Kashmir's Musicians Keep Shina Language Alive Across Borders

In the remote Tulail Valley near the Line of Control, 25-year-old Aasim Yaseen received an unexpected validation of his work. A college student named Tanveer stopped him on the street in his village, Buglinder, to play one of his recent Shina songs. That moment kept him going.

“Sometimes I think about going into another profession, but then someone plays my song on their phone, and I keep going,” Yaseen says.

Across the Shina-speaking regions of Kashmir, Ladakh and Gilgit-Baltistan, young musicians like Yaseen are quietly reshaping how a divided community stays connected. They’re uploading songs to YouTube and Facebook, sharing recordings across the Line of Control that has separated families since Partition. What might seem like a simple act of cultural preservation is actually something more profound: a digital lifeline through geopolitical boundaries.

Music as a Safer Language

The musicians face real constraints. Security concerns make residents wary of direct phone calls or messages with relatives across the border. Movement between regions remains extremely restricted. Yet Shina songs travel freely through the internet, offering a way to maintain emotional and cultural ties without drawing suspicion.

A teacher from Purana Tulail village, speaking anonymously due to security concerns, described songs as becoming a medium itself. “Through music, we could convey a message without having to send it,” he explains. When a singer from one side performs, the community across the border listens. No direct contact needed. No red flags raised.

This pattern emerged in the late 2010s but accelerated after 2020. What started as informal sharing on social media evolved into a genuine cultural reconnection spanning mountains and political divisions.

The Challenge of Going Professional

Yet the digital infrastructure remains fragile. Yaseen normally lives in Srinagar, over 160 kilometers from his village, studying music at Cluster University while performing at local events. Recording a single song costs him between 30,000 and 35,000 Indian rupees ($318-$372) when he can afford studio time.

The emerging generation of Shina musicians has gotten creative about splitting costs. They share microphones, speakers, instruments and editing software. Younis Majeed, a 27-year-old from Izmarg village blending traditional Shina folk with contemporary beats, has seen his song “Tamah Hoon” reach over 21,000 viewers online despite these barriers.

Zain Drassi, a 24-year-old singer in Drass, Ladakh, faces similar challenges. Some villages near the Line of Control have little to no mobile coverage. Professional recording services require travel to distant cities like Srinagar or Bhaderwah. Finding traditional instrument musicians has become increasingly difficult.

Building a Cultural Map

Salman Paras, a 38-year-old Shina folk singer from Gilgit-Baltistan, has achieved wider success. His collaboration with Pakistani singer Ali Zafar on “Karay Karay,” filmed during cherry blossom season in Skardu, garnered millions of YouTube views. Yet his journey reflects a deeper story about how music can bridge what politics divides.

Paras grew up hearing stories of his grandfather’s brother, who remained in Gurez when the rest of the family migrated to Gilgit. Decades later, a Shina musician from the Kashmir side recognized family connections through his music and traced relatives to Kangan. They haven’t reconnected yet, but the possibility exists now because of a song.

“For a long time, many people didn’t take me seriously as a singer,” Paras says. “But when Ali Zafar introduced me, I sang proudly as Shina from Gilgit-Baltistan. People took notice.”

During an Instagram live session in November, Paras told listeners from Gurez, Drass, Kargil and Gilgit-Baltistan about his dream to perform across the divided region. He spoke of drawing a cultural map in his mind that includes all Shina-speaking areas, regardless of which country administers them on paper.

Yousuf Naseem, a 53-year-old singer in Kangan, represents the bridge between older and younger generations. He spent three decades preserving Shina through music, carrying songs with him when his family was displaced during the 1999 Kargil conflict. “We lost everything,” he says. “But the songs travelled with us.”

The internet has democratized who can share these traditions, but it has also exposed how much work remains: unreliable connections, lack of resources, political restrictions on movement and visa access. Yet every upload represents something worth protecting.

Source: Infeeds.com

When artificial borders divide a people, their music may be the only thing that insists they were never truly separate.