Kashmir During 1947: Dogra Rule, British Influence & Valley in Transition

Mapping the Kashmir of Today

In the summer of 1947, the valley of Kashmir found itself standing on a rugged ridge of history. The Hindu Dogra monarchy, established nearly a century earlier under British suzerainty, still held formal rule over a land whose people were overwhelmingly Muslim, whose communities were diverse, and whose geography bridged empires and futures.

If you missed our previous article about Kashmir prior to 1947, please visit that article first, it sets the ground and tone for this piece.

The Legacy of Dogra Rule and British Influence

Since the Treaty of Amritsar (1846), when the British sold the princely state of Jammu & Kashmir to Maharaja Gulab Singh, the Dogra dynasty had governed the valley for over a century. This state lived with what many referred to as a dual rule: the Maharaja’s palace in Srinagar, and the British Resident whose report filtered into Delhi.

Administratively modern on paper, telegraphs, postal services, roads, the state also bore the imprint of colonial-style extraction. Towards the end of the Dogra period under Maharaja Hari Singh, officials sought to maintain order and legitimacy, but the gulf between ruler and ruled was wide.

One family memory from the village of Khonmoh, near Srinagar, tells how in 1946 the local apple orchard became subject to an unexpected “inspection” by a British official and state revenue officer. My grandfather, a school-teacher then, recalled:

“They came by jeep at dawn. My father had to open every crate of apples, count the boxes, show our ledger. We realised then that our orchard belonged not only to us but to the Maharaja’s coffers and the British licences.”

For Kashmir’s Muslim majority, this sense of secondary citizenship weighed heavily. While the state’s bureaucracy still had a Hindu Pandit ascendancy in many posts, the Muslim masses tilled the land, wove the shawls, tended the orchards but felt little ownership over decisions that ruled their lives. In villages near Pattan, one elder remembered:

“Our landlord was the extended family of the Maharaja. We paid rent, paid tax, but when flood came, when famine struck in the 1930s, his men left and our granaries emptied. We said: this rule is ours only in name.”

The British influence was persistent. Throughout 1946 and early 1947, Kashmiri newspapers printed bulletins on colonial-style commissions, and the Maharaja’s reforms for education and roads echoed the structures of the Raj. Yet political participation, especially for Muslims, remained limited.

Institutions such as the All-Jammu & Kashmir Muslim Conference (established 1932) and later the National Conference (1938) pressed for reform, yet the state’s foundations remained rooted in dynastic authority and imperial habit.

The Muslim-Majority Valley and Rising Expectations

By mid-1947, the Kashmir Valley counted about 87% Muslim, with Hindu Pandits and Sikhs forming smaller minorities; the Jammu region had greater religious diversity. Many Muslims asked a simple question: if the British Raj ends, what becomes of us? One young man from Budgam recalled:

“When the radio said British India would split, my uncle said: ‘Finally our voices matter.’ But the Maharaja still ruled. We knew something must change.”

The mood across Kashmir was changing rapidly. In village gatherings, at Friday prayers, and in the teahouses along the Dal Lake, quiet resentment began to turn into expectation and open conversation. The talk was no longer about harvests or taxes, but about destiny.

In July 1947, during a sermon in a Sopore mosque, a local mullah addressed the congregation with conviction:

“Pakistan is being created on the foundation of La Ilaha Illallah, there is no god but Allah. That is our bond of faith. How can we not choose to be closer to them when our hearts already belong there?”

His words echoed through the valley and beyond. Many Kashmiris felt a deep spiritual and cultural connection with the new Muslim homeland taking shape to the west, and the idea of aligning with it felt both natural and just. Yet at the same time, there was a powerful desire for autonomy, a yearning to govern their own affairs, to preserve Kashmir’s unique identity, and to protect the valley from becoming a pawn in larger political games.

Making The Tough Choice

After enduring centuries under the Durrani, Sikh, and Dogra empires, the Muslim-majority people of Kashmir longed for peace, justice, and unity. Generations had lived through heavy taxation, forced labour, and rule that often felt distant and unrepresentative. By 1947, the dream was simple, to live under a system that recognised their faith, their identity, and their sacrifices.

