Zahoor Zahid
The contribution of Radio Kashmir and Doordarshan to preserving the cultural heritage, language and artistic traditions of Jammu and Kashmir is immense. It is difficult to imagine what the cultural landscape of the region would have looked like without these two institutions. For generations, they were not merely broadcasting centre’s; they were custodians of our collective memory and cultural heritage.
They carried the voices of Kashmir into homes and villages where no other cultural institution had the reach to go. They gave space to Kashmiri, Dogri, Urdu and other languages of the region and provided a platform to writers, poets, musicians, singers, actors, storytellers and folk artists. Through them, a vast cultural inheritance travelled from one generation to another.
Kashmir possesses an extraordinarily rich performing-art tradition. From Sufiana music and Chakri to Rouff, Hafiza, Bacha Nagma, Ladishah, Bhands and traditional storytelling, from the poetry of Lal Ded and Habba Khatoon to the songs and compositions of generations of Kashmiri Sufi poets and musicians, our cultural heritage has always lived through performance. It was never confined to books or museums. It breathed through the human voice, the instrument, the stage and the gathering of people.
The gradual decline of content creation and, more importantly, the failure to bring in and nurture new generations of creative people has had consequences far beyond these institutions themselves. When writers, producers, directors, musicians, actors, announcers and other content creators are not inducted for long periods, an institution gradually loses its creative bloodstream. Experience retires, legacy fades but experience is not replaced.
An institution may continue to function administratively. Studios may remain. Transmitters may operate. Programmes may still go on air. Cameras may still record. But if the creative ecosystem around them is allowed to wither, something much more precious begins to disappear.
When writers, producers, directors, musicians, actors, announcers and other content creators are not inducted for long periods, an institution gradually loses its creative bloodstream. Experience retires, legacy fades but experience is not replaced.
Artists cannot survive on nostalgia. A folk singer cannot keep singing merely because someone once recorded him. A traditional musician cannot preserve an art form without an audience. A theatre artist cannot remain relevant without a stage. A storyteller cannot pass on a tradition if nobody is listening. Culture is not preserved simply by putting old recordings into an archive. It survives when people are encouraged to practise it, perform it, reinterpret it and pass it on.
This is particularly important in Kashmir, where so many art forms have survived through oral and performing traditions. The knowledge of a particular melody, the manner in which a folk song is rendered, the rhythm of a traditional dance, the nuances of an instrument, the diction of a language, the humour of a Bhand performance or the emotional texture of a traditional narrative cannot always be adequately preserved in written form.
They have to be lived. They have to be performed. They have to be heard.
When institutions that once provided that space stop encouraging artists, the damage becomes cumulative. First, the artist disappears from the platform. Then the younger generation stops seeing the art as a viable or respected pursuit. Gradually, the tradition loses practitioners. Eventually, what was once a living cultural expression becomes something we remember only through photographs, old recordings or a paragraph in a book.
That is perhaps the most brutal form of cultural death – not when somebody destroys an art form, but when we simply stop caring enough to keep it alive.
The decline of creative recruitment is therefore not merely an administrative issue. It is a cultural issue. It concerns the future of our languages, our music, our theatre, our folk traditions and the enormous body of intangible heritage that makes Kashmir what it is.
We are sitting on a priceless cultural inheritance and watching it disappear before our eyes.If our institutions continue to treat culture as an occasional event rather than a living responsibility, we will one day discover that the traditions we were supposed to preserve have survived only in photographs, archives and memories. That would not be the death of an art form alone. It would be the death of a part of Kashmir itself.
My friend Waheed Jeelani, one of Kashmir’s most popular, brilliant and melodious artists, has been crying himself hoarse for years, pleading for the revival of the once-prestigious institutions that gave life and dignity to our artists. His cries, unfortunately, have fallen on deaf ears.
Look at the names we have allowed to fade into oblivion; Bashir Dada, Zameer Ashaie, Ayash Arif, Tariq Javed, Qazi Faiz and so many others. These are not ordinary names. They are people who inspired generations.
Bashir Dada can still write dramas that can leave you spellbound. Zameer Ashaie, Tariq Javed and Ayash Arif and Qazi Faiz still possess the creative fire to set the screen ablaze. The melodious Waheed Jeelani Munir Mir and Ajaz Rah can still create magic with their voices.
