Banning Memory: India’s Struggle With Narratives in Kashmir

The recent decision by the Indian government to ban 25 books in Jammu and Kashmir has triggered sharp reactions both locally and internationally. For New Delhi, the ban is justified on grounds of national security and public order. For critics, however, it represents a deeper attempt to erase memory, silence dissent, and rewrite the history of Kashmir in line with a particular political ideology. The issue is far more complex than either side admits, reflecting the contested nature of Kashmir’s past, present, and future.

Among the proscribed works are writings by internationally acclaimed authors such as Arundhati Roy, A.G. Noorani, Hafsa Kanjwal, and Ather Zia. Their books, widely recognized for scholarly rigor, focus on the political history, human rights situation, and lived experiences of people in the region. Police raids in Srinagar and other towns, where bookstores were treated almost as arms caches, underlined the seriousness with which the government views these texts. Authorities argue that such books glorify separatism, encourage violence, and undermine national unity. Yet, their critics see the move as a reflection of fear—fear of memory, narrative, and the written word.

Arundhati Roy’s celebrated essays, once freely discussed in Indian universities, are now prohibited under the new Bharatiya Nagarik Suraksha Sanhita. The fact that even the title of her collection, Azadi, has become a matter of state concern illustrates how charged the term “freedom” has become in Kashmir’s context. Hafsa Kanjwal’s Colonizing Kashmir: State-Building under Indian Occupation has been internationally lauded for its academic objectivity, yet is now inaccessible within the very land it seeks to analyze. The ban also affects works by foreign scholars and historians such as Victoria Schofield, pointing to the broad scope of state anxiety.

The government’s critics argue that this is not an isolated step. They link it to a broader process of cultural and historical rewriting already visible in India, where Mughal history has been systematically revised or removed from textbooks. The banning of works on Kashmir, they say, represents an extension of this project: to align historical narratives with a Hindutva-infused version of nationhood. Events such as the Chinar Book Festival, organized under official patronage to showcase state-approved accounts of Kashmir, reinforce suspicions that history is being replaced with propaganda.

Supporters of the government counter this criticism by emphasizing security concerns. Kashmir has been a conflict zone for decades, with separatist insurgency, militancy, and terrorism fueled by both internal discontent and external interference. From this perspective, literature that frames India’s presence in Kashmir as illegal or colonial is seen as legitimizing separatist thought and undermining integration. Officials point out that freedom of expression cannot come at the cost of national sovereignty, and that writings which delegitimize the Indian state in Kashmir risk fueling unrest among younger generations.

Yet, the difficulty lies in distinguishing between genuine incitement and legitimate critique. The Internet Freedom Foundation (IFF) has already voiced grave concern, noting that banning books rarely achieves its intended aim of controlling ideas. On the contrary, it often strengthens curiosity and grants forbidden texts an aura of authenticity. By criminalizing respected authors, the state risks sending the message that truth itself has become insurgency.

For many Kashmiris, the ban is seen as part of a larger effort to erase memory. Beyond militancy, what unsettles New Delhi most, they argue, is the endurance of narratives of repression, torture, and occupation. Memory sustains the demand for freedom; erasing books becomes a way to erase the questions that memory raises. The younger generation, already digitally connected, can access much of the banned material online, but the symbolism of confiscating books is deeply felt. It signals that ideas are being treated like weapons.

At the same time, it is undeniable that Kashmir has long suffered from competing truths. Narratives of victimhood and repression are contested by narratives of terrorism and cross-border interference. Each side accuses the other of distortion, while the ordinary Kashmiri continues to live in a state of suspended normalcy. For some, the ban reflects authoritarian overreach. For others, it is a preventive measure against ideological radicalization. Both interpretations coexist, feeding the cycle of mistrust.

What is clear is that the Kashmir conflict is not only about land or politics but also about narrative. Whose story counts, whose memory is preserved, and whose words are allowed into the public sphere are all questions tied to the future of the region. Governments everywhere attempt to manage narratives, but when management becomes suppression, it risks losing credibility. Banning books does not erase the realities on the ground; it only reinforces the perception that the state fears open discussion.

Ultimately, whether one views the ban as a security measure or as an attack on intellectual freedom, the implications are profound. It raises questions about the limits of free expression in a democracy, the role of history in shaping identity, and the ways governments confront uncomfortable truths. For India, projecting confidence as the world’s largest democracy requires more than military control; it requires an ability to face dissenting voices without silencing them. For Kashmiris, meanwhile, the struggle is not only about political autonomy but also about the right to memory, to history, and to be heard.

In this contest of narratives, one truth stands out: books cannot decide the outcome of Kashmir’s future, but banning them ensures that dialogue and understanding become even harder to achieve. The written word may be suppressed, but the ideas behind it will continue to circulate, reminding all sides that the struggle for freedom, memory, and dignity cannot be erased by decree.