From a young age, I dreamed of being a journalist, believing it to be a noble pursuit capable of illuminating humanity’s darkest corners and bridging the gap between what is and what could be. But as I matured, my idealism faltered. Journalism, I realized, is shaped by biases, editorial slants, and the constraints of what is deemed "newsworthy," leaving so much unsaid. This disillusionment led me to grapple with the limitations of a field I once revered. Zahid Rafiq, a former journalist turned fiction writer, captures this tension poignantly in his debut collection, The World With Its Mouth Open. 

Rafiq’s journey from journalism to fiction shapes much of his storytelling. At 21, the Kashmir-based writer embarked on a career in journalism, immersing himself in a life that often demanded detachment. “Journalism is one of those jobs that is more than a job,” he reflects when I contact him in early December, right around the release of his debut short story collection, The World With Its Mouth Open, out via Tin House Press. “It is like being a policeman or a soldier in a way. You kind of become it.” To Rafiq, fiction offers something journalism could not. “It allows one to linger in the spaces where facts falter,” Rafiq explains. It is in these spaces—intimate, raw, and deeply human—that The World With Its Mouth Open, finds its soul.

“Writing fiction was its own struggle.” he confesses of his transition into the fictive field. “It was drawing as deep as one could from within oneself.” This type of introspection breathes life into Rafiq’s stories, transforming them into mirrors that reflect the reader’s own fears and longings.

The World With Its Mouth Open is an extraordinary book comprising eleven stories that delve into the lives of everyday people in Kashmir. A woman grappling with the challenges of childbirth; a nameless child facing the harsh consequences of academic struggles; a neighborhood beauty captivating local boys, and a couple uncovering a severed arm on their new property—each story offers a poignant glimpse into the complexities of domestic life throughout the region. 

One of the book’s standout stories, “Small Boxes,” explores the delicate balance between journalistic impartiality and personal empathy. The narrative follows a journalist working at a failing city newspaper, grappling with the constraints of his profession. In one poignant passage, the protagonist reflects:

“Day after day I wrote about the city’s decrepit roads, its clogged drains, and the menace of its stray dogs, and sometimes when the senior reporters had the day off, or if the day was too bloody, I, too, was asked to write about the killings and the gunfights. In all these stories I tried to slip in a beautiful line or two. These lines, however, never made it to the page the next morning, the stories reduced to a skeletal form that robbed them of every trace of me. Eventually, I stopped reading my own stories and then the newspaper altogether.”

This profound monologue captures the protagonist’s disillusionment with a profession that strips his words of humanity, reminiscent of Rafiq’s own experiences. “The life I lived in those years was a journalist’s life,” he reveals. “So that life informed my character and my anxieties and my engagement with the world.” Fiction offered him the freedom to explore emotions and nuances that facts alone cannot capture. 

In Rafiq’s debut novel, Kashmir emerges not as a geopolitical battleground but as a living, breathing entity—a canvas painted with the hues of human frailty and resilience. The stories ripple, intertwining the struggles of people with those of animals, trees: “The book is set in Kashmir but it is essentially a book about life,” Rafiq reflects, underscoring the universality of his work. Here, in the shadow of conflict, he crafts narratives that transcend borders, delving into intimate and profound questions of survival, love, and connection.

For readers whose knowledge of Kashmir is shaped by headlines pockmarked by unrest, Rafiq’s prose offers a revelation. Through his characters’ eyes, we witness a world fraught with violence and insecurity, yet brimming with acts of quiet defiance. “Violence deforms people,” he admits, “but there are also times when people in very small acts rise above the limits of violence.” This interplay between despair and perseverance is the beating heart of the book, drawing readers into a reality where survival is both a burden and a triumph.