Many Kashmiris looked at the political map unfolding around them and felt that such stability could never come from India, where the remnants of British influence still shaped the institutions, hierarchies, and attitudes of power. They feared that aligning with a dominion steeped in colonial structures would only repeat the patterns of the past, distant rulers, unequal governance, and a continued silencing of Kashmiri voices.

Kashmiris found hope in the vision of Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah, whose call for a homeland rooted in justice, equality, and faith resonated deeply across the valley. To many, he was not just a political leader but a symbol of fairness and integrity, a man who understood what it meant for a people to struggle for self-determination after centuries of subjugation.

In his message, they saw the possibility of a new dawn, one where Kashmir’s long and painful history might finally give way to dignity, freedom, and peace.

The Bigger Picture – Wider Muslim World

For countless families, the hope was simple: to live as part of the wider Muslim world, yet remain proudly Kashmiri, to free to follow their faith, their customs, and their mountain-born traditions without interference.

In the houses of Pandit teachers, though, a different worry arose: “If the valley chooses Pakistan, what becomes of our little school? We glut on neither empire nor independence. We want safety for our children.”

The stand-still agreement of 12 August 1947, in which the state under Maharaja Hari Singh sought to maintain status quo with both dominions, created further uncertainty. In practice it meant taxes flowed, trade continued, but the political future remained in limbo. Dogras whispered of independence, of joining Pakistan, of staying with India, but clarity remained elusive and the voice of the Kashmiri people was largely ignored.

Summer of 1947: Anxiety in the Valley

In August, Kara-Kashmiri families packed few belongings, anticipating change. A female elder in the diaspora recalled:

“My grandmother sealed jars, placed our shawls in chests. She said: ‘We may wake tomorrow to new masters.’ We did not know whether it meant freedom or fear.”

The Maharaja, at his palace in Jammu and Srinagar, faced a growing storm. British officials advised him to accede to one dominion. Tribal forces gathered beyond the frontier. In the Dogra court there was talk of independence, but many in the valley feared that meant continued rule by an elite they did not trust.

A resident of Pahalgam, then aged ten, later recalled:

“Our goats were moved higher, the summer camp was quieter. The British officers talked of the passes being closed. We children sensed that our world would leak away.”

Moments of Decision: Fear, Hope and Flight

Among the Muslim population of Kashmir, mistrust toward the Dogra administration grew rapidly during the final months of 1947. Rumours spread across towns and villages that senior Dogra officials were accepting money and political promises from Indian leaders, effectively selling the state’s destiny without consulting its people. The feeling in the streets of Srinagar, Baramulla, and Muzaffarabad was one of quiet anger and betrayal.

Many Kashmiris believed that the Dogra rulers were still operating under the heavy influence of Indian officials, even as the British Empire withdrew from the subcontinent. The policies on the ground reflected this harsh security measures, arbitrary arrests, and a growing climate of fear among Muslim communities.

Families whispered of disappearances, burned villages, and targeted attacks, convinced that an organised campaign of persecution had begun.

To many Muslims in the valley, this confirmed their worst fears. They had long predicted that joining India would bring little relief, that the same colonial patterns of control would continue, only under a new name. The belief that ethnic and religious cleansing could follow made them even more certain that their future lay elsewhere. For them, the choice was not merely political; it was a matter of survival, faith, and the preservation of their identity.

Entire Muslim Villages Emptied Overnight

The fears of the Kashmiri Muslims were not unfounded. By the autumn of 1947, reports from Jammu and the western districts of the princely state began filtering into the valley. Stories that chilled every household. Travellers arriving from the south spoke of entire Muslim villages being emptied overnight, of families fleeing under the cover of darkness, and of convoys ambushed on their way toward Sialkot.

Historians estimate that tens of thousands of Muslims were killed in the Jammu massacres of October and November 1947, while many more were forced to migrate across the newly drawn border. Local oral traditions still recall the terror of those nights: homes set ablaze, the sky over the Tawi River glowing red, and the desperate cries of those seeking safety. In the town of Samba, one survivor later told his children:

“We thought the war was between governments, but it came to our doors. They came with fire and guns; we ran with nothing but faith.”

