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You may have heard about it exodus of Kashmiri Hindus in 1990 but back then, no media had the guts to show this story.
Soft hearted person don’t read this thread, This 2-minute thread will give you goosebumps
You may have heard about it exodus of Kashmiri Hindus in 1990 but back then, no media had the guts to show this story.
Soft hearted person don’t read this thread, This 2-minute thread will give you goosebumps
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The cold night of January 19, 1990, was unlike any other in the Kashmir Valley. The air carried a strange unease, and in the distance, the sound of Azaan echoed from mosques. But this was no ordinary call to prayer.
“Raliv, Tsaliv, ya Galiv!”
(Convert, flee, or die!), the loudspeakers blared.
From every corner of the valley, similar chants rang out:
The cold night of January 19, 1990, was unlike any other in the Kashmir Valley. The air carried a strange unease, and in the distance, the sound of Azaan echoed from mosques. But this was no ordinary call to prayer.
“Raliv, Tsaliv, ya Galiv!”
(Convert, flee, or die!), the loudspeakers blared.
From every corner of the valley, similar chants rang out:
“Kashmir banega Pakistan, Hindu aurat chhodkar!”
(Kashmir will become Pakistan, but without Hindu women!)
For centuries, Hindus had called this valley their home. They had worshiped in its ancient temples, farmed its fertile lands, and lived in harmony with their Muslim neighbors. But that night, everything changed.
(Kashmir will become Pakistan, but without Hindu women!)
For centuries, Hindus had called this valley their home. They had worshiped in its ancient temples, farmed its fertile lands, and lived in harmony with their Muslim neighbors. But that night, everything changed.
B.K. Ganjoo, a Kashmiri Pandit, was sitting with his wife when the mob came knocking. His hands trembled as he hid inside a large rice barrel in their storeroom. His wife prayed silently, hoping the men would leave.
Then, a voice rang out: “He’s in here!”
His own Muslim neighbor had betrayed him. The men opened fire into the barrel, filling the rice with his blood. But their cruelty did not end there.
Then, a voice rang out: “He’s in here!”
His own Muslim neighbor had betrayed him. The men opened fire into the barrel, filling the rice with his blood. But their cruelty did not end there.
They dragged his wife forward, forcing her to eat the blood-soaked rice, laughing as she wept.
In another village, Girija Tickoo, a schoolteacher, was dragged from her home. She was brutally gang-raped. Then, the men brought out a mechanical saw and while she was still alive, they cut her body in half.
In another village, Girija Tickoo, a schoolteacher, was dragged from her home. She was brutally gang-raped. Then, the men brought out a mechanical saw and while she was still alive, they cut her body in half.
The Nadimarg massacre came years later, but it followed the same script. Terrorists lined up 24 Hindus, including women and children, and shot them one by one. Their lifeless bodies fell into the snow, staining it red.
The valley that once celebrated Kashmiri culture had become a land of death.
The valley that once celebrated Kashmiri culture had become a land of death.
As the killings continued, Kashmiri Hindus fled their homes in the dead of night, carrying whatever they could. The Indian government remained silent no leaders spoke for them.
Over 400,000 Hindus were forced to leave, packed into overcrowded refugee camps in Jammu and Delhi.
These were not temporary shelters; they became permanent homes for a people without a homeland.
Over 400,000 Hindus were forced to leave, packed into overcrowded refugee camps in Jammu and Delhi.
These were not temporary shelters; they became permanent homes for a people without a homeland.
Children who once played in the apple orchards of Kashmir now shivered under tin roofs. Elderly parents died longing for the land they were born in, knowing they would never return.
Meanwhile, in the valley they had left behind, their homes were burned, their temples desecrated, their names erased. The neighbors who had once shared their festivals now occupied their houses, pretending they had never existed.
Meanwhile, in the valley they had left behind, their homes were burned, their temples desecrated, their names erased. The neighbors who had once shared their festivals now occupied their houses, pretending they had never existed.
Every year on January 19, a Kashmiri Hindu father reaches under his mattress and pulls out a bus ticket from 1990. It is old, crumpled, nearly torn.
His son asks, “Why do you keep this ticket, Baba?”
The father sighs and says, “Because one day, we will use it again. One day, we will return home.”
His son asks, “Why do you keep this ticket, Baba?”
The father sighs and says, “Because one day, we will use it again. One day, we will return home.”
This is not just a story of Kashmiri Hindus. It is a story of a nation that refused to protect its own people. A story of a genocide that no one speaks about.
Until Kashmiri Hindus return to their homes, India’s soul will remain incomplete.
Until Kashmiri Hindus return to their homes, India’s soul will remain incomplete.
This content have taken from @ARanganathan72 sir book
If you like the thread please repost and like first post
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If you like the thread please repost and like first post
Please follow @rightwingchora for more content on History and scriptures
Thank you 🙏
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