates that censorship rarely works. Rarely do banned books disappear; instead, they spread underground and gain symbolic value as worthwhile reading. Ideas are frequently amplified by attempts to stifle them. These prohibitions can unintentionally make the books symbols of resistance in Kashmir, a region already characterized by disputed narratives.

In the end, the prohibition is more about control than it is about the books. It exposes a regime that is keen to impose a single narrative and fearful of dissent. Ironically, then, the state undercuts the very democratic resilience it aims to portray by attempting to stifle complexity. Democracy is enhanced by disagreement rather than its elimination; it flourishes on discussion rather than homogeneity. A fear of freedom itself is betrayed by a prohibition on literature.

There will be long-term effects. Reduced intellectual space forces instructors to remain silent, deters authors from addressing delicate topics, and denies students the opportunity to experience a range of viewpoints. This eventually fosters conformity over inquiry and obedience over curiosity. Such repression comes at a high cost for an area like Kashmir, where many histories and identities demand room.

Books encourage discussion rather than pose a danger. They make basic stories more complex, foster empathy, and maintain memory. Banning them would stifle harmony rather than preserve it. India must acknowledge that literature belongs in the hands of readers, not censors, if it is to fulfill its democratic pledge. Books that are silenced merely reveal a fear of ideas, not an actual erasure of them.

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