13th July: A Day of Selective Memory and Silenced Grief

13th July: A Day of Selective Memory and Silenced Grief

Every year, as July 13 approaches, a bitter silence falls over a chapter of Kashmiri history that remains deeply contested, fragmented, and politicized. Once observed as “Martyrs’ Day” in the erstwhile state of Jammu and Kashmir, the date officially commemorated the 1931 uprising against the Dogra Maharaja’s rule. Yet buried under state-sanctioned homage and ceremonial wreath-laying lies a parallel, painful truth—a truth that the Kashmiri Pandit community has long fought to preserve: a day not only of death, but of violence, communal targeting, and the beginning of a painful erasure.

The Official Narrative vs. the Suppressed Truth

According to the state narrative, 22 Muslim men were shot dead by the Dogra army outside Srinagar Central Jail as they protested the arrest of one Abdul Qadir—a cook in British employ who had delivered a fiery speech calling for rebellion against the Hindu Dogra monarchy. For many among the Muslim population, this moment marked a first collective assertion of political consciousness. But for the minority Kashmiri Pandit community, the events of that day were not a mere footnote—they were the beginning of a nightmare.

Eyewitness testimonies and historical writings from that period describe a wave of violence that erupted following the shootings. Hindu homes and businesses were attacked, temples were desecrated, and innocent civilians were assaulted. The acclaimed singer and writer Malika Pukhraj, in her memoir Song Sung True, provides a chilling account of this mayhem—documenting how what began as a protest transformed into targeted communal violence.

The slogan “Ralliv, Challiv, Galliv” (convert, flee, or die) may have formally gained prominence decades later during the 1990 exodus, but its echoes were heard even then, in the charged air of July 1931. For Kashmiri Pandits, it was a traumatic foreshadowing of worse to come.

Abdul Qadir and the Dangerous Spark

Central to the events of that fateful day was Abdul Qadir, a cook employed by a British officer, who publicly incited the crowd against the Dogra regime and, by extension, the Hindu community. His speech was not merely anti-monarchist; it carried dangerous undertones of communal agitation. While Qadir was arrested for sedition, the protests that followed spiraled into an uncontrolled outburst of rage, directed in large part against Hindus in the Valley.

What occurred on July 13, 1931, was not simply the death of 22 protestors. It was the unleashing of a larger communal frenzy—rape, loot, destruction of temples, and an emboldened anti-Dogra campaign that sought to dismantle the existing sociopolitical order by vilifying an entire community.

The Role of Political and Colonial Actors

This unfolding tragedy was not an isolated or organic uprising. It was, in part, engineered. British officer Wakefield, with the tacit support of the Political Department of the British Indian Government, played a behind-the-scenes role in stoking the unrest. His strategic aim was clear: to destabilize the Dogra regime, which had maintained a measure of autonomy and order in the princely state. Wakefield’s meddling was aided and abetted by emerging Kashmiri political figures such as Sheikh Abdullah and his associates, who would later become central figures in Kashmir’s post-colonial political landscape.

What was painted as an anti-monarchical revolt was, in many ways, a cleverly disguised communal upheaval that seeded long-term discord between communities. The Quit Kashmir Movement, which gained momentum in the following decade, owed much of its early energy to the anti-Dogra, anti-Hindu sentiment that found expression on July 13.

Erasure and Selective Mourning

Despite the communal violence of that day, the state chose to honor only one side of the story. Until 2019, July 13 remained a public holiday in Jammu and Kashmir, complete with official ceremonies and floral tributes at the “Martyrs’ Graveyard” in Srinagar. Yet no public acknowledgment, let alone commemoration, was made for the Hindu victims of that day. The Dogras and Kashmiri Pandits—who bore the brunt of the violence—were rendered invisible in the official memory of the state.

Even Jawaharlal Nehru, himself a Kashmiri Pandit, endorsed the Martyrs’ Day narrative without publicly recognizing the trauma his own community had endured. In his zeal for secularism and political unity, Nehru overlooked the lived reality of those who had faced violence not for political allegiance, but for their religious and cultural identity.

A Day of Reckoning Still Due

After the amendment of Article 370 and the reorganization of Jammu and Kashmir into a Union Territory, July 13 ceased to be a state holiday. For many Kashmiri Pandits and Indian nationalists, this was a symbolic correction—an end to decades of state-sponsored selective memory. But even this act, while meaningful, falls short of a full reckoning.

The truth of July 13, 1931, is uncomfortable. It resists neat political categorization. It is both the story of a people’s protest against monarchy and a tale of targeted violence against a vulnerable minority. To confront this truth is not to delegitimize the aspirations of Kashmiri Muslims; it is to acknowledge that no community’s pain should be excluded from the pages of history.

Conclusion: Toward an Honest Memory

History is not a singular narrative—it is a palimpsest of experiences, often at odds with each other. For Kashmir to move toward any form of reconciliation, it must begin by honoring all its dead, by listening to all its survivors. The legacy of July 13 should not be one of one-sided commemoration, but a solemn reflection on the dangers of communalism, political manipulation, and historical erasure.

To honor the dead, we must first tell the whole truth. And in that truth, there is space for every memory—Muslim, Pandit, Dogra, forgotten.