Between the Lines

Echoes of Silence: Remembering the Martyrs of Jammu

They were silenced, not by the passage of time, but by the noise of politics. The tragedy of Jammu in November 1947 is not an episode of history; it is a deep scar on the collective conscience of South Asia. Every year, on 6th November, Kashmiris around the world observe Youm-e-Shuhada-e-Jammu, the Day of the Martyrs of Jammu, to remember the thousands of innocent Muslims who were massacred while trying to migrate to Pakistan after Partition.

The story begins in the turbulent autumn of 1947. As the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir stood at the crossroads of history, the communal flames that had already engulfed Punjab reached the borders of Jammu. According to historian Christopher Snedden in Kashmir: The Unwritten History (HarperCollins, 2012), large-scale killings erupted when Dogra forces, aided by extremist elements of the RSS and certain Hindu and Sikh militias, attacked Muslim populations in Jammu district. The victims were mostly unarmed villagers, their only ‘crime’ being their wish to cross into Pakistan.

Reports say that anywhere between 200,000 and 250,000 Muslims lost their lives in the killing spree between October and November 1947. The Guardian (August 10, 2002) also reports similar numbers, while British journalist Ian Stephens, then editor of The Statesman, estimated in his book Pakistan (1963) that “over 237,000 Muslims vanished from Jammu” during those weeks of horror. Historian Alastair Lamb, in Kashmir: A Disputed Legacy (Oxford University Press, 1991), confirms that what happened in Jammu was no spontaneous riot but part of a conscious policy of demographically altering the region prior to the accession of the state to India.

Accounts from eyewitnesses, which are preserved in the archives of the Institute of Kashmir Studies, relate how the Muslim caravans that were escorted under pledge of ‘safe passage’ towards Sialkot were waylaid en route. Thousands were shot, stabbed, or driven into the Tawi River, their bodies carried by the current into the plains of Punjab. It was, as one survivor told journalist Victoria Schofield, “a river of blood flowing from Jammu to Sialkot.”

Pakistan’s Dawn newspaper reported it in November 1947 as “a genocide committed under official supervision.” The Times of London on November 10, 1947, described it as “a tragedy that dwarfs the political drama of the subcontinent.” Yet, this massive human loss found little space in international discourse. The massacre was buried under the more publicized narratives of the Kashmir war and the diplomatic battle that followed.

To the people of Azad Jammu and Kashmir, Yom-e-Shuhada-e-Jammu is not just a day of mourning; it is a day of identity. It reminds them that the story of Kashmir is not about disputed borders but about human suffering and displacement, and broken promises. Every year on 6th November, sirens wail, prayers are offered, and silence spreads in Muzaffarabad, Mirpur, and Kotli. But that silence is not an emptiness; it is resistance.

In the last few years, the Jammu massacre has attracted fresh attention from scholars and journalists alike. Dr. Abdul Ahad of the University of Kashmir refers to it as “the missing chapter of Partition.” It is now spoken of by scholars as comparable in scope and brutality to the catastrophes of Noakhali and Rawalpindi, arguing that historical justice is not complete without recognition of the victims on all sides. The Kashmir diaspora have spoken about the need to remember the genocide of Jammu at various international forums, especially in the United Kingdom, where the descendants of survivors form a considerable population.

Jammu’s tragedy also exposes a paradox of Partition: freedom achieved at the cost of humanity. The Muslim majority of Jammu dreamed of joining Pakistan, yet even the right to live was denied them. Many of their descendants live today in refugee camps across Azad Kashmir, still holding keys and land deeds from a home they were forced to abandon. Seventy-eight years later, with Kashmir continuing to be divided, the ghosts of Jammu whisper to history that justice delayed is memory denied. The recognition of their sacrifice is not a question of politics but of moral responsibility. Yom-e-Shuhada-e-Jammu stands as a reminder that peace in South Asia cannot be built on selective remembrance. When Pakistan and the world mark this solemn day, one must remember that the silence of 6th November is not the silence of defeat; it is the silence of unyielding memory. The martyrs of Jammu do not seek revenge; they seek remembrance. And remembrance, when sustained by truth, becomes the loudest cry for justice.