For Satyen Kashu, now in his mid-forties, leaving his homeland was not a single event but a prolonged experience that fundamentally altered his childhood, his sense of security, and ultimately, his life's mission. His story is one of quiet resilience, channeling the pain of displacement into music, poetry, and a unique community initiative centered on the power of listening.
The Unfolding Loss of Home and Community
Kashu's early years in Kashmir during the 1980s were defined by a strict routine of school, supervised homework, and early bedtimes. His cherished moments were brief playtimes with cousins who lived nearby. These simple afternoons later came to represent the profound sense of community that displacement would strip away. Even then, a subtle atmosphere of constraint existed. Children were taught to avoid confrontation and to "buy peace." A frightening childhood encounter with an angry mob left a lasting imprint of fear, fostering a feeling that "we were not fully free."
In 1988, his family relocated to Pune after his father received a temporary posting with Doordarshan. The plan was always to return to Kashmir after two years. That return never materialized. As militancy escalated and the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits unfolded in 1990, going back became an impossibility. "We knew how to leave," Kashu reflects, "but not how to go back." His extended family was scattered across India, dissolving a tightly-knit support system overnight.
The deepest wound for Kashu was not material. It was the loss of safety and the ability to be emotionally open. He explains that constant fear stifles curiosity, creativity, and even the capacity to feel. "When survival becomes primary, you don't have time for emotions." This suppressed trauma later surfaced as anger and restlessness. The erosion of community was equally painful. While education helped many rebuild their material lives, it made asking for help difficult—a "hidden loss" of displacement.
Building a New Life in Pune and a Narrow Escape
The initial years in Pune were demanding. Kashu had to learn Marathi, adapt to a new culture, and meet high academic expectations. His parents, grappling with their own trauma, worked tirelessly to rebuild. His father repaid loans for a house in Kashmir they could no longer inhabit, while his mother restarted her career in an unfamiliar city. "Migration transfers fear," Kashu notes. However, learning Marathi became a crucial bridge, helping him feel rooted in his new environment.
A harrowing incident from 1991 remains vividly etched in his memory. While escorting his ailing grandmother to Jammu, they narrowly missed a bomb blast at the Jammu Tawi railway station. A delay of mere minutes saved their lives, but they witnessed scenes of chaos, fire, and casualties. "Nobody asked how I felt," he recalls, highlighting how silence compounded the trauma.
The Healing Power of Music and Authentic Connection
Healing began much later. In his mid-forties, following his father's death, Kashu started writing poetry in Kashmiri—a creative return to his mother tongue. Music followed naturally. He began with whistling, then moved to the flute, and eventually to singing, using these forms to regulate his breath and emotions. For years, his only audience was his guitar. He holds a firm belief: "Music doesn't allow you to fake. If it comes, it has to be real."
A pivotal moment occurred when he finally began recording his songs. A young hip-hop artist interning at the studio quietly stayed behind to assist him. For Kashu, the gesture's value was not technical but lay in the trust it fostered.
These cumulative experiences crystallized into Voice of Roots, a project focused on facilitating listening circles for displaced communities, students, and artists. It sprang from his realization that being truly heard can be transformative. "We don't need the whole world," he says. "We need a few people who can listen." The project has created non-judgmental spaces for Kashmiri Pandits, Tibetans, students, and volunteers to share their stories.
Kashu believes displacement did not erase his identity but made it flexible. He now writes in Kashmiri, Hindi, English, and Marathi, collaborates across cultures, and supports projects beyond his own community. He conducts listening workshops, contributes to mental-health initiatives, writes poetry and songs, and mentors youth. His books, Ek Kashmiri Ladke Ki Diary and its English version, trace a personal journey from anger to sadness, devoid of blame or bitterness.
When asked about returning to Kashmir, he offers a poignant perspective: "I don't know if I will ever go back. Safety is not a concept. It is something you live for a year to know." His life stands as a testament to building purpose from loss, using the arts and deep human connection as his foundational tools.