But where is the platform?
What kind of tragedy is this, that the very people who once created, inspired and enriched our cultural landscape are today wandering in darkness, waiting for someone to notice that they still have so much to give?
They have not lost their talent. We have lost our ability to recognize it.
And perhaps the most painful part is that many of them have now resigned themselves to their fate, convinced that those in authority simply do not care.
This is not merely neglect of a few artists. It is the systematic abandonment of a cultural legacy.
When a society silences its artists, it does not merely silence individuals, it silences a part of itself.
And Kashmir cannot afford to become a society that remembers its artists only after they are gone.
We need to understand that artists are not an ornamental appendage of broadcasting institutions. They are their creative soul.
If we do not encourage them, commission them, record them, train them and provide them platforms, we are not merely depriving artists of opportunities. We are slowly depriving ourselves of our own cultural identity.
Kashmir has inherited centuries of poetry, music, theatre, dance, storytelling and folk expression. It would be a tragedy of enormous proportions if, after surviving centuries of political upheaval, social change and historical turbulence, these traditions were to disappear simply because the institutions created to nurture them stopped nurturing the people who keep them alive.
Radio and television can change with time. Technology will change. Audiences will change. Platforms will change.
But the responsibility remains the same:
The once-vibrant Academy of Art, Culture and Languages has itself fallen into a deep slumber. An institution entrusted with the custodianship of Kashmir’s rich cultural heritage has, over the decades, been reduced largely to poetic symposia and occasional invitations to artists.
But where is the larger cultural vision?
Where is the serious effort to preserve and revive our centuries-old Bande Pather, our Sufiyana Musiqi,and the many folk traditions that are gasping for survival?
The real tragedy is that culture has been handed over to people who often understand administration, but not the soul of culture. A bureaucratic mindset cannot comprehend the nuances of a living cultural tradition. Unless people who themselves understand and belong to this diverse cultural heritage are given meaningful responsibility, little can be expected to change.
The Tourism Department, too, has miserably failed our local artists. Instead of showcasing Kashmir’s extraordinary folk traditions, our Sufiyana Musiquee, Bhande Pather, folk singers and traditional performers, bands are increasingly being brought in for events. But tourists do not come to Kashmir to listen to bands who only play western instruments, they can hear anywhere in the world. They come to experience Kashmir, to listen to Santoor, Rabaab, Sarangi and Tumbaknaer, its folk singers and melodies. Our traditional artists are Kashmir’s cultural ambassadors. They are the very people who can give visitors an experience that cannot be replicated anywhere else.
There is another serious concern. These artists must be selected through a credible system of audition and recognition. Radio once maintained precisely such a professional mechanism for selecting performers. There appears to be no comparable rigorous practice in the way artists are being engaged for many tourism events today.
We are sitting on a priceless cultural inheritance and watching it disappear before our eyes.
If our institutions continue to treat culture as an occasional event rather than a living responsibility, we will one day discover that the traditions we were supposed to preserve have survived only in photographs, archives and memories. That would not be the death of an art form alone. It would be the death of a part of Kashmir itself.
I vividly remember an encounter with my dear colleague and friend, Sheikh Yaqub, a maestro of Sufiyana Musiqi. He once took me to meet a young Santoor player from China who was visiting Kashmir. She had been sponsored by her government to study and understand how the Santoor is played in this part of the world.
We were genuinely amazed by her talent. Out of curiosity, I asked her how many Santoor players there were in China. Her answer left me speechless: nearly ten thousand.
I was even more curious. “But how do all of them survive?”
Her reply was simple and astonishing: “The Government takes care of us. This visit too has been sponsored by my country.”
That one conversation has stayed with me.
Imagine the difference in vision: a country nurturing thousands of practitioners of an instrument and investing in their journeys, while we struggle to provide even a modest platform to the artists who carry centuries of our own musical heritage.
Developed and farsighted nations know that culture cannot survive on applause and nostalgia. It needs patronage, institutions and sustained state support. They understand that protecting an artist is not charity, it is protecting the cultural memory of a nation.
