About slow surrender of self-respect and its consequences.
In 1974, Marina Abramovic, an artist, performed an artwork called Rhythm 0 in a gallery in Naples. For six hours she stood still beside a table with 72 objects, including a rose, grapes, and a loaded gun. A note besides the table said, people could use any object on her as they wished, and that she was the object. At first the audience was gentle and kind. Later their behavior changed. Some cut her clothes, hurt her skin, and even aimed the gun at her neck. When she finally moved, the crowd left, ashamed to face her as a human being.
This experiment was not just art. It was a mirror. It showed what happens when one human being stops resisting, stops asserting boundaries, and silently absorbs whatever the world throws at them. It also revealed something uncomfortable about people (known and unknown), that we are capable of tenderness, but we are also capable of cruelty, especially when there are no consequences, no limits, and no moral resistance in front of us.This story may have happened in an European gallery, but its lesson lives quietly in our homes in Kashmir.
In our daily life, we often confuse objectivity with detachment. We praise people for being practical, adjusting,silent,cooperative.We admire those who never complain. But sometimes what we call maturity is just a slow surrender of self-respect. In many Kashmiri homes, there is a mother who never says no. She wakes before Fajr, sleeps after midnight, carries everyone’s emotional weight. In the beginning, the family thanks her. They praise her patience. But as years pass, something subtle changes. Her sacrifices become expected. Her silence becomes normal. Her tears become invisible.No one consciously decides to hurt her. But like the crowd in that gallery, people gradually test how much they can take without resistance. In offices too, we see this pattern. There is always that colleague who does extra work without protest. He covers shifts, drafts reports, corrects others mistakes. At first, he is appreciated. Later, he is used.When he finally speaks up, he is labelled difficult.
In our social and political spaces, we also experience this. When communities remain silent about injustice, whether it is delayed wages, environmental damage, or broken promises, the silence is mistaken for acceptance. The phrase “appropriate time” is often used in our politics, such as in the case of dailywagers regularization. But appropriate for whom? For those waiting in uncertainty, time does not pause. It erodes dignity.The experiment teaches us a painful truth, when a person does not define boundaries, others will define them for them.But the lesson is not only about others cruelty. It is also about our internal struggle between objectivity and humanity.Objectivity says, Be neutral. Don’t react. Endure, and Humanity says, I feel. I hurt. I deserve respect.
In Kashmir, we are taught sabr (patience). And patience is a virtue deeply rooted in faith. But sabr is not passivity. It is strength with awareness. Even the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) set clear boundaries. He forgave, but he did not allow oppression to become a habit. There is a difference between humility and humiliation.When we do not stand for anything, we slowly become like the still figure in that gallery, present, but voiceless. And when people see no resistance, some of them will cross lines they never imagined crossing.
This is visible even in small daily interactions. A dismissive glare in a workplace. A sarcastic comment at a family gathering. A friend who repeatedly borrows but never returns. A relative who mocks your dreams. At first, we laugh it off. Then it repeats. Then it becomes routine.Psychologists call this boundary erosion. But in simple language, it is the slow shrinking of self.
“Kashmir must move beyond passive endurance toward a courageous, emotionally intelligent engagement. By setting boundaries without malice and forgiving while maintaining dignity, the people can honor their self-worth. Like the 1974 performance art referenced, we must act as mirrors to society—not to provoke, but to awaken our shared humanity and prevent the erosion of our identity.”
Interestingly, the crowd in Abramovic’s experiment became more aggressive not because they were monsters, but because the situation removed accountability. She did not respond. She did not resist. She did not say stop. The silence acted like permission.How often does our silence become permission?In Kashmir’s tightly knit society, we fear confrontation. We value harmony. We avoid direct disagreement. But suppressed emotions do not disappear. They gather inside like winter snow on our rooftops, quiet, heavy, waiting for collapse.
When someone finally breaks, society is shocked. “He was always calm.” “She never complained.” But calm does not mean unhurt.The deeper question is this, why do humans test limits?Perhaps because boundaries define morality. When there are clear lines, we behave better. When lines blur, darker impulses surface. Children behave better when parents set firm yet loving rules. Employees perform better under fair policies. Citizens feel safer when laws are applied equally.Boundaries are not walls. They are fences protecting dignity.
This is especially important in a region like ours that has seen long seasons of uncertainty. Generations here have learned to endure. Endurance is strength. But endurance without voice becomes erasure.We must teach our children that kindness does not mean allowing disrespect. We must teach our sons that masculinity is not dominance. And we must teach ourselves that saying “no” is not rebellion, it is self-preservation.
The experiment also teaches something hopeful. In the final moments, when one man aimed the gun, others intervened. Humanity resurfaced. The crowd stopped the act.Even in darkness, conscience survives.Kashmir too has this duality. We have seen harshness. We have seen betrayal. But we have also seen strangers risk their lives to save others in floods. We have seen neighbours share food in curfews. We have seen communities rebuild burnt houses together.The same human being who can wound is capable of protecting. The difference lies in awareness and responsibility. Objectivity without humanity becomes cold. Humanity without boundaries becomes fragile. The balance lies in conscious compassion, caring deeply, but standing firmly.
When Abramovic moved at the end of those six hours, the audience could not meet her eyes. Why? Because once she became human again, their actions became real. Accountability returned.Perhaps that is the final lesson. When we reclaim our voice, we restore others conscience. In our homes, this may mean calmly telling a family member that a comment hurt. In offices, it may mean respectfully declining unfair workload. In society, it may mean asking clear questions instead of waiting endlessly for the “appropriate time.”Standing up does not require shouting. It requires clarity. Kashmir does not need more silent endurance. It needs emotionally intelligent courage. The courage to remain kind without becoming a target. The courage to forgive without forgetting dignity. The courage to draw lines without building hatred. That art workin 1974 exposed the shadows of human nature. But it also revealed the power of presence. A single still woman held a mirror to humanity.Perhaps in our own small ways, we must hold that mirror too, not to accuse, but to awaken.Because when we do not stand for anything, we slowly disappear.And when we remember our worth, even gently, humanity returns.
(The author is a teacher and a researcher based in Gowhar Pora Chadoora of Central Kashmir’s Budgam district. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
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