To prevent the mother tongue from becoming a relic, there is a need for translation wings, interdisciplinary research, and scientific journals in Kashmiri. Scholars must evolve Kashmiri from a medium of culture into a tool for medicine and public health.
Shahid Bashir Wani
In the corridors of Kashmir University, the air is often thick with the scent of old paper and the rhythmic cadence of ghazals. For decades, our scholars have meticulously preserved the legacy of legends like Naji Munwar and Rehman Rahi. We have debated the nuances of a metaphor and the soul of a Sufi verse until the sun sets over the Dal Lake. This preservation is noble, even vital. But as the world races toward a future defined by biotechnology, artificial intelligence, and life-saving medicine, a haunting question remains: Why has the Kashmiri language been confined to the graveyard of nostalgia?
While we celebrate our poets, we are silently throwing our language into a metaphorical dustbin by refusing to let it speak the language of the modern world. If a language cannot describe how a cell mutates or how a heart fails, it ceases to be a tool for survival and becomes merely a relic of the past.
The comfort of the past vs. the crisis of the present
The academic landscape in Kashmir is currently split by a deep, troubling chasm. On one side, we have the humanities, the guardians of the Kashmiri language, who remain deeply entrenched in the works of 20th-century literary giants. On the other side, we have our scientists, doctors, and researchers who operate entirely in English.
The problem isn’t that we study Rahi or Munwar; the problem is that we only study them. Our scholars at Kashmir University and other premier institutions seem to have built a wall around the Kashmiri language, labelling it as a medium for “culture” and “emotion,” but never for “utility.”
When a Kashmiri researcher discovers a new trend in cardiovascular diseases among the local population, the findings are published in English journals. The data is discussed in English seminars. The life-saving advice is printed on English pamphlets. Meanwhile, the very people most affected by these illnesses—the shopkeepers in Maharaj Gunj or the farmers in Budgam—are left out of the conversation. Their mother tongue has not been given the vocabulary to explain their own pain.
Why Science shuns Kashmiri
The standard excuse for the lack of scientific research in Kashmiri is that the language “isn’t ready.” Critics argue that Kashmiris lack the technical terminology required for complex fields like oncology or hepatology. But this is a circular argument. A language grows only when it is stretched.
If we look at Hebrew or Japanese, these were not always “scientific” languages. They were modernised by scholars who insisted on translating medical texts and inventing new terms rooted in their own linguistic traditions. In Kashmir, we have done the opposite. We have outsourced our intellect to English, believing that to be “scientific” is to be “un-Kashmiri.”
By failing to move our research from the purely literary toward the clinical, toward the liver patients, the cancer survivors, and those battling heart disease, we are telling our youth that Kashmiri is a dead-end. We are teaching them that if they want to save lives, they must leave their mother tongue at the hospital door.
The human cost of a language gap
Why should we prioritise Kashmiri in science? Because medicine is, at its heart, an act of communication.
Imagine a patient from a remote village in Kupwara diagnosed with a complex liver malignancy. The doctor, trained in English, explains the prognosis using terms like “metastasis” or “carcinoma.” The patient nods, but the understanding is superficial. There is a disconnect, a coldness, that comes with a foreign tongue.
If our local scholars were conducting research in Kashmiri, they would be forced to create a bridge. They would develop a vernacular of healing. Research conducted in the local language ensures that:
- Public Health Awareness reaches the grassroots level without being “lost in translation.”
- Patient Compliance improves because people trust information delivered in the language they dream in.
- Cultural Nuances in diet and lifestyle (which are crucial for heart and liver health) are better captured in data.
The ‘dustbin’ phenomenon
We are witnessing a tragic irony: we claim to love our language, yet we are the ones suffocating it. By keeping Kashmiri restricted to the “Naji Munwar” era, we are effectively throwing it into a dustbin of irrelevance. A language that doesn’t evolve to meet the needs of its people will eventually be discarded by them.
Our youth are already shifting. They see English as the language of the paycheck and Kashmiri as the language of the “old folks.” This isn’t because they hate their heritage; it’s because their heritage isn’t offering them the tools to understand the modern world. If we don’t start writing about oncology and genetics in Kashmiri, the next generation will have no reason to speak it at all.
A call to action for Kashmir University
The responsibility lies squarely on the shoulders of our academic elite. The departments of Kashmiri and the departments of Science must stop living in isolation. We need:
- Translation Wings: To translate global medical breakthroughs into the Kashmiri vernacular.
- Interdisciplinary Research: Encouraging PhD scholars to write theses on public health issues in the Kashmiri language.
- Scientific Journals: Establishing a peer-reviewed journal for “Kashmiri Science and Medicine.”
We must honour Rehman Rahi by proving that the language he loved is strong enough to carry the weight of a microscope, not just a pen. We must show that Kashmiris can describe the rhythm of a failing heart as poignantly as it describes the beauty of a falling chinar leaf.
Conclusion
English is a window to the world, and we must keep it open. But our mother tongue is the floor we stand on. If we continue to ignore scientific research in Kashmiri, we are choosing to stand on a floor that is rotting away. It is time for our scholars to step out of the ivory towers of pure poetry and enter the wards of our hospitals. Only then can we say we truly love our language, not as a ghost of the past, but as a living, breathing force for our survival.
The writer is a research scholar in Sociology
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