Throughout The World With Its Mouth Open, Rafiq vividly portrays the heavy militarization of Kashmir—men in the streets with guns, bunkers nestled between shops—a stark visual of the region's turbulent history. For decades, Kashmir has stood as a flashpoint in the geopolitical tug-of-war between India and Pakistan, its breathtaking landscapes shadowed by conflict. This strife dates back to the partition of British India in 1947, when Kashmir, with its Muslim-majority population, acceded to India under a Hindu Dogra ruler. Both nations claim the region in full but administer it in parts, divided by the Line of Control. Since then, three wars have been fought over Kashmir—the Indo-Pakistani War of 1947-1948, the War of 1965, and the Kargil Conflict of 1999—each leaving behind deep scars and further entrenching the region’s instability.

The conflict, rooted in religious and territorial disputes, has been sustained by decades of military confrontation, insurgency, and human rights violations. Tensions reached a new height in 2019 with India’s revocation of Article 370, dissolving Kashmir’s autonomy, and deepening the region’s political unrest and the presence of militarization. Kashmir, including Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (PoK), is the most densely militarized zone on Earth, with the pervasive sight of soldiers and the weight of constant surveillance creating an oppressive atmosphere of fear and unease.

Yet, as Rafiq touchingly reminds us, the human spirit endures. “Amid fear and insecurity, there is a spirit of and for life,” he reflects. These quiet acts of resilience and hope become the threads that hold together a community living under the shadow of history, their defiance and humanity shining through even in the darkest of circumstances.

One of the short stories that stands out to me the most is “Crows.” In this story, a mother’s desperate vision for her son’s education becomes both a lifeline and a crucible. Her son, who struggles with studying and fails test after test, cares little for anatomy or physics and would rather spend his days playing in the fields with his friends. Yet, he bears the weight of his mother’s unyielding hope that education will be his salvation from the grinding cycles of poverty.

As a refugee myself, this story resonated deeply. My own mother, much like the mother in Rafiq’s tale, viewed education as the ultimate solace—a fragile yet vital bridge to a better future. Lines like, “He would remain illiterate…end up a laborer or a salesman, and the world would trample him under its feet. For the sake of God, save him from ruin,” vibrate with a desperation that feels both specific and universal, capturing the poignant reality of so many families around the world. For countless individuals, education is not merely a stepping stone but a lifeline, a singular hope to transcend circumstance. Rafiq’s portrayal of this struggle—the aspiration, the sacrifices, and the unspoken fears—speaks to an experience that feels as personal as it does universal, inviting readers to reflect on the transformative power of learning and the quiet courage it demands.

Rafiq’s portrayal captures the “violence in ambition” that often underpins the pursuit of a better life. “It is a story from this part of the world that… resonate[s] with your own experience of life,” he notes, reflecting on the ubiquity of these struggles.

Privilege and poverty clash vividly in Rafiq’s narratives, shaping the destinies of his characters. Yet, he resists the urge to moralize. “It is like anywhere else in the world really,” he observes. “Money and privilege is access to power, power itself, wings.” In Kashmir, as in many places, these inequities compound the weight of every choice, making survival both a personal and collective battle.

In conversing with Rafiq, one encounters a writer deeply attuned to the fragility and tenacity of life. His work is not merely about Kashmir; it is about the human condition, rendered in prose that is both lyrical and unyielding. “While coming to know a character in a book, a reader also knows something more about oneself,” he muses. It is this alchemy of self-discovery that makes The World With Its Mouth Open such a transformative read.

Rafiq’s stories are not confined to the geography of Kashmir—they resonate across landscapes, speaking to the universal human experience. Rafiq’s background as a journalist in Kashmir lends his fiction a distinct lens, one sharpened by the precarious balance between survival and storytelling. The unique circumstances that shape a journalist’s outlook cannot be overlooked. For those working in conflict zones or politically fraught regions like Kashmir, reporting becomes an act of navigating a labyrinth of personal risk, institutional bias, and societal expectations. This intersection of external pressures and internal convictions shapes how stories are told—or left untold. His narratives bear the imprints of these complexities, reflecting the ways in which identity, environment, and experience intertwine to produce perspectives that are both intensely personal and deeply rooted in their context.

In Rafiq’s hands, the struggles and triumphs of life become a testament to our shared humanity, inviting readers to linger in the spaces between despair and hope, where the light of resilience quietly flickers.