Reliving old memories, I remember well that there was a time, not too long ago, when life was lived in community—fully, openly, and without walls. In the neighbourhoods of our childhood, boundaries existed only on maps, neither on the ground nor in our hearts. Every joy was communal, every sorrow shared. There was no concept of “my happiness or sorrow is mine alone,” for the happiness or sorrow of one was the concern of many. In any neighbourhood, If a child took their first steps, sweet fritters would find their way to every doorstep. Whenever a cow gave birth to a calf in any household, colostrum cheese was shared among all the neighbours. If someone passed an exam, the entire street would celebrate. When tragedy struck, radios and televisions fell silent, laughter was hushed and celebrations were postponed out of respect. Neighbours were treated like extended family. Their smiles were ours and so were their tears. But today, that world seems like a dream long lost—like a once-bright photograph, now faded and forgotten in the quiet corner of an old attic drawer. We now live in an age where privacy is glorified. We wear our secrecy like a badge of sophistication. “Don’t tell anyone,” “Keep it between us,” “It’s none of their business”—these phrases, once considered cold or even rude, are now common and even celebrated. We proudly say, “I mind my own business,” without realizing that in doing so, we’ve given up the greatest asset of humanity- the ability to truly connect with one another. Our elders often said, “A shared sorrow is half a sorrow, and a shared joy is double the joy.” This wasn’t poetic exaggeration—it was lived experience. A neighbour’s unemployment was not whispered about; it was responded to. A sick person in one house meant concerned visitors, herbal remedies, generous financial help and prayers from every corner. Today, in our concrete houses, tightly locked apartments and digitally guarded lives, we know nothing of the people who live just a wall away. The sounds of celebration or mourning might drift through occasionally, but we rarely knock to ask what is wrong or what is right. There was a time when children carried plates of food and other small offerings to neighbours, with warm smiles and gentle messages. Life was woven together with kindness, and every joy or sorrow was shared like a family secret. Now, meals arrive at doorsteps through apps and sentiments are reduced to emojis on screens. We have gained convenience, but lost intimacy and left behind connection. Our hands are fuller, but our hearts are emptier. We have built fences—emotional, digital, and even spiritual. We curate our lives into social media highlight reels, where sorrow is photoshopped out and imperfections are edited away. Mental health professionals are now ringing the alarm bells, calling loneliness the epidemic of the 21st century. Depression, anxiety, and suicides are on the rise—not just because of economic stress or societal pressures, but because people no longer feel seen. We have replaced community with connectivity, but the Wi-Fi signal doesn’t reach the soul. Our older generation remembers a world where even marriage decisions were made with neighbourhood input—not due to interference, but because relationships were considered too important to be built in isolation. Neighbours mediated disputes. Families intervened in times of crisis. An unemployed father, a struggling student, a lonely widow—no one suffered alone but everyone in neighbourhood shared their sufferings. But world has changed now and so are the people. Now, personal space has turned into personal exile. We confuse silence with dignity and distance with strength. In our race to protect our “private lives,” we have sacrificed our public bonds. Even grief is now a solitary affair. Funerals that once brought entire communities together are now modest, brief, and often poorly attended. The pandemic amplified this, but the trend predates it. Joys too are muted. Engagements, marriages, pregnancies, promotions—all are often kept under wraps, shared selectively, if at all. What was once called razdari (confidentiality) is now a permanent cloak—one that suffocates more than it protects.
“As we navigate our digital, fast-paced lives, let’s pause to remember what we’ve left behind. It may be time to revive old values—not for tradition’s sake, but for our humanity’s survival. Let’s normalize asking, “How are you?” Celebrate each other’s joys and grieve together. Teach our children that openness is a strength, not a flaw. Turn off our screens and connect; the poison of secrecy thrives in silence, but a single act of connection can be the antidote. Let’s knock on the door—someone might be waiting.”
We often say that we don’t like to depend on anyone. It sounds strong. But what it really means is that we are afraid to be disappointed. We no longer trust our communities to hold our truths with compassion. And in doing so, we deny ourselves the most profound human experience, which is to be known and still be loved. Children raised in such environments inherit this guardedness. They learn early that emotions must be managed quietly, victories downplayed, problems hidden. The art of sharing, once a sacred skill, is now dismissed as oversharing, and vulnerability is perceived as weakness. This is not just about nostalgia; it is about a cultural crisis. When a society loses the ability to share, it loses the ability to care. Now the question is not whether we can return to our traditional way of living and past ethos but whether we are willing to. The antidote to this growing poison of secrecy is deceptively simple: intentional heartfelt connection. A knock on the neighbour’s door. A shared cup of tea with nears and dears. An offline conversation without screens. A willingness to say that I am not okay and to listen when others say it too. Let us remember that communities are not built through policies or apps; they are built through small, sincere acts of openness. The woman next door who cries at night might just need someone to ask if she is okay. The elderly man who sits alone on the bench might have a story to tell. The child who seems withdrawn may need a little attention. Let me make one thing clear here that this is not about abandoning privacy; it is about reclaiming community. It is about remembering that life is not meant to be lived in isolation but in shared humanity. Of course, secrecy has its place. Not all information is meant for public consumption. But secrecy should be a tool for protection, not isolation. When we use secrecy to hide our pain, we suffer alone. When we use it to protect others’ dignity, we act with wisdom. In its purest form, secrecy is an ethical principle, not a wall. It is the understanding of when to speak and when to listen; when to share and when to hold. But today’s version has mutated into emotional hoarding—where nothing is shared, and everything is suppressed. As we move forward in our digital, fast-paced, hyper-private lives, perhaps it is time to pause and remember what we have left behind. Maybe it is time to dust off the old values—not for the sake of tradition, but for the survival of our humanity. Let us normalize asking, “How are you?” Let us celebrate each other’s joys together. Let us grieve together. Let us teach our children that being open is not a flaw but a strength. Let us turn off our screens and turn toward each other. The poison of secrecy thrives in silence. But a single act of connection can be the antidote. Let us go and knock on the door. Someone might be waiting.
(The author teaches Geography at GDC Kulgam. 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”)
Abid Hussain Rather
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