My name is Fatima – What am I?

• Junaid Qureshi
• Comments 0
• 25 Apr 2026

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Sometimes when I am alone, I get amazed at Allah’s instituted scales of justice..!

CROSS ROADS

I am a daughter of Jammu & Kashmir.

During my lifetime, I have butchered my individuality, my wishes, my dreams and my own self inside my heart, to give life to the other selves around me. Culture, society, man-made laws, traditions, politics and the interpretation of the word of God - all have been culpable of my extortion. It is a cruel irony that while my honour was shamelessly being dissected, I kept receiving the epithet of being the prestige of my household, family, society, culture and country.

This is the tale of your daughter, sister, beloved, wife and mother.

Narrated by me – the one who has been all this, yet is still in search of what she is.

I have been Habba Khatoon when Yusuf Shah Chak was the King. I became a lonely wanderer on the streets of my kingdom when my own brothers invited the Mughals to depose the ruler of my heart. Their sectarianism not only deprived my land of its native ruler and put the wrath of foreign rule on this Paradise, but it also fragmented my world and made me languish in separation while I mourned my beloved in my songs.

Once upon a time, my parents started mutilating me by cutting my nose and shaving me bald so that I would be saved from being sold as a slave in the markets of Kabul and Kandahar by the Afghans. I had to stop worshipping my Lord in His house as the next rulers disgraced my mosques and temples by transforming them into stables for horses and cattle. When the invaders reached Baramulla, they ripped my ears off my face, because I used to grace them with ornaments. They made me watch silently while they raped the nuns of my city like animals, before I also fell prey to their lust.

To serve humanity, I became a nurse and took the name of Sarla Bhat. I was abducted, gang-raped and killed. My body was thrown like garbage in the streets of Srinagar. I also became a doctor and was called Rubiya Sayeed. In the name of freedom, I was kidnapped and made a prisoner because of my parentage. I was also one of the many unfortunate women in the remote village of Kunan-Poshpora. While the darkness of that night was not my shortcoming, I am still being punished by the torchbearers who claim to fight for my justice. I still cannot be someone’s wife and am haunted by isolation, as my past has not only devastated me but has also turned me into an outcast.

Some also call me Zainab, whose brother was butchered after being made to watch how I was raped by terrorists in Bandipora. People also refer to me as Neelofar and, at times, Aasiya, who were dishonoured and killed. The call for my justice soon turned into politics and vanished in thick enquiry reports afterwards.

I have been exploited by men who claim to fight for my and their freedom, and at times, I have been exploited by men who claim to defend my and their freedom. Meanwhile, it was only my freedom which was chained and made a prisoner of this so-called masculine war.

Had it not been for me, who would you have asked justice for? Whom would you have ruled over? Whom would you have kidnapped? Whom would you have raped?

Had I not existed, what exactly would have proven your masculinity?

What exactly would have made you a ‘Man’ if I would not have been?     

I still see myself in the eyes of the many walking corpses resembling me. All of them having the same desultory stare in their eyes as I have.

I hear my name in the deafening cries of Bimla and her daughter Archana, whenever I pass by Nai-Sadak. I see my limbs in the mutilated body of Girija. I smell myself in the torn, stenchy clothes of Neelofar, Aasiya, Zainab and Sarla. I see myself appear and disappear in the lingering sighs when I look at the orphaned daughter of the policeman who died on duty.  

I pray to God that someday, you might recognise your daughter, sister, beloved, wife and mother in our eyes as well.

While some are fortunate enough to choose whom they love, I wasn’t. I once rejected someone’s love, and he displayed his affection for me by disfiguring my face with acid. Since then, I enjoy the luxury of not being bothered whom to love anymore, as now my face even terrifies the little girl in the mirror.

My brother used to spend his evenings with his friends on the roadside, teasing girls returning from tuition class, yet his hypocrisy ordered me to wear a Burqa. Although my Almighty has ordered both men and women to lower their gaze, the place where I live, men have concluded that it is my character which deserves blemish when they fail to follow His edict.

When an earthquake struck my land, and when it was flooded with devastating floods, it was my demeanour which was held responsible for bringing about God’s fury.

