The story of the Dar family in Kashmir is not merely a localized tragedy but a grim microcosm of a conflict that consumes its own children with mathematical indifference. In 1998, Mohammad Ramzan Dar was murdered by militants. In 2024, his brother, Abdul Rashid Dar, died in the custody of the Indian Army. Two brothers, two decades apart, killed by the two opposing forces that define the kinetic reality of the valley. This is the brutal circularity of the Kashmiri experience, where the passage of time does not bring resolution, only a change in the hand holding the weapon.
To understand how one family can be struck by lightning twice from different directions, we have to look past the headlines and into the structural mechanics of the insurgency and the counter-insurgency. This isn't about bad luck. It is about a geography where civilian life is the involuntary currency used to pay for a territorial stalemate.
The First Strike and the Rebel Shadow
In the late 1990s, the insurgency in Kashmir was characterized by a chaotic, multi-polar environment. Groups like Hizbul Mujahideen and Lashkar-e-Taiba were deeply embedded in the village structures. If a civilian was suspected of being an informer, or if they simply failed to provide the necessary logistical support to the "guests" (militants), the retribution was swift and public.
Mohammad Ramzan Dar fell into this meat grinder in 1998. At that time, the rebellion was shifting from a mass urban movement into a hardened, rural guerilla war. The killing of Ramzan was a message sent to the village of Kunan Poshpora. It established a reign of fear that forced families to choose between the wrath of the state and the vengeance of the rebels. For the Dars, the first blow came from those claiming to fight for their liberation.
The immediate aftermath of such a killing usually involves the family being branded. In the eyes of the militants, they were "collaborators." In the eyes of the neighbors, they were a liability. This social isolation is the invisible tax paid by victims of rebel violence. It forces a family into a defensive crouch that can last for generations, making them ironically more dependent on the state for protection, which then creates a new set of targets on their backs.
The Long Wait for the Second Blow
For twenty-six years, the Dar family lived in the shadow of that first murder. They were a family that had already sacrificed a son to the "cause" of the state by default of his victimhood. They should have been safe. They had played their part in the tragedy. But the security architecture of Kashmir does not keep a ledger of past suffering.
Abdul Rashid Dar, a forest department employee, was picked up by the 41 Rashtriya Rifles in late 2022. The military claimed they needed him for questioning regarding militant activities. This is the "how" of the modern Kashmiri conflict. The Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA) provides the legal framework that allows for these detentions. It is a tool designed for a battlefield, but it is applied in a residential district.
The military's version of events was that Rashid escaped from custody during a search operation. To anyone who has covered the valley for more than a week, this narrative sounds hauntingly familiar. It is the standard boilerplate for "disappeared" persons who later turn up as bodies in the mountains. When Rashid’s decomposed remains were finally recovered months later, the cycle was complete. One brother killed for allegedly supporting the state; the other killed by the state for allegedly supporting the rebels.
The Failure of the Institutional Safety Valve
Why does this keep happening? The answer lies in the total erosion of the "middle ground" in Kashmiri civil administration. When the state operates through military units rather than police and judicial oversight, the nuance of individual innocence is lost.
The Mechanics of Custodial Risk
- Intelligence Gaps: Security forces often rely on low-level informants who use the military to settle personal or land disputes.
- The Pressure to Perform: Units are often under immense pressure to show "results" in counter-insurgency, leading to the detention of individuals based on flimsy or fabricated evidence.
- Lack of Accountability: Under AFSPA, prosecuting a soldier requires "sanction" from the central government, a hurdle so high it is rarely cleared. This creates a functional immunity that encourages shortcuts during interrogations.
The death of Abdul Rashid Dar in 2024 serves as a stark reminder that the "normalization" touted by official press releases is a thin veneer. While the markets may be open and the tourists may be trekking, the underlying machinery of the conflict—the midnight knock, the interrogation center, the unexplained disappearance—remains fully operational.
The Psychological Siege of Kunan Poshpora
Kunan Poshpora is not a random village. It is a name etched into the dark history of the region, synonymous with the 1991 allegations of mass rape by the military. For a family to live in this specific village and lose sons to both sides is a special kind of hell. It suggests that there is no "correct" way to exist in Kashmir.
If you support the state, the rebels kill you. If you are suspected by the state, the army kills you. If you try to remain neutral, you are mistrusted by both. This creates a state of perpetual hyper-vigilance. The Dar family's experience shows that the trauma of 1998 didn't end; it simply went into remission until it metastasized in 2024.
The social fabric of these villages is held together by silence. When a family like the Dars speaks out, they are not just seeking justice for a brother; they are defying a system that depends on their quiet submission. The military's claim that Rashid was a "hybrid militant"—a term used for civilians with no criminal record who allegedly carry out sporadic attacks—is the ultimate catch-all. It allows the state to criminalize any citizen at any time, regardless of their family's history of sacrifice.
The Myth of Progress
We are told the conflict is winding down. We are shown data indicating a drop in active militant numbers and an increase in infrastructure projects. These metrics are not false, but they are incomplete. They fail to account for the human cost of a "peace" maintained through overwhelming force.
The Dar brothers represent the two bookends of a failed policy. In 1998, the failure was the state's inability to protect its citizens from non-state actors. In 2024, the failure is the state's inability to protect its citizens from its own security apparatus. When the protector and the predator become indistinguishable, the social contract is not just broken; it is incinerated.
To fix this, there must be a move toward radical transparency. The "escape from custody" narrative needs to be retired and replaced with actual judicial accountability. If a man is taken from his home by a uniformed unit, that unit must be held responsible for his safe return or his day in a civilian court.
The Dar family is currently fighting a legal battle that they are almost certain to lose. They are fighting against a system that views their grief as a necessary casualty of national security. But their story remains a permanent stain on the claim that Kashmir has moved on. You cannot move on when the ghosts of 1998 are being joined by the ghosts of 2024 in the same graveyard, under the same family name.
The reality of the valley is that for every "new" Kashmir being built with concrete and light shows, there is an old Kashmir still buried in the mud of Kunan Poshpora. The Dar brothers didn't die because of a change in political winds; they died because the fundamental nature of the conflict—the total devaluation of the Kashmiri life—has remained the only constant for three decades. Stop looking for progress in the absence of gunfire; start looking for it in the presence of justice. Until a family can go twenty-six years without being decimated by the very forces claiming to bring order, the war is not over. It is just waiting for the next brother.
