In the quiet, secluded corner of a prison compound in New Delhi, two patches of earth hold a weight that far exceeds their physical size. These are the unmarked graves of Mohammad Maqbool Bhat and Afzal Guru, two men whose names have become inextricably linked with the decades-long conflict in Kashmir. Their executions, nearly three decades apart, were moments of intense national focus. But the ongoing story of their graves—their location, their anonymity, and the repeated demands for their return—is perhaps an even more potent symbol of the unresolved politics of memory, justice, and conflict in the region.
To understand the present, we must first glance back.
Maqbool Bhat: Founder of the Jammu Kashmir Liberation Front (JKLF), Bhat was convicted for the murder of an Indian police officer and hanged in Delhi's Tihar Jail on February 11, 1984. His body was not returned to his family and was instead buried within the prison premises.
Afzal Guru: A Jammu and Kashmir native, Guru was convicted for his role in the 2001 attack on the Indian Parliament. After a long legal and political battle, he was executed on February 9, 2013, and also buried within Tihar Jail, next to Bhat's grave.
The official reasoning for withholding the bodies was grounded in "law and order" concerns. The state argued that returning the bodies to their families in Kashmir could trigger widespread unrest and become a rallying point for protests. This decision, from a security standpoint, was seen as preemptive damage control.
However, this act of burying them secretly and within the prison walls transformed their graves from mere burial sites into powerful political symbols.
The Grave as a Symbol
For the Indian state, these unmarked graves represent a closed chapter. They are the final period at the end of a sentence, a demonstration of the ultimate consequence of challenging the state's sovereignty. The anonymity of the graves is intentional, meant to deny them the status of martyrdom and prevent them from becoming a site of pilgrimage or protest.
In the Kashmir Valley, the effect was precisely the opposite. The denial of a proper burial, a right deeply embedded in cultural and religious practices, was perceived as a profound indignity and an act of collective punishment. The graves, though inaccessible, became ethereal symbols of resistance, injustice, and the unfulfilled promise of closure. February 9 and 11 are observed as black days in Kashmir, with shut-down strikes and memorial events held not at physical graves, but at martyrs' graveyards dedicated to those who died for the cause.
The demand for the return of their bodies is, therefore, not merely a request for repatriation of remains. It is a demand for the recognition of their narrative, for dignity in death, and for the right of a community to grieve its dead on its own terms.
The Debate Over Removal and Return
The call to "remove" or "return" the graves is a constant in Kashmiri political discourse, especially around the anniversaries of their executions. This demand is multifaceted:
A Humanitarian Plea: At its simplest, it is a plea for basic human and religious rights. Families have the right to perform burial rites and to visit a gravesite to mourn.
A Political Challenge: It is a challenge to the Indian state's narrative of finality. Returning the bodies would be an acknowledgment of the persistent political resonance of these figures and the grievances they represent.
A Gesture for Peace: Some argue that returning the bodies could be a powerful confidence-building measure. It could be seen as an act of maturity and empathy, potentially creating space for a more honest dialogue.
On the other side, the state's resistance remains firm, anchored in the same security rationale that justified the non-return initially. The fear of these funerals turning into massive political rallies, potentially fueling further alienation and violence, is a calculated risk no government has been willing to take.
A Way Forward?
The graves of Maqbool Bhat and Afzal Guru are more than just soil and remains. They are a metaphor for the Kashmir conflict itself: unresolved, buried out of sight but not out of mind, a festering wound that prevents true healing.
The question of their return forces us to confront deeper questions:
Can a state achieve lasting peace by denying the symbols of a people's grief?
Is security truly maintained by controlling the dead, or does it merely deepen the alienation of the living?
Is there courage in continuing to hide these graves, or would there be greater courage in returning them?
There are no easy answers. The path to reconciliation is never linear. But it is built on gestures, however difficult. The return of these bodies would not solve the Kashmir issue, but it could be a critical step in acknowledging a pain that has festered for too long. It would be a recognition that true security lies not in controlling memory, but in addressing the grief and politics that give that memory its power.
Until then, those two unmarked patches of earth in Tihar Jail will remain two of the most charged political symbols in South Asia—silent, unseen, but echoing with a deafening cry for resolution.
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