My father always used to say that I had been a blessing from God, yet at the time of my departure from his house, I somehow turned into a curse. A curse which made him sell his land and get drowned in debts in order to defray the expensive journey from my temporary house to my permanent home. A journey to a destination where my eminence was not only established by the magnitude of the dowry I brought with me, but also by the pretentiousness of the cloak of enforced masquerades which I had to start wearing then onwards.

In my new home, my new life became clear very soon. As long as I fulfilled my responsibilities, I did not exist. My existence was only noticed by others when I failed to please them. I was the one who would wake up when dawn had just started kissing the surface of the earth and would go to sleep when the dawn of the next morning would be only a few hours away.

In between, I was responsible for ensuring that my new family was content with my presence. Raising my children and, at times even the children of my brother and sister-in-law, cooking, cleaning, ironing, adapting myself to the wishes and habits of my new parents, listening when told to, keeping silent when ordered to, speaking when allowed to, and even folding the handkerchiefs of my husband the way he had instructed, became the pillars of my new world.

Without realising it, I had turned into a numb woman while distancing myself from the youthful girl full of joy and dreams, which I once used to be.

In this land of numerous graves, the little girl inside me had also died. My new ‘home’ had become the graveyard of my tarnished soul.

I remember that while commuting between the duties of a wife, a mother and a daughter-in-law, I once fell terribly sick. While being sick, I was allowed to return to my temporary house again. Not because that was what I asked for, but because the pleasures of my existence were only to be enjoyed without assuming the burdens of it.

In soundness, I was a daughter-in-law often referred to as a daughter. In sickness, I once again became the daughter of my own father.

My transition to my new home was marked only by me. For others, it was a fulfilment of their expectations. However, only I know how painful this drift of conversion had been. A drift, which would have been much more bearable if it was complimented by compliments, acknowledged by acknowledgement and respected by respect for my seemingly effortless efforts.

Much has changed in Kashmir in just a few decades. There was a time when it was natural for me to administer the affairs of the household as well as the country. A time, when flower festivals were celebrated in Kashmir, and women were offered garlands for their commitment and dedication to society.

Apparently, the imported gun killed much more than mere bodies.

Today, the need has arisen to establish a separate police station for me, ‘manned’  by only women, as otherwise my safety cannot be guaranteed. Today, a 14-year-old brainwashed kid born from my womb, who still needs me to dress himself up, steps into the house and teaches me about honour and respect when he orders me to veil myself.

It reminded me of the days when I welcomed bullets in my legs when I dared to defy similar diktats concerning my attire. It makes me wonder whether these new-age defenders of religion and sanctity will confine themselves to just lecturing? To me, it seems that their ‘belief’, for some reason, is much stronger than that of their predecessors.

When I was young, I never heard anything about women being set ablaze or reaching the hospital with broken bones and a disfigured face. I am sure that just like me, you must have noticed thousands of such cases during the past years. The fact that many of the perpetrators derive their justifications from their interpretations of religion should worry us both.

Deep inside your heart, you know, as no one else, that I have been the actual martyr in this war-torn paradise.

When it suited you, I was strangulated. And when it suited you, I had to forget all diktats, teachings and so-called cultural and social values and was forced to courier arms and ammunition. It was me who had to provide shelter and food to you when you entered my home at gunpoint. It was me who was made to lay down in one bed with you so that when they came looking for you, it could be claimed that you were my husband and the son-in-law of our family. Not because we believed in what you did, but because if we didn’t do what you ordered us to do, you would have killed us.

I was abandoned. Used. Misused. Abused.

Injustice mounted upon me provided stock to the merchants of lies and dreams, which kept their shops open.

My sufferings were valued, re-branded and sold over and over again by you.  

The game of deceit in this Valley has had many casualties, and with every casualty, a part of me was killed. When my father was murdered, I became an orphan. After the disappearance of my husband, I received the cognomen of half-widow. When my son was killed, I was called infecund, and when I heard that my husband had been martyred, I was named a widow.

Sometimes when I am alone, I get amazed at Allah’s instituted scales of justice.

While losing others in my life, my names have changed continuously. Yet, whenever I have lost myself, killed my wishes and murdered my dreams to adorn others around me and justify my existence, I have been called by the same names as before.

A daughter, a sister, a beloved, a wife and a mother.

Having been all this, that one question still haunts me: What am I?

(The Author is the Director of European Foundation for South Asian Studies (EFSAS) and can be reached at j.qureshi@efsas.org)