Rohingya refugees in Jammu struggle for a place to bury their loved ones

With no access to burial grounds, families travel miles to forested areas, leaving their dead scattered across Jammu.Jammu, Jammu and Kashmir: Asif Hussain, a member of the Rohingya refugee community living in the Sujwan settlement on the outskirts of Jammu, still remembers the long walk through the forest with his brother’s body.In 2018, when Salam Hussain died of kidney disease, there was no place in Jammu where he could be buried. Asif (45), a daily-wage labourer had to take him nearly 50 kilometres away, to a forest area in Kathua.“I had to arrange Rs 5,000 for travel and burial expenses,” Asif recalled. “We hired a load carrier, and after reaching the base of the forest, we trekked for an hour to reach the spot. That experience still haunts me. We don’t even have the courage to visit his grave now, fearing wild animals may have disturbed the body.”Amir Hussain, a community leader of Rohingya refugees, praying Fatihah at the graveyard in Channi Rama (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters)For Muslim families, the Janazah prayer before burial is a communal obligation, meant to be attended by as many people as possible. But for families like Asif’s, distance and fear make that impossible. “Because the burial sites are so far away, many people can’t join. What should have been a communal prayer becomes a lonely act,” he said. “In such times, you need your people around you, but we are left to mourn alone.”Across Jammu, over 13,000 Rohingya refugees face this same struggle, denied even the dignity of a grave. Living in temporary settlements in Channi Rama, Kiryani Talab, Narwal, Bhatandi and Sujwan, they have no access to designated burial grounds. Families often travel 40-50 kilometres to forested areas in Qasim Nagar, Sidhra or Kathua to bury their dead.The Rohingya, a predominantly Muslim ethnic minority from Myanmar’s Rakhine state, fled large-scale persecution and violence beginning in the 1990s, with the largest exodus after 2017. Around 40,000 are estimated to live across India, mostly in Jammu, Delhi, Hyderabad and Haryana. Though registered with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), they are not formally recognised as refugees under Indian law, leaving them in a state of legal limbo, without citizenship rights or assured access to housing, education, or burial grounds.The absence of safe and dignified burial spaces raises a painful question: when displaced people are denied the right to rest their dead, what protection do they have left in life?Burials at a cemetery in Chowadi Sujwani, Jammu, where members of the Rohingya community are buried alongside local residents (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters)Scattered gravesRohingya families also carry the emotional burden of invisibility in death, said Rahimulla, 35. “We don’t place names or details like other Muslims, which usually gives a sense of identity. That’s why it feels like we vanish with death,” he said.Even in hardship, families honour their dead in the few ways they can. “We place simple stones over the graves so we know they exist. Only close family knows who is buried where,” he added.Amir Ali (75) who came to India with his family in 2008, said they have long struggled to find a place to live and a place to rest. “Whenever someone dies, we rely on local residents to help us bury them. Some allow us to use their graveyards, like the one in Bhatindi, but even that is uncertain. Recently, locals asked us to find a separate graveyard, saying they had limited space. It’s becoming harder to ensure a proper resting place for our loved ones,” he said.Without a dedicated burial ground, graves are scattered across forests and small local graveyards, leaving families divided even in death.Rahman Ali (55) had to bury his parents in separate graveyards. “It divides families even in death and makes it difficult to grieve or preserve a sense of belonging,” he said. “There’s no place to mourn together or honour our dead. It feels like they’re disappearing, and all we’re left with is sorrow.”