When public space is seen as ‘not mine,’ and rules go unenforced, social learning theory ensures dysfunction becomes a generational habit
Aaqyb Ashraf
Civic sense is often spoken of as a lofty moral concept, something abstract, imported, or idealistic. In reality, it is nothing more than common sense practised in public. It is the simple understanding that our individual freedom operates within a shared space, and that convenience cannot be pursued at the cost of collective dignity. In Kashmir, this understanding exists in theory, but struggles to survive in practice.
Step outside, and the evidence surrounds us. Roads double up as dumping grounds. Wrappers, bottles, fruit peels, and plastic bags are released from moving cars with effortless ease. This is not the act of the careless few; it is a widely shared habit. The sheer normality of it is what makes it troubling. When everyone does it, the act no longer feels wrong. Littering becomes less of a decision and more of a reflex.
What complicates the narrative is that this behaviour does not align neatly with education or privilege. I have personally seen students from some of Kashmir’s most reputed schools. These institutions pride themselves on discipline, excellence, and global exposure, casually throwing waste out of buses and car windows. These are students trained to speak confidently about sustainability inside classrooms, yet outside, the lesson seems to expire. It exposes an uncomfortable truth: academic education does not automatically translate into civic responsibility. We have mastered competition, not coexistence.
Traffic behaviour offers an even clearer mirror. Parking in the middle of the road to buy something for “just a minute” has become an everyday assertion of entitlement. Narrow lanes are blocked, vehicles pile up behind, pedestrians are forced to squeeze through gaps, and yet the driver steps out calmly, unbothered. The inconvenience caused is not denied; it is simply dismissed. In fact, the act is often performed with a quiet sense of confidence, almost pride, as if bending public space to personal need were a minor achievement.
This attitude is not limited to parking. Honking is aggressive rather than communicative. Lanes are treated as optional suggestions. Overtaking happens wherever a gap appears, not where it is permitted. Traffic rules exist on paper, but on the road, urgency dominates. Everyone is in a hurry, and no one is responsible. Order collapses not because rules are absent, but because violating them rarely carries consequences.
Waste disposal reflects the same mindset. Even in localities where garbage collection vans make regular rounds, household waste is frequently dumped along the banks of the Jhelum, on bunds, or near streams. The reasoning is subtle but dangerous: once waste leaves the house, responsibility ends. Water bodies, historically central to Kashmir’s ecology and identity, are reduced to convenient exit points for convenience. Environmental damage becomes gradual enough to feel invisible, and invisibility breeds indifference.
At the core of this behaviour lies a deeply rooted misconception: that public spaces belong to the government, not to the people. When something is perceived as “not mine,” care becomes optional. Roads, buses, parks, and rivers are treated as nobody’s property, which in practice means everyone is free to misuse them. The same individual who keeps their home spotless feels no contradiction in dirtying a public street. Ownership defines ethics.
Social behaviour research consistently shows that visible disorder encourages more disorder; a pattern widely discussed in the Broken Windows Theory. A clean space silently demands care; a dirty one grants permission to add to the mess. Over time, people stop asking whether they should act responsibly and start asking whether it even matters. One wrapper, one wrong turn, one blocked lane feels insignificant until multiplied by thousands of people thinking the same way.
Children learn this logic early, a process explained by Albert Bandura’s Social Learning Theory. When they see adults casually littering, blocking roads, jumping queues, or breaking rules without consequence, these actions are internalised as normal behaviour. Civic indiscipline becomes a learned social skill rather than a moral failure. This is how habits reproduce themselves; not through lectures, but through observation.
Another layer to this problem is what psychologists often describe as a scarcity mindset. Generations raised in environments where resources were limited learned to rush, push, and seize opportunities quickly; That instinct, once necessary, now spills into everyday behaviour. Even where scarcity no longer exists, the conditioning remains. Queue-breaking, aggressive driving, and impatience persist across classes. This is not about poverty; it is about habit.
The lack of consistent enforcement worsens the situation. Rules are widely seen as flexible, and penalties are avoidable. When laws exist without visible consequences, compliance becomes optional. People behave differently, not because they lack civic sense, but because they adjust their behaviour to systems that tolerate indiscipline.
Kashmir’s civic crisis, therefore, is not rooted in ignorance or inherent carelessness. It is the result of neglect; of civic education, of consistent enforcement, and of cultural emphasis on shared responsibility. We have normalised disorder and then grown accustomed to navigating through it.
And perhaps this is our finest accomplishment. We have trained ourselves to endure dysfunction so well that we mistake endurance for virtue. We step around garbage, crawl through traffic jams, and excuse entitlement with tired shrugs. We curse the system in private and contribute to its decay in public. Every blocked lane, every wrapper tossed away, every rule bent for convenience quietly testifies to who we have become. Our public spaces are not failing us; they are faithfully reflecting us. And that reflection, however uncomfortable, is entirely our own.
The writer is a lawyer
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