A Society Sedated: Drug Addiction and the Moral Death of the Kashmiri Imagination

By Dr Anayat Mir MD, PGDMH

Associate Professor, GHMC Kathua

In the quiet majesty of the Himalayas, where time once moved to the rhythm of pines swaying in valley winds and the verses of saints echoed in shrines, a devastating affliction has taken root in Kashmir. It is not declared with the blast of a bomb nor marked by the barbed wire of terrorism, but it seeps silently into the bones of the Valley. Drug addiction, long confined to whispers behind closed doors, now moves unchecked through the public life of Kashmir—on its streets, in its schools, its hospitals, and its homes. What once was a society rich in ethical restraint, spiritual self-mastery, and intellectual fervour now confronts a crisis that, while less visible than conflict, is no less catastrophic.

There is something profoundly unsettling in witnessing a civilisation slowly lose its moral centre—not through an act of spectacular violence, but through the gradual corrosion of its inner life. The crisis of drug addiction in Kashmir cannot be adequately understood as a public health issue alone. It is a mirror reflecting deeper anxieties: a loss of purpose, a collapse of meaning, and a disintegration of the very structures that once sustained Kashmiri society. That this tragedy disproportionately afflicts the youth—the generation that carries not only biological time but historical promise—renders it more harrowing. These are not merely cases of wayward indulgence or individual moral failure. These are symptoms of a society caught in the throes of disorientation, stranded between unresolved grief and uncertain futures.

For over three decades, Kashmir has lived under the shadow of an unrelenting conflict that has penetrated every institution and every imagination. It is not merely the presence of the politics of sovereignty that have reshaped the Valley, but the subtle, sustained erosion of civic vitality. Children have grown up in neighbourhoods where fear is ambient and surveillance routine. In such an environment, it is not surprising that the psychological fabric of the young has frayed. The absence of stable schooling, the precarity of employment, and the sheer exhaustion of hope have created a condition where alienation is not an anomaly but a default mode of existence.

Into this vacuum has poured the silent seduction of drugs. From cannabis to heroin, from prescription opioids to inhalants, substances have flooded the informal markets of Kashmir, often more accessible than jobs or justice. The transformation of this economy—from ritual use in cultural margins to widespread consumption—reflects the desperation of a generation that finds in numbness the only available form of escape. A study conducted by the Government Psychiatric Hospital in Srinagar in 2019 reported that over 2.5 percent of the population suffers from addiction, far surpassing the national average. Even more alarming is the shift from non-invasive forms of consumption to intravenous drug use, with its attendant risks of HIV and Hepatitis. What we are witnessing is not a marginal pathology but a social phenomenon—an ailment whose spread correlates with the wider collapse of meaning.

There is also a darker, more geopolitical layer to this story. The rise in heroin consumption in districts like Pulwama and Baramulla is not a random coincidence, but in part a consequence of a sophisticated network of narcotics trafficking, often linked to actors across the Line of Control. Intelligence agencies have long suspected that such trade is not merely for profit but designed with precision: a quiet form of warfare. A society numbed is a society disarmed. A youth lost to addiction is less likely to revolt, less likely to rebuild, less capable of political clarity. This is not the traditional theatre of war; this is biopolitical degradation—an insidious occupation of the mind and will.

The tragedy does not end with the addict. It radiates outward. It reaches mothers who sit by hospital beds, unable to save their children but unable to abandon them either. It grips fathers whose silence hardens into helplessness. It envelops entire families in a thick fog of shame, rendering them invisible. And it leaves children in these homes inheriting a world of trauma rather than tenderness. Women, especially, bear the hidden costs. In a culture where caregiving is feminised but mental health is taboo, women are made custodians of a burden they neither chose nor are equipped to carry. With little institutional support, they navigate their roles as both carers and survivors, often without being seen.

What compounds the crisis is the state’s response—an uneven mix of criminalisation and neglect. Too often, addicts are treated as delinquents rather than patients. Arrests replace therapy; raids substitute for rehabilitation. The result is predictable: relapse, recidivism, and a deepening of despair. Meanwhile, de-addiction centres remain understaffed, underfunded, and largely urban-centric, leaving rural communities adrift. The health system is collapsing under the weight of what is essentially a social emergency.

If there is any hope, it lies not in policy manuals but in the civilisational resources of Kashmir itself. This is a land that once produced Lal Ded, whose poetry carried the ferocity of spiritual rebellion and the tenderness of lived wisdom. It is the birthplace of Nund Rishi, whose calls for simplicity and ethical conduct shaped the contours of Kashmir. These were not mere religious figures—they were architects of moral order, prophets of self-restraint, and teachers of inner discipline. Their relevance today is not antiquarian but urgent. The crisis we confront is, at its core, a spiritual crisis—a hollowing out of meaning, a fragmentation of identity, a rupture between self and society.

To respond meaningfully to this crisis is to restore the moral imagination of Kashmir. Cultural institutions must stop serving as monuments and start functioning as laboratories of ethical renewal. Religious leaders must transcend their sermons and engage directly with the moral anxieties of the youth. Educational institutions must cease to be examination factories and become spaces of dialogue, care, and philosophical inquiry. The idea is not to return to an imagined past, but to recover the sensibilities that allowed Kashmir, in its finest moments, to offer a model of humane living in a cruel world.

Any effective response must also be institutional. Law enforcement must be reformed, not merely to intercept supply chains, but to engage in restorative outreach. Health infrastructure must be expanded, especially in peripheral areas, with a focus on integrated recovery—combining medical, psychological, and vocational rehabilitation. Schools must introduce curricula that teach not just knowledge but resilience, not just skill but purpose. Youth must be drawn into circles of creation—through art, sport, music, and discourse. They must be made to feel, once again, that they are not accidents of history but authors of its next chapter.

Above all, the family must be reimagined. In Kashmiri culture, the family is not a private space—it is a sanctuary. And it must be protected and re-energised as such. Open conversations, emotional honesty, and collective healing must replace secrecy, shame, and repression. In saving one young life, a family often saves itself. And in saving its families, Kashmir saves its soul. Today, the Valley stands at a decisive crossroads. The choice is not merely between recovery and collapse, but between forgetting who we are and remembering what we once aspired to be. Addiction is a slow erasure—of time, of talent, of tenderness. But resistance need not be loud to be real. Sometimes, it begins with the quiet reawakening of conscience