When Policy Separates Children from Mothers in Kashmir

When Policy Separates Children from Mothers in Kashmir


For Hussein, borders were not lines on a map, but the silence left by his mother’s absence.

The evenings in Hussein’s neighborhood slow down just before sunset. The street grows quiet, the air cools, and the road outside his home empties. Hussein, a twelve-year-old boy, sits near the window each day at this hour, watching carefully, as if expecting someone he knows to appear. Before this silence entered his life, Hussein’s days were ordinary. Each morning began with his mother, Samina, combing his hair and packing his lunch while reminding him to hurry for school. When he returned home, he spoke eagerly about his lessons and his friends. The rhythm of school, home, and family gave his childhood a sense of certainty.


That rhythm broke in late April 2025. Following the attack in Pahalgam that killed 26 people, a wave of deportations began. Pakistani nationals married to Kashmiri citizens were ordered to leave. Families who had lived together for years were given little time to prepare. Nearly 800 women were removed from their homes. Samina was one of them. She left without knowing when, or if, she would return. Hussein’s father, Majid, tried to explain what had happened. He spoke of borders and government orders, of decisions taken far away. Hussein listened, but none of it carried meaning. Politics did not explain why his mother’s voice was suddenly absent from their home. It did not explain the empty space at the dinner table. At an age when children learn geography from books, Hussein learned it through separation.


The concept of borders became real not on a map, but through absence. His world did not change because of ideology or nationality. It changed because his mother was no longer there to tuck him in at night. As weeks passed, Hussein’s routine collapsed inward. He began waiting by the window every evening, convinced that if he watched long enough, his mother would return. Technology allowed brief video calls, but the screen felt distant. A voice could not replace presence. Across the border, Samina watched her son grow quieter, his childhood slipping into stillness.


When school resumed, teachers noticed the change. Hussein withdrew from his classmates. Loud sounds startled him. His appetite faded. Child psychologists note that trauma in children often settles silently, shaping behavior rather than words. Hussein did not speak about his loss. He carried it. This is not an isolated story. Hundreds of children now live separated from their mothers as a result of political decisions taken after the attack. These children did not choose conflict, nor did they cross borders. Yet they live with its consequences every day. In Kashmir, policy has entered homes quietly, leaving children to carry burdens they cannot name.


The international community continues to debate borders, sovereignty, and security. For Hussein, the cost of conflict is measured differently. It is measured in waiting, in unanswered questions, and in the slow erosion of a childhood once defined by routine and care. Hussein still sits by the window each evening. He is still waiting.

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