The Bijbehara massacre of October 22, 1993, stands as one of the most painful and well-documented tragedies in the history of Indian illegally occupied Jammu and Kashmir. On this day, thirty-two years ago, the small town of Bijbehara along the Srinagar–Jammu highway witnessed an event that changed its destiny forever.
That Friday began in quiet devotion, with thousands of residents attending congregational prayers. Later, nearly fifteen thousand people gathered in a peaceful march to demand the lifting of the siege around the Hazratbal Shrine in Srinagar. The shrine, which houses the holy relic of Prophet Muhammad (PBUH), had been surrounded by Indian occupying forces for days. The siege was seen by locals as a grave insult to their faith and dignity, sparking protests across the valley.
The procession in Bijbehara moved calmly through the town. No curfew was in place, and the demonstrators were unarmed. When the crowd reached the main road near Goriwan, personnel of the Border Security Force’s 74th Battalion appeared from three sides. Without any warning or sign of threat, an officer fired the first shot, followed by a hail of bullets that tore through the gathering. People fell where they stood, and those who tried to escape were shot at from every direction.
The firing continued even as the wounded cried for help. Witnesses later recalled the horror, describing how the soldiers fired into the crowd for several minutes without pause. The streets were filled with panic and chaos as unarmed civilians, including children, were gunned down while trying to flee.
The official figures recorded fourty-three civilians killed and over seventy injured, though some independent reports suggest higher numbers. Among the victims were students, workers, farmers, shopkeepers, and a twelve-year-old Kashmiri Pandit boy, Kamal Ji Koul. Local employee Dwarika Nath Koul condemned the atrocity, saying, “There was no warning, no provocation, only bullets raining down on peaceful neighbors.” Another survivor, Mohammad Akbar, remembered, “As soon as the BSF officer fired the first shot, people screamed and fell. The soldiers shouted that they would not leave a single person alive.”
The government’s version, broadcast through official media, falsely claimed that the BSF had responded to gunfire from militants hidden among the protesters. This story was quickly proven false by independent investigations, eyewitness accounts, and even statements from senior officials. Divisional Commissioner Wajahat Habibullah, who visited the site, confirmed that the procession had been entirely peaceful and that there had been no provocation of any kind.
Human rights inquiries later concluded that the firing was deliberate and unprovoked. A magisterial report described the massacre as an act of vengeance and recommended dismissal and criminal prosecution of fourteen BSF personnel, including Deputy Commandant J. K. Radola. Despite these findings, no one was ever punished. The inquiries, like many before and after, ended without accountability, adding another chapter to Kashmir’s long history of impunity.
The testimonies collected from survivors paint a clear picture of what happened. One participant recalled that the BSF had surrounded the procession from all directions before opening fire. “The entire road was blocked. People tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. The injured were shot again, and no one was allowed to help,” he said. A seventeen-year-old student who was wounded in the attack shared that he saw dozens fall before his eyes, describing how “the air was filled with screams and gunfire.”
These accounts show not only the brutality of the attack but also the depth of trauma that followed. Journalists who tried to report on the killings faced harassment, and some had their cameras seized by soldiers, further proving efforts to hide the truth.
The list of those killed reveals the wide reach of the tragedy: students like sixteen-year-old Altaf Hussain Sheikh, businessmen like fifty-year-old Ghulam Ahmed Pandit, farmers, contractors, shopkeepers, and government workers. Families lost breadwinners and children alike. Many of the wounded later succumbed to their injuries, expanding the toll in the days that followed.
For the people of Bijbehara, that afternoon never ended. The town’s former playground, where many victims are buried, stands as a silent memorial to the unhealed grief of a community. Parents still speak of the sons they buried, children still remember the fathers who never came home, and survivors continue to live with the memories of that day.
Thirty-two years later, the wounds remain open because justice was never served. No court has held the killers accountable. The official inquiries brought no punishment, and the victims’ families were left with empty promises and reports gathering dust. The massacre exposed the reality of life under occupation, where laws meant to protect civilians instead protect those who violate their rights.
The Bijbehara massacre was not an isolated event. It was part of a wider pattern of violence carried out under laws that give immunity to security forces. Each year that passes without justice strengthens the belief that such crimes are tolerated, not punished. Yet, even amid this silence, the people of Kashmir continue to speak of Bijbehara with pain and pride, pain for the lives lost, and pride in their continued resistance to oppression.
Remembering the victims is not only an act of mourning but also a commitment to justice. Their deaths remind the world that peace without accountability is fragile and false. The Bijbehara massacre is more than a historical event. It is a living memory that demands acknowledgment and justice. Until those responsible are held accountable and the truth is recognized, the cry for justice will continue to echo through the valley, carried by generations who refuse to forget.