“I want to visit my parents’ graves,” said Rahimulla quietly. “But they’re too far. A graveyard close to our settlement would mean we could at least hold on to their memory, instead of feeling scattered even in death.”He said graves serve as anchors of community and cultural identity. “When families can’t bury their dead together, it fragments not just grief but the cohesion of the entire community.”Rahimulla, who teaches children in his settlement near Kiryani Talab, said the loss extends beyond individual families. Rahmatullah, 25, added why a separate graveyard matters: “It would preserve our identity. Even if one day we return to our country, we could visit our ancestors and remember the struggles our families endured.”Makeshift tents of Rohingya refugees, these tents are made up of wooden planks and tin sheets, photos from Kiryani Talab in Jammu (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters)Between law and humanity“Rohingya Muslims in India live under legal uncertainty and are often treated as ‘illegal immigrants’ despite being recognised by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR),” said human rights activist Nayla Hashmi. “This lack of clarity affects every aspect of their lives, including access to a dignified burial. Ensuring such basic rights is essential to easing their hardship.”“International human rights standards emphasise that dignity and life extend beyond death,” she added. “While India has not ratified all refugee-specific treaties, it still has an obligation to protect displaced communities on humanitarian grounds.”Even though Rohingyas are not officially recognised as refugees and can technically be deported under the Foreigners Act, they are still protected by Article 21 of the Constitution, which guarantees the right to life and personal liberty. “This right applies to every person on Indian soil,” Hashmi said. “That includes the right to basic human dignity, such as a proper and respectful burial.”The Foreigners Act regulates the status of non-citizens but does not provide rights such as housing, employment or burial grounds. However, the Supreme Court has clarified that while foreigners may not have the right to remain in India, they cannot be denied basic human rights during their stay. Thus, access to burial grounds for Rohingyas is protected not by the Foreigners Act but by the constitutional guarantee of Article 21.In practice, most Rohingyas in India are registered with the UNHCR, which helps document their presence and ensures limited recognition of their humanitarian needs. Across the country, about 16,500 Rohingyas are registered with the agency, including around 5,700 in Jammu (2024-25 estimates). Hashmi said the limited access to burial grounds highlights the need for policies that combine legal clarity with humanitarian care. “Refugees should not have to face additional suffering even after death,” she said.“We are grateful to India for giving us a place to live,” said Amir Hussain, a community leader in the Narwal settlement. “But when it comes to burying our dead, forests and occasional help from locals are not enough.”“Providing a separate graveyard is not just about burial,” he added. “It is about mental peace, cultural preservation and giving our children a connection to their heritage. Without it, the grief of the living remains unresolved and the memory of the dead fades away.”He appealed to the administration “on humanitarian grounds” for a dedicated graveyard with state support. “It would allow our community to honour our loved ones safely and with dignity, and preserve our identity and traditions even in these difficult times.”Repeated attempts to contact officials from the district administration and forest department went unanswered.Cover photo - Amir Hussain, a community leader of Rohingya refugees, praying Fatihah at the graveyard in Channi Rama, where his relative is buried (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters)

In Kashmir, traditional kaladi cheese is melting into the hearts of locals and tourists

The demand for the heritage cheese made by Gujjar and Bakarwal communities is growing as the trend of handmade and organic product grows.Shopian, Jammu & Kashmir: In the hilly area of Sukudo in Shopian, Rafeeqa Bano crouched beside her chulha (clay stove), gently stirring buffalo’s milk mixed with a dash of buttermilk. As the first curls of smoke rose, the mixture began to thicken. She separated the whey and shaped the sticky mass into a soft round disc, which was Kaladi, the traditional cheese which one could hardly find in the markets of Pulwama and Shopian until last year.A glimpse into the preparation of Kaladi (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)“For women like me, this is more than food being prepared. It is a piece of our heritage coming back to life,” she said.Shopkeeper Mohammad Younus, who sells Kaladi near the Jamia Masjid in Shopian said, “We are seeing a rise in demand for Kaladi…people call it organic and handmade as is the trend these days and want to purchase it.” Mohammad Younus, shopkeeper selling Kaladi cheese at his shop in Shopian (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)Dietitian Sammer Ahmed Dar, a member of the Indian Dietetic Association, said kaladi is “rich in protein, fat, and calcium and ideal for people living in cold, mountainous regions with physically demanding lives.”