Shina Melodies Bridge Divided Communities Along Kashmir’s Line of Control

Guardians of a Fading Tongue

In Kangan, central Kashmir, 53-year-old singer Yousuf Naseem has dedicated three decades to preserving the Shina language through music.

Seated on his veranda, he plucks a six-stringed rabab, his melodies echoing memories of migration, loss, and the homeland he left behind.

Born in Dangithal, near the Line of Control in the Gurez Valley, Naseem recalls long winters filled with family storytelling and songs passed down by elders.

“The elders in our house were our library,” he says. “Whatever they hummed, we sang.”

The 1999 Kargil conflict forced his family to flee Gurez; they resettled in Kangan.

“We lost everything,” he says. “But the songs travelled with us.”

Naseem began introducing Shina music to new audiences in Srinagar. In Bohri Kadal, a historic market in the old city where many Dard families work as wazas, or chefs, he handed a shopkeeper a copy of his first cassette, Dardistan, requesting it be played each morning.

His voice soon permeated the marketplace.

“People would ask what language it was,” Naseem recalls. “It was Shina. For many, it was the first time they had heard it.”

While Naseem carried Shina beyond Gurez, Fareed Ahmed Kaloo labored to sustain it within the valley.

At the Shina Cultural Centre near Dawar, young musicians gather as Kaloo, 67, tunes his harmonium and begins to sing, clad in a traditional shoka and white pakol cap.

“Gilgit, Kargil, Gurez, Drass – our pride, our own,
This is our Golden Garden: Dardistan, our home.”

Kaloo directs the Habba Khatoon Dramatic Club, a cultural troupe founded in 1976 to safeguard Shina folklore in Gurez.

“After Partition, our culture faded,” he says. “Kashmiri music dominated, and our Dardic roots fell silent.”

For years, he trekked between villages on foot, bearing a harmonium and a tumbak naari, a clay percussion instrument. He performed at weddings, fairs, and local gatherings, accepting food, shelter, or a modest honorarium in return.

“We didn’t do it for money,” he says. “We did it because someone had to, and no one else would.”

Some founding members have passed away; others departed amid cross-border shelling and never returned. Kaloo remained, passing folk songs to younger generations.

He now listens to contemporary tracks on his phone and admires how musicians in Gilgit have evolved their sound while retaining traditional Shina elements.

“They’ve gone far ahead of us,” he says with a smile. “As they should. Our songs must evolve, but never lose their roots.”

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