In Poonch, a region long burdened by Dogra taxes and forced labour, the Muslim population had already risen in rebellion months earlier, protesting unfair levies and demanding reform. The Dogra response was severe, villages were shelled, and thousands were displaced into the surrounding hills.

By October, the repression had ignited a full-scale uprising, which would later become the foundation of what came to be known as Azad Kashmir.

Eyewitnesses recall how the roads from Poonch and Mirpur filled with refugees heading north toward Muzaffarabad and west toward Pakistan. Entire families carried whatever they could on their backs including Qur’ans, wool blankets, wedding jewellery, and the deeds to land they would never see again. A woman from Mirpur, now living in Birmingham, once told her grandchildren:

“We left our home thinking we’d return in a week. My father buried his books in the garden. He said, ‘When peace returns, dig them out.’ Peace never came back.”

The valley of Kashmir watched in grief and disbelief. While the violence in Jammu and Poonch unfolded, Srinagar’s streets filled with rumours, that Dogra forces were complicit, that Indian officers were supplying them, that Muslims were being purged to tilt the state’s demography. People gathered in mosques, praying for safety, while the local newspapers printed cautious statements that betrayed the fear running through every home.

For many Kashmiris, these events confirmed what they had long suspected: that joining India would not mean equality, but subjugation. They had seen what was happening just beyond the Pir Panjal range, the persecution of their kin, and believed that soon, the same fate could reach the valley. In their eyes, the choice before them was no longer between two nations, but between life and annihilation.

Those dark weeks cemented a collective conviction across the valley that the Dogra state, with its deep ties to Indian power and its history of repression, could no longer be trusted to protect its Muslim majority. Families began to whisper a single prayer: “May we never again be ruled by those who do not see us as their own.”

The Muslim Resistance

For many Muslims in the valley, the choice narrowed quickly from political debate to survival. Years of exclusion, heavy taxation, arbitrary arrests and stories of violence from neighbouring districts convinced ordinary families that appeals, petitions and patient waiting would not change their fate.

When reports arrived of massacres in Jammu and mass flight from Poonch, people who had once argued for reform felt betrayed by the state and abandoned by the institutions that were supposed to protect them. Under those conditions the idea of passive endurance seemed reckless; fighting back felt like the only realistic hope to protect lives, homes and honour.

Resistance took many forms. In some places it was organised and armed, as local men pooled whatever weapons they had and formed militias to defend their villages. In other places it was quieter and improvised: shepherds who knew mountain paths guided families to safety; neighbours hid children and elderly in orchards and caves; mosque circles became channels for urgent news and for organising convoys of food and blankets.

In western districts such as Poonch, longstanding resentments against taxation and forced labour erupted into open rebellion. Young men who had never held a rifle before learned quickly, driven by the memory of burned homes and the names of neighbours who did not return.

The decision to resist was never taken lightly. Elders recall nights of prayer and counsel before handing a son a rifle. Women stitched pouches of food and prayed that he would return. Fathers who had once traded shawls with Hindu neighbours now stood watch by the road, determined that their families would not be driven from their land without a fight.

This hard resolve carried a terrible cost. The ensuing clashes, reprisals and mass displacements left scars that would be passed down for generations. Yet for those who lived through it, resistance was less about conquest than about preserving a people and a way of life in the face of a sudden and mortal threat.

On 22 October 1947, as the resistance strengthed, the Maharaja fled towards Jammu. Srinagar became a city of fear: Frozen trains at Baramulla, families boarding huts on the road to the airport, women carrying infants in shawls turned away by soldiers.

In Budgam one family remembers midnight knocks, soldiers asking if they had contact across the border, the father sending his eldest son to escort the women and children to Srinagar air-station.

“We loaded blankets, goats, tea-pots, but left our orchard behind. The uncle said: ‘If I return, this will be mine. If not, it stays for others.’”

Signing of the Accession

On 26 October 1947, the Maharaja signed the Instrument of Accession, a document that would alter the course of Kashmir’s history forever. Official accounts say that Indian troops began landing in Srinagar the next day, but many eyewitnesses insist they had already arrived before the ink had even dried.

