The Chameleons
By Ajaz Rashid
In the Valley of Kashmir, where the Jhelum serenades through Srinagar’s labyrinthine alleys, we Kashmiris have perfected the art of camouflage. Call us chameleons—not the lazy lizard type that blends into banana leaves, but the Himalayan variant that shifts hues faster than a politician dodging a TV camera. Politician or plebeian, mainstreamer, or separatist, Pandit or Muslim, rural hardy or urban slick, young firebrand, or elderly sage—if there is one thread stitching our tartan shawls together, it is this: a chronic, habitual genius for short-term gains that leaves us perennial long-term losers.
We twist like the poplar trees in a gale, surviving the storm but uprooted from our roots. It’s not cowardice; it’s calculus. In a land pummelled by empires, insurgencies, and blackouts, immediate survival trumps distant utopias. Yet, this chameleonry—wise in its pragmatism, foolish in its myopia—has scripted our saga as a people who win battles but lose wars.
Darkly humorous, isn’t it? We protest for azadi one day, queue for government jobs the next, all while sipping kahwa strong enough to dissolve principles. Or nun chai.
Historically, our chameleon skin has been our shield and our curse. Under Dogra maharajas, we were loyal subjects by day, whispering sedition by night. The 1947 tribal invasion? Some Kashmiri leaders died for India, many urged Pakistan for rescue, others sprinted to Maharaja Hari Singh clutching loyalty petitions. Accession to India followed, with Sheikh Abdullah hailing it as deliverance—until 1953, when he flirted with independence and got jailed.
Usually our Short-term gain: power. Long-term loss: trust deficit that echoes today. Fast-forward to the 1980s: rigged elections birthed militancy. Youth who pelted stones at CRPF morphed into Hizbul operatives overnight, funded by ISI suitcases. By 1996, many surrendered for “rehab,” trading Kalashnikovs for kebabs.
The wise ones? They hedged bets—sympathizing with militants while paying taxes to Delhi. The otherwise? They burned bridges flamboyantly, only to beg for amnesty later. Post-2019, Article 370’s abrogation saw soft separatists resuming Friday sermons under the Tricolour, while erstwhile mainstreamers discovered “self-rule” poetry from jail. Gain: survival. Loss: a polity fractured, where no leader commands fealty beyond tomorrow’s headline.
Politics is our chameleon coliseum, a wazwan feast where we gorge on today’s platter, indigestion be damned. Take the Abdullah dynasty: Farooq, the heir apparent to the Lion of Kashmir, roared against Indira Gandhi in 1983, only to kiss her son for Rajiv-Farooq Accord in 1986. This after his own sister-brother-in-law backstab his out of office Short-term: chief ministership. Long-term: branded a quisling, eroding National Conference’s soul. Mufti Mohammed Sayeed? Founded PDP on “healing touch” post-militancy, allied with BJP in 2014 for power, then snapped ties when stones flew in 2016. His daughter Mehbooba flirted with Gupkar Alliance, a separatist-lite cocktail. Separatists are not saints: Yasin Malik, once JKLF fire-eater, played violence then preached non-violence when his paws were cuffed; others quietly invest in Downtown real estate, stone-pelting by proxy through nephews. Rural Kashmiris? They vote for proxies during elections, then hoist Pakistani flags on odd even occasions. Urban youth? TikTok azadi reels by day, LinkedIn job hunts for Delhi startups by night. The psyche here? Opportunism as oxygen.
The wise Kashmiri—think a Burhan Wani sympathizer who quietly aced UPSC—adapts subtly, building ladders while bending. The otherwise? Blatant flip-flops, like the Srinagar trader who sold “Boycott India” stickers during curfew, then imports Chinese LEDs when power returns.
Daily life mirrors this malaise, a tragicomedy of petty pivots. In the mohalla, marriages are chameleon chess: a girl’s family eyes the groom’s government job, ignoring his Islamist leanings; post-nikaah, they whisper about his beard. Weddings? Extravagant wazwan for 500, bankruptcy tomorrow—short-term ostentation, long-term penury. Business? The Anantnag apple grower curses Delhi’s policies, smuggles via LoC, then lobbies for GST rebates. During strikes, shops shutter dramatically; by dusk, they open via backdoors, hawking smuggled cigarettes.
Urban elite in posh Rajbagh? They lament “occupation” at kitty parties, but send kids to DPS and IIT coaching. Rural elders, wise in folklore, hoard gold under phirans, switching loyalties from maulvi to patwari as monsoons dictate. Youngsters? Stone-pelting for Instagram glory, then asylum applications to Canada, citing “persecution.” Dark humor alert: Why did the Kashmiri cross the LoC? To fetch apples from the Pakistani side—cheaper than Hajj visas. Or, our moral compass spins like a Dal Lake shikara in a squall: points north to paradise, south to pragmatism, always docking where the fish bite today.
Objectively, appreciate the psyche first. This chameleonry is evolutionary genius, forged in a crucible of Mughal firangs, Afghan Durranis, Sikh khalsas, British sahibs, and Indian jawans. Survival demanded it like the snow chameleon that turns white to evade eagles. The wise Kashmiri embodies this: adaptable without atrophy. Recall Ghulam Nabi Azad, who navigated Congress, alliances, and now his own Democratic Azad Party, amassing then failing in influence. Or Pandit politicians cum intellectuals like, who in Jammu, critiquing both sides. They play the long game veiled in short-term masks. Rural matriarchs, too—stoic, switching from Sufi shrines to masjid iftar, preserving family hearths amid hartals.
Criticize, though, without flinching: this habit erodes the soul. Chronic short-termism breeds a trust vacuum—no enduring institutions, just fleeting cabals. Politics? A carousel of defections; 2024 elections might see more MLAs switch in the 2026 or 2027 season as has been seen than the seasons change. Daily life? Cheating in exams, evading traffic cops, bribing for LPG cylinders micro-corruptions snowball into macro-failures. The otherwise Kashmiri, the bulk, lacks spine: flip-flopping is not strategy; it is sclerosis. Psychologically, it is trauma’s child—generations of betrayal breed cynicism. Freud might call it survival neurosis; we call it “jo hua so hua, ab kya.” Result? Stagnation. Kashmir’s HDI lags, youth unemployment festers at 40%, militancy simmers. We gain a quota today, lose vision tomorrow.
Metaphorically, we are houseboats on the Jhelum: nimble, navigating floods and freezes, but never sailing to sea. Or chameleons on Dachigam’s treacherous slopes—blend in, eat flies, but never lead the pack. Darkly regional: Our kahwa is sweet-short, bitter-after; we sip for warmth, spit the dregs, forgetting the brew weakens bones.
The future? No sermons, just speculation. This political-moral compass, calibrated for survival, faces headwinds: diaspora Kashmiris (10 lakh strong) never return but on social media advise with global spines, demanding accountability. Social media exposes flip-flops— a viral video of a “mujahid” at a BJP rally cannot end careers.
Education surges; 70-80%-90% literacy means youth question “wise” uncles. Climate change, tourism boom, even Israel’s model (tech amid conflict) might nudge long-termism. Separatism wanes; mainstream absorbs it. Or not—chameleonry persists, a cultural GPS defaulting to “safest route.” Wise evolve into statesmen; otherwise into memes. Either way, Kashmir endures, colors shifting as mountains stand sentinel.
Self-critically, we Kashmiris must laugh at our reflection: chameleons chasing shadows, masters of mirage. Short-term survival bought us time; long-term vision will buy legacy. Until then, we will change with the light—paradoxically, our most consistent trait.
Ajaz Rashid is a social and development entrepreneur who can be reached at info@ajazrashid.org
