Unheard Burdens: The Hidden Struggles Behind Employment in Kashmir

Gowher Bhat

The job doesn’t exist. That’s the hard truth, the one no one says out loud.
Every morning, you rise before the sun, iron your best shirt, and clutch that folder of certificates like a lifeline—proof that you did everything right. You step out into the cold, into a world that doesn’t seem to have a place for you. You stand in line, you knock on doors, you hand in applications that vanish into silence. You check your phone, refreshing your email again and again, hoping for something—anything.
But the phone stays silent. The inbox remains empty. The door never opens.
Tomorrow, you tell yourself. Maybe next week. Maybe next month.
But tomorrow comes. Next week comes. Next month comes.
And nothing changes.
In Kashmir, this is the story. They study hard. They earn degrees. They hold onto dreams of steady work. Yet dreams alone can’t change the rules of a broken system.
In March 2023, the Centre for Monitoring Indian Economy revealed that Jammu and Kashmir’s unemployment rate was 23.1%—one of the highest in the country. A degree is just paper; a qualification, merely a name on a list that never moves.
Numbers don’t capture the tired eyes of young men. They don’t show the restless pacing of young women, scrolling through job postings that lead nowhere. They can’t tell you about the quiet, growing fear in every home where another hopeful graduate sits, waiting for something—anything—to change.
On the narrow lanes of Srinagar and in small towns beyond, the same story unfolds. Youth clutch certificates like broken promises. They wait. They hope. And the silence of empty offices speaks louder than words.

Zahoor’s Story: From Political Science to Door-to-Door Sales
Zahoor Hussain Hakeem did what he was supposed to do. He studied hard, earned a Master’s in Political Science, and a first-division B.Ed. He followed the path that everyone said would lead to a future.
He waited in lines. He sent emails. He stared at his phone, waiting for a call that never came.
“There’s nothing left to apply for,” he says, his voice low and defeated.
Now Zahoor drifts through the narrow streets, a worn bag of Ayurvedic medicine bottles over his shoulder. He knocks on door after door. Sometimes one opens, sometimes it doesn’t. When it does, he explains the benefits of the medicine with a soft, measured tone. He never complains.
“This isn’t what I studied for,” he admits. “But what else can I do?”
Zahoor isn’t ashamed of work. He’s ashamed that his education feels wasted—each knock, each closed door, a fresh reminder of a promise that was never kept.

A Generation Without a Place
Zahoor is not alone.
In early 2024, the Directorate of Employment recorded 3.52 lakh unemployed youth in Jammu and Kashmir. Thirty-one percent of these young people hold degrees or higher. They have skills. They have ideas. They have plans. As of January 2025, over 3.70 lakh unemployed youth have been registered on the employment portal, a stark reminder of the deepening crisis.
forced to accept jobs that don’t match their abilities. They end up in roles far beneath their qualifications—teaching in private schools for ₹5,000–₹8,000 a month, working in call centers, driving cabs, or selling goods door-to-door. Nearly 40% of Kashmir’s workforce toils in the informal sector—without contracts, without benefits, without security. They work simply to keep hunger at bay.
In a land famed for its beauty, many see only a harsh truth: talents locked away, potential wasted.

The Struggle for Government Jobs
Government jobs are as rare as rain in a drought. When one appears, thousands rush for a chance.
In one recent recruitment drive for Jammu and Kashmir Police constables, over 5.59 lakh candidates applied for just 4,002 vacancies. A flicker of hope among a desperate scramble, only to end in crushing disappointment.
The private sector isn’t any better. Most businesses are small, family-run. The IT sector—a field that changes lives elsewhere in India—barely stirs here. Startups crawl along, investments trickle in, and the young are left standing at doors that never open.

The Broken System and the Weight of Uncertainty
Every year, more students finish their studies. They see job ads. They send in applications filled with hope. Then they learn that recruitment is halted, postponed, or quietly canceled.
The wait stretches on. Hope turns into a numb routine.
Many young Kashmiris spend their days in coaching centers, investing money they can’t spare preparing for government exams that may never happen. In dimly lit rooms, they memorize facts, re-read books, practice answers—clinging to the belief that one day, their effort will count.
But many, many years pass.
And the silence remains deafening.
Some take temporary jobs. They teach, they answer calls, they drive—anything to survive. But surviving isn’t living.
The Pressure on Young Women
For many young women, the choices shrink further. When work doesn’t come, other plans are forced upon them.
In families where financial independence is a distant dream, early marriage becomes the only secure option. Tired of endless applications and constant rejection, parents urge their daughters to marry. Not because ambition is lost, but because the system has failed them.
It isn’t a choice made with desire—it’s a surrender forced by circumstance.

The Unseen Cost
Unemployment is more than a missing paycheck. It steals time. It robs you of dignity. It fills days with stress, anxiety, and doubt.
It forces young men to watch their fathers grow older, burdened with responsibilities. It forces young women to put aside their dreams in favor of security. It delays life’s milestones, wears away self-respect, and leaves a quiet, lingering sorrow in its wake.
A study in the Journal of South Asian Economic Studies links rising unemployment to depression, anxiety, and hopelessness. But no study can capture the feeling of sitting in silence, the weight of unanswered questions at family gatherings.
“I avoid weddings now,” Zahoor says. “Relatives ask, ‘What are you doing now?’ and I have no answer.”

Beyond the Valley: The Exodus of Talent
With no future at home, many leave. They pack a few belongings and head to Delhi, Bangalore, Hyderabad—anywhere that might offer a chance.
They take whatever work they can find—data entry, sales, clerical jobs. They settle in cramped rented rooms, far from the valleys and the mountains that once nurtured them.
Some manage small successes. A few build careers. But for most, the struggle just follows them—a silent, unchanging companion.
And when they return home, nothing has changed.

A Call for Change
Change isn’t a luxury. It’s a need—a desperate cry in the dark.
The system must shift. Industries must grow. Training must match real work. Entrepreneurship should be encouraged. Government hiring needs to be fair and transparent.
The private sector must be given its chance. The world moves on, and Kashmir cannot be left behind.
Policymakers must listen. They must see the faces of those who wake up every day with hope, only to face another day of rejection. They must feel the weight of quiet despair and the cost of lost potential.

Hope, Even in the Dark
Still, hope remains. It’s faint, but it’s there.
Kashmir’s youth still rise every morning. They still try. They still dream.
Zahoor still applies for jobs. “I still apply,” he says, his voice low but determined.
It’s a small act of rebellion—a quiet insistence on the possibility of a better tomorrow.
Until that day comes, young men and women like Zahoor will keep knocking on doors. They will keep selling what they can.
And in the silent spaces between long, wearisome days, hope will whisper its gentle promise: maybe next time, maybe next week, maybe tomorrow.
And tomorrow, they will rise again—and try once more.

(The author is a published author, freelance journalist, educator, and storyteller.)