Whether the order preceded the soldiers or the soldiers preceded the order, for the people of Kashmir it made little difference. Their valley had been claimed, not by their consent, but by circumstance.

As the roar of aircraft echoed over the Dal Lake and convoys of soldiers rolled into Srinagar, the people looked on in disbelief. Some watched from rooftops, others from behind shuttered windows. They had lived under many ruler like Afghan, Sikh, Dogra, but this felt different.

This was not just another change of flag; it was the arrival of a new power whose language, politics, and intentions they could not yet understand.

For the ordinary Kashmiri, the farmer standing in his orchard, the shopkeeper in his wooden stall ina village, the mother boiling tea in a humble home, what mattered was not the document signed in Jammu Palace, but the shattering of normal life. The familiar rhythm of the valley, the morning call to prayer, the chatter in the bazaars, the hum of the looms that was replaced by the uneasy silence of occupation and the gnawing fear of what might come next.

It was a moment suspended between hope and loss. Hope that perhaps this new power would bring order after chaos and loss, because deep down, most knew that their right to decide their own future had just been taken from them.

Life Under Transition: Real Voices of the Valley

In a Muslim artisan household in Srinagar, the father weaving pashmina shawls said:

“Our looms hummed as before, but trade stopped. Caravans from Punjab hesitated. I told my daughter: ‘The world we knew ended last night.’”

A Pandit teacher in the city remembered the convoy of refugees from Baramulla:

“I saw neighbours I had taught, their tears in the truck, their home gone. And I wasn’t sure if we were safe. The palace guards passed silently.”

Across the valley, the flood of refugees, the shutting of trade routes, the breakdown of speckled governance, all combined to produce a pervasive feeling of being caught in larger decisions not their own. An elder recounts:

“In our village by Wular, the mullah said: ‘We are free if Pakistan comes; we are enslaved if India holds us.’ We said: ‘Can we ask? Can we vote?’ No one answered.”

The Historical Link to What Followed

The structural legacies of the Dogra period like heavy taxation, land-tenure imbalances, exclusion of Muslims from higher posts had left Kashmir fragile. The British model of princely states, of divide and rule, of power via religion and ethnicity, set the stage for 1947’s crisis. Research shows the sale of Kashmir in 1846 and the nature of Dogra rule remain deeply contested.

When the Maharaja delayed accession, faced invasion and signed an agreement with one dominion, the valley’s fracture lines erupted. The year did not cause the troubles; it exposed them. Tribal raids, refugee flows, division of territory followed. For Kashmiris, the trauma of that moment lingers: orchards abandoned, languages paused, families displaced.

What the Future Demanded

For the Muslim farmer of Budgam, joining a Muslim-majority state seemed a resolution; for the Pandit teacher, the prospect of being ruled by a distant power brought dread. The choices of 1947 shaped generations: migration, identity loss, a sense of “what-if”.

One elder in Derby tells how his grandmother called the valley “ours” but feared it would no longer be, she preserved Persian books, Dogra ledgers, and said: “They may change flags, but our story remains.”

The years since transformed Kashmir: political movements, insurgency, hopes of autonomy. But the roots stretch back to that summer of uncertainty, to the formal rule of Dogras, the British commands, the unresolved question “who do we belong to?” The valley’s architecture, its crafts, its languages adapted, but none untouched.

The Year That Defined Us

Looking back, 1947 stands as a pivotal chapter in Kashmir’s long story. It is not simply a moment of accession; it is a moment of reckoning. Of rulers and ruled. Of empires ending. Of communities wondering whether they were remembered, counted, heard. The valley was forced into a decision not fully its own, and the aftershocks ripple still.

For the British-Kashmiri diaspora, for the children of farmers, artisans, teachers, the memories of that year are not statistics but living testimonies: the orchard cleared; the looms silent; the refugees arriving in the dark; and the elders repeating: “We lost our valley that night, but our faith, our language, our craft, we kept.”
In preserving those stories through writing, photographs, memories we keep alive the true heritage of Kashmir. Not the land of political dispute alone, but of people who loved it, lived it, feared for it and strove for more than rule: for dignity.