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Bhat Yasir
In 1951, in a village on the outskirts of Budgam, a Sufi preacher stood was requested in a small village, to lead prayers, and to help tend to the spiritual fabric of a community recovering from the tremors of Partition. In return for his presence, the community offered him a modest piece of land—a waqf property—adjacent to the graveyard. The offer wasn’t sealed with ink but with intent: a handshake, a word, a silent agreement that the land would remain for religious use, under the preacher’s care. Years passed, the preacher built a small Khanqah, taught the Qur’an, led janazas.
But decades later, when his descendants tried to formalize the claim, the paperwork didn’t exist. The property had no formal deed, no registration—only memories and oral testimony. In today’s legal regime, that land, despite being used for religious service for over 70 years, is no longer considered waqf. Its status has effectively evaporated with the repeal of one line in a law: the clause recognizing “waqf by user.”
Got it. Here’s a richer, more layered draft that starts with a compelling anecdote, builds historical and legal context, includes recent developments like the new bill, and weaves in stats, quotes, and a critique of the policy shift. Let me know if you’d like to add a particular name, shrine, or locality to the opening story.
Historically, in Kashmir—as in much of South Asia—religious and charitable lands were often created through trust-based, oral agreements. A mosque might rise where the elderly gathered for prayer under a tree, a graveyard might form where the first village martyr was buried, and a Sufi lodge would take shape where a preacher laid down his prayer mat. The “waqf by user” principle allowed such properties to be recognized legally based on consistent communal use, even if no official documents existed.
But the recent passage of the Wakf (Amendment) Bill, 2024, by the Indian Parliament has abolished this very clause. The amendment mandates that for any property to be considered waqf, it must be officially registered with supporting documents—paper trails that many of Kashmir’s religious and welfare sites simply don’t possess. This change has the potential to fundamentally alter the religious and cultural landscape of Kashmir.
According to data from the Jammu and Kashmir Waqf Board, over 32,000 kanals (approximately 4,000 acres) of land fall under its administration. Yet a significant portion—especially khanqahs, imambaras, langar sites, and graveyards—remains undocumented or partially registered. In rural Kashmir, many of these sites were established on donated land generations ago, legitimized through communal usage rather than formal legal processes.
The implications are severe. By stripping away the “user” clause, these sites may now be reclassified, disputed, or even repurposed. Legal protection that once derived from continuity and collective memory now hinges entirely on written title.
This is not just a bureaucratic update—it represents a profound shift in how heritage, spirituality, and public welfare are valued. The change is particularly jarring in Kashmir, where land has long been more than a commodity—it is memory, resistance, identity. In places like Srinagar, Pulwama, Budgam, Anantnag, and Kupwara, numerous graveyards, Khanqahs, and religious schools have been run informally by locals, mohallas, or village committees, often with no paperwork but decades of undisturbed service.
Critics argue that the new law could open the door for these properties to be taken over by state agencies or private developers, especially under the pretext of modernization or urban planning. With the repeal of Article 370 and the centralization of institutions, the move is also being seen as part of a broader erosion of Kashmiri autonomy—religious, cultural, and political.
The Jammu Kashmir Waqf Board, once seen as a guardian of these properties, now finds its hands tied. Post-2019, the board was restructured, and many of its functions brought under greater central oversight. While its current chairperson, Dr. Syed Darakhshan Andrabi, has been praised for the development of some shrines—most notably by Union Minister Kiren Rijiju during a February 2025 visit to Dargah Hazratbal—the question remains: development for whom, and at what cost?
Rijiju had lauded Andrabi’s work, saying, “The transformation of Sufi shrines in J&K under her leadership can be a model for the rest of the country.” But for many local caretakers, especially in rural areas, the concern is not transformation—it’s erasure. Development that doesn’t account for the unregistered, orally-endowed spaces could mean their quiet disappearance.
In the end, this isn’t merely a legal debate. It’s a conflict between two systems: one rooted in paper, the other in people. Between formal registration and informal reverence. In Kashmir, where trust in institutions is already tenuous, the law’s dismissal of historical usage could be seen not as reform but as an assault on collective memory.
Because in Kashmir, a piece of land isn’t just earth. It is where a saint walked. Where a mother wept. Where a generation knelt to pray. And where the ink never reached—but the soul always did.
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