Four years ago, Basit Bashir, a cheerful man with a thick beard, opened a small clinic in Srinagar’s Karan Nagar area with a mission rooted in faith: to erase tattoos, free of charge. The 29-year-old laser removal specialist believed tattoos, prohibited in Islam, burden the soul. His services quickly gained traction across the region.

At first, his clients were mostly young people seeking to erase tattoos of their ex-partners' names, or older folk who had come to see their ink as incompatible with a more devout interpretation of their faith, adopted later in life. But over the past two years, Bashir has noticed a shift.

There has been a noticeable rise in young men and women seeking to erase images of AK-47 rifles, political slogans, and other symbols of Kashmiri resistance – badges of honour that once declared identity, but now attract the gaze of an ever-expanding surveillance state.

“Since the Pahalgam attack, more people are coming in,” Bashir told TRT World, referring to the recent assault that killed 26. “They’re afraid these tattoos will get them into trouble.”

Since 2022, he estimates he has removed more than 1,000 such tattoos. In conflict-scarred Kashmir, where a symbol can be interpreted by government agencies as anti-national sentiment, the wrong ink can turn someone into a suspect.

"If someone has an AK-47 tattooed elsewhere in India, they won't be targeted,” he said. “But here, in Kashmir, such tattoos are met with suspicion."

While tattoos remain prohibited in Islam, their popularity in Kashmir surged in the past decade, becoming both personal and political. Among younger generations, body art evolved into a canvas of defiance and belonging.

"These tattoos have gained significant popularity among younger generations, who view them as potent symbols of identity, resistance, or simply as a striking aesthetic that resonates with them," Bashir said.

Birds, flowers and guns

A 26-year-old woman from downtown Srinagar, who requested anonymity fearing reprisals, told TRT World how her fascination with tattoos began during her college years. Surrounded by friends flaunting inked names in italic, magical birds, and dainty flowers, she yearned for something to set her apart. 

After much thought, she settled on a daring and unconventional choice — an AK-47 inked in jet black, its edges lined with gold, stretching across her forearm in 2021. Back then, it felt like an act of thrill and quiet rebellion. She had no idea that the same tattoo would one day become a source of anxiety. 

"I was born and raised in a conflict zone. My choice felt like a powerful symbol, a personal act of defiance that resonated deeply with everything I had lived through," she said.

Over the past few years, with the region's intensified surveillance, the tattoo, etched deep into her skin, started to feel less like resistance and more like risk.

"I couldn’t sleep at night,” she said. “I was haunted by the thought that one day the authorities might spot it and that simple ink could bring serious consequences, not just for me, but for my family as well.”

A few months ago, she had her tattoo removed, an act that felt like erasing part of her own story, leaving behind a sadness that still refuses to fade. She called the removal an “act of suppression”, a reflection of the harsh reality of growing up in a region where youth have endured decades of conflict. 

"Now, even personal choices like tattoos have become liabilities, with symbols of self-expression seen as potential threats," she said.

The price of expression

Following the 2019 abrogation of Article 370, which revoked Kashmir’s special status under India’s constitution, the region has experienced a sharp crackdown on free expression under the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) government. The increased use of sedition and counter-terrorism laws like the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) to suppress dissent has instilled a climate of fear, where self-censorship is often a means of survival.  

The Himalayan territory, claimed by both India and Pakistan but divided between them, has remained a flashpoint since 1947. The conflict escalated significantly in late 1989 when an armed insurgency erupted in Indian-administered Kashmir against New Delhi's rule. Since then, the violence has claimed over 40,000 lives, including nearly 14,000 civilians, 5,000 Indian government personnel, and 22,000 rebels. In a region marked by decades of bloodshed and repression, personal expression, once an act of identity, now carries the weight of danger.

Mohammad, 28, from south Kashmir’s Kulgam district, who wished to be identified only by his first name due to fear of reprisal from authorities, remembers the summer of 2016 vividly. It was the year militant commander Burhan Wani was killed, sparking mass protests across the valley. Mohammad, like many others, inked an AK-47 and the word Azaadi – freedom – on his arm.

“It was a trend back then,” he said. “A way to say, ‘We are here, we won’t be silenced.’”

"Even though I knew tattoos are forbidden in Islam, I still got them. It was my way of making a political statement and showing my belonging to my homeland," he said.

But that defiance came at a cost. Mohammed said he was routinely stopped, harassed, and even assaulted by government forces because of his tattoos. Fear began to overtake pride. 

"I used to be in constant fear that the authorities could book me under stringent laws at any time, and I would be jailed," he said.

Authorities, he realised, didn’t want people to express “what was in their hearts”, instead crushing their sentiments—a pattern that has become the new norm in Kashmir's shifting political landscape.

He eventually decided to have it removed.

Kashmir’s enduring relationship with ink dates back to the 1950s, shortly after India gained independence from Britain. In a symbolic act of dissent, some residents who opposed then-leader Sheikh Abdullah’s decision to accede to India chose to express their resistance through tattoos. Many in opposition etched crescent moons and stars onto their skin—emblems of rebellion that quietly defied the political tide.

Today, that legacy lives on, though less visible, and more burdened.

“Some people remove tattoos out of faith, while others do it out of fear. No one wants to be punished for it,” said Bashir.