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My Pictures Should Speak

Photojournalist Masrat Zahra on the daily reverberations of violence in Indian-occupied Kashmir.

  • Masrat Zahra
  • Summer 2020
Photography by Masrat Zahra
  • Essay, Photography
  • Protest

Masrat Zahra is a photojournalist in Srinagar, where she focuses on the everyday reverberations of violence in Indian-controlled Kashmir, as well as mobilization and resistance in the face of occupation. Working in an environment hostile to truth-telling, Zahra confronts intersecting obstacles, from street harassment because of her gender to state-driven efforts to intimidate her into silence. In April 2020, she was booked under the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act by the Jammu and Kashmir Police for some of her Facebook posts, which were deemed “anti-national;” the case against her remains open. Previously, she has been labelled a police informer. Still, she’s determined to convey the realities of life in Kashmir, to chronicle the unfolding story of her community. “I’m part of the same story,” she says. “It’s my story, too.” 

—Meara Sharma


The case against me has really affected my work; I find it hard to concentrate. I’m very concerned about what I share on social media. There’s always a sense of insecurity. I ask myself, will the state question the story? My pictures? The subjects of the story? 

The authorities can do anything with me. They can arrest me at any time, put me behind bars. In front of them, I’m nothing. The media is not respected at all. I get nightmares about this. When I see police roaming around, I’m paranoid that they’re talking about me, that they might ask for my identity, that they might arrest me. This is the stress I’m going through. I’m also stressed about repeating everything that has happened to me to various organizations and reporters, all the time. I joined this field to tell the story of others. Now I’ve become a story.

But, I still speak about it. I know I have to speak about it. We cannot remain silent. We have to talk about our experiences in Kashmir.

I have been harrassed so many times, by the police, and by boys who roam around, who see a female photographer with a camera hanging around her neck. They make comments. The police might say that I don’t have permission to be there, or ask me to put my camera away. At a checkpoint, someone might follow me, ask me what I’m doing, demand to see what I have captured, tell me to delete my footage. It’s a constant struggle. 

Kashmir is a conflict zone, but these photos of people looking out the window capture what a lot of Kashmiris feel. They want to be part of protests, and they want to speak about what they’re facing. But at the same time, they’re concerned for their families. Who will take care of their families if something happens to them? There’s a tension between inside and outside.

I work on intimate stories, and the everyday moments of the occupation. A man with a bag of flour, walking through a crowd of soldiers. An old woman with a look of aggression on her face. There are a lot of stories that are untold, unheard.

Whoever looks at my pictures, I want them to feel connected with that moment. I want an illiterate person who cannot read a caption to be able to connect with my pictures. My pictures should speak, to everyone.

This photo of a crowd of protestors holding up an empty bed is very close to my heart. It was taken at the funeral of rebel commander Zakir Musa. After I heard he had been trapped in an encounter, I knew it was going to be a big thing. I left my house on my scooter in the middle of the night—if you don’t move out early from your home, the police will stop you. I went with some other journalists to the house where the rebel commander was killed. We reached as it was raining; there was a sea of mud. I was the only female photographer there. Everybody was like, “what are you doing here, this is not your job, go home.” I stayed.

When these funerals take place, the body is kept on a metal hospital bed on a stage so everyone can have a last glimpse. Women are not allowed on that stage. I managed to climb onto the roof of a school building to get a high-angle shot. 

After the body was taken away, the crowd raised the bed off the ground. To me, the image of the empty bed captures not only the fact that we have lost someone, but the loss everywhere, the emptiness everywhere.

When I was a child, I only saw male photographers taking pictures at funerals, at protests, at shrines. I thought, why aren’t there any female photographers with them? As I grew up, I saw foreign female photographers documenting different things, and I thought, if they can do that, so can I. I can also tell the stories of my people, stories of my homeland.

Despite the difficulties of this work, I will continue. Nothing has stopped me yet. My family didn’t support me. There was a time when the people of my homeland said, “oh she’s an informer, she’s giving information about the rebels to the army.” That didn’t stop me. There was a time when the journalist community said, “oh, you’re not an accredited journalist, we can’t help you.” Then this recent episode, when the state booked me under the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act, labeled me a terrorist. 

Nothing has stopped me, and nothing will stop me. I will always be a storyteller; I will always tell stories of my people. Because I’m part of the same story. It’s my story, too. 

  • funerals harrassment India jammu and kashmir journalism kashmir Srinagar Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act zakir musa

Masrat Zahra

Masrat Zahra is a freelance Kashmiri photojournalist. She focuses on stories about local communities and women. Zahra won the 2020 Anja Niedringhaus Courage in Photojournalism award from the International Women’s Media Foundation.

‹Also in this Issue›
  • Interview
Anuradha Bhasin: In Kashmir, The Surreal Is Very Real Now

Ather Zia , Nimmi Gowrinathan

The journalist and activist on militancy, formative political moments, and challenging the Indian Supreme Court.

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  • Essay, Reportage
A Nation Rendered Numb

Parvaiz Bukhari

Amid multiple lockdowns, Kashmiris confront and contest an escalating campaign to dismantle their sovereignty.

  • Violence
  • Poem
the smallest unit of time in Kashmir is a siege

Uzma Falak

chronicle of days and nights as prison cells

  • Intervention
  • Essay, Reportage
Surviving the Occupation

Syed Tajamul Imran , Mohd Tahir Ganie

Every death is felt as a shared loss in Kashmir.

  • Violence
  • Essay
The Geopolitics of the Oppressed

Mohamad Junaid

Mapping the occupation in Kashmir.

  • Violence
  • Poem
The Stones of Kashmir: Two Poems

Nitasha Kaul

the hearts of the soldiers are stone / stones have begun to grow on the trees too

  • Violence
  • Essay, Reportage
A War Against Words

Hilal Mir

For the Kashmiri media, both conformity and defiance come with a very high cost.

  • Intervention
  • Fiction
Resistance

Mirza Waheed

She acknowledged the ceasefire with half a smile. He slashed the air with his hands, indicating it was only temporary, momentary.

  • Protest
  • Essay, Photography
My Pictures Should Speak

Masrat Zahra

Photojournalist Masrat Zahra on the daily reverberations of violence in Indian-occupied Kashmir.

  • Protest
  • Poem
a day in a life that inches prayer by prayer

Ather Zia

essential reading in Kashmir / are the epitaphs

  • Violence
  • Analysis
Kashmir: A Historical Timeline

Mohamad Junaid

A chronicle of key political events that undergird the movement for self-determination.

  • Intervention
  • Playlist
A Soundtrack to Issue 4

Adi Editors

We asked each contributor to Adi’s Kashmir issue to select a song that resonates with their piece. Listen as you make your way through.

  • Intervention

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