“It’s a nutritional powerhouse and a cultural symbol,” he added.Also known as the “mozzarella of Kashmir”, kaladi is made by the Gujjar and Bakarwal pastoral communities, who migrate with their cattle to the upper reaches of the Pir Panjal range between May and October. During these months, they live in temporary wooden shelters called dokes, centred around a mud stove where meals and Kaladi are prepared.Rafeeqa holds freshly made Kaladi in her hands (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)The heritage of cheeseTraditionally, the Gujjars fermented milk, coagulated and compacted it into large, bread-sized discs, and placed them in baskets made of wild grass and bamboo. These were hung in the sun for months until all the moisture evaporated and the cheese hardened.According to village elders, the dried kaladi was ground into powder and used to treat diarrhoea in children.Abdul Majeed, 75, from Shopian, says the cheese also has medicinal value. “For breastfeeding mothers, it helps ease intestinal problems in children. Traditionally kaladi was cooked with leafy greens, these days it is popularised as a street snack eaten with kulcha. The cheese also served a practical purpose. In the high mountains, where selling fresh milk daily was impossible, kaladi helped preserve milk for longer and sell it gradually over time.“For the Gujjar and Bakarwal families, Kaladi locally called Moshkrej  is part of our identity,” said Rafeeqa’s husband, Barkat Ahmed. “People are now realising its worth and health benefits, and that gives us confidence.”Freshly made Kaladi rests on steel plates, cooling in the mud kitchen (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)The economic revival is modest but meaningful. Families like that of Tamana Bano and her husband, Firdous Ahmad, now earn between Rs 6,000 and Rs 8,000 a month from Kaladi production. “My husband works as a labourer, but his income alone wasn’t enough,” she said. “Kaladi supports our family and helps us preserve our culture. That gives me real satisfaction.”Most makers use milk from their own cattle, though some buy surplus from neighbours. Production depends on the season and a single doke can produce 20-30 pieces a day when milk is abundant.Each piece sells for around Rs 25 to Rs 30, but nearly Rs 20 goes into production. Despite low margins, families continue the work for its cultural and sentimental value.Freshly made Kaladi displayed at a shop in the Shopian market (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)Irshad Ahmad from Shopian explained the process: “We collect kaladi from 10-15 dokes, around 700-900 pieces, and sell them to traders in Shopian or Pulwama. Elderly women still go door-to-door, but younger people use phones and middlemen.”Gul Bano (50), a kaladi maker said: “My son posts photos and videos online and restaurants started calling us for bulk orders…This season, sales have gone up by nearly 40 percent.”In the shadow of her humble doke, Gul Bano tends to her buffaloes, the heart of her livelihood and daily rhythm in the meadows of Shopian (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)Shopkeeper Younus added that he sells about 100-120 kaladi discs every day up from 70-80 last year. Even tourists come and purchase this cheese, he added. Change in perceptionNot long ago, kaladi’s production had nearly disappeared. “Until the late 1990s, it was still made by the Gujjar community,”  Salam Javed (70) from Shopian said. “But because of social bias and class perceptions, people started abandoning it.”Rukhsar Ahmad, 45 added: “In schools, our children were mocked for being associated with kaladi. We were seen as ‘low caste.’ People avoided us because of the smell of milk,” he says. “About 30-35 families gave up cattle rearing altogether because of this discrimination.”“Many considered it a poor man’s dish,” added trader Gulzar Kasana, (65). “But after the Covid-19 pandemic, people began realising the value of organic and handmade foods. That has helped bring kaladi back.”There is a trend of rediscovering traditional foods, he said. “People are tired of processed food. Kaladi is natural and free from additives which is why it is getting popular,” he added. Saima Nabi, a teacher from Pulwama said that she started purchasing kaladi as it is handmade by local communities. “I prefer foods that are pure and unprocessed…Buying local produce also makes me feel connected to something real.”Cover Photo - Rafeeqa in her mud kitchen in Sukudo, Shopian, separates whey from buffalo milk to make Kaladi, keeping alive a traditional Kashmiri delicacy (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)