Avinash Azad
For more than thirty years, the name R.R. Swain was known for policing and fighting against insurgents in Jammu and Kashmir. Swain rose through the ranks to become Director General of Police. His time in office coincided with the birth, growth, and change of militancy in India’s most sensitive area. Swain has finally spoken out after a long silence in a rare and long interview with The Straight Line. He talks about the real events that shaped Kashmir, the hidden forces that ruled it, and the hard-won lessons for India’s future.
Swain’s memories are more than just personal stories; they give us a look into a hidden history, a place where constitutional authority lived alongside, and sometimes fought with, a shadow government of fear, manipulation, and ideological warfare. His testimony, backed up by accounts from other high-ranking officers and government officials, shows how intimidation, parallel power structures, and propaganda affected not only politics and government, but also the lives and choices of millions of people.
For a long time, not many people outside of Jammu and Kashmir really understood the region’s unique problem: having two governments at the same time. The Indian Constitution and its institutions, like the legislature, the bureaucracy, and the police, were in charge on the surface. But under this formal layer was a strong, informal government that got its power from Pakistan’s support, militant networks, and the power of separatist leaders.
Swain calls this system “white-collar terrorism,” which, in his words, means the clever ways that people who aren’t part of the government got involved in public life. This kind of control was not obvious, like the picture of masked gunmen in the woods. It could be a phone call from the “right” person, a note from a separatist, or an implied threat of public disorder. These gestures, which were not visible to the outside world, could change official decisions, move bureaucrats around, and even change high-level policy.
A schoolteacher from Anantnag had a very revealing experience. After she moved to the remote area of Kupwara, her husband tried to get her back through official channels, but they didn’t work. The situation only changed when he went to see Syed Ali Shah Geelani, a well-known separatist. Geelani’s short note to the Education Minister had a shocking effect: bureaucrats who had been blocking the family’s request now rushed to meet it. Meetings were put off, senior staff were called in, and the transfer was canceled in a matter of minutes. Swain says that these kinds of things weren’t just one-time events; they were signs of a bigger problem: “The shadow authority worked faster, more decisively, and often more effectively than the constitutional one.”
Swain says that the most dangerous thing about this parallel government was not just its ability to control appointments or sway officials, but also its skill at narrative warfare. For a long time, the main story about Kashmir was not written by the people in charge of the constitution, but by people who wanted to weaken it. Terrorist groups and their supporters changed the way people thought about the conflict by using carefully planned propaganda that was repeated at home and spread abroad.
It was common for people to see security forces, who were supposed to fight militancy, as the main oppressors. People called young men who joined terrorists “misguided youth,” and they said that civilian deaths, even those caused by terror attacks, were the fault of the government. International news outlets, looking for dramatic stories, picked up these stories, often without any context or proof.
Swain says that every year, 100 to 150 young men joined the fight. Most of them died within six to eight months, but their funerals drew huge crowds, and news outlets around the world showed pictures and told stories about them. In the meantime, they forgot about the deaths of the civilians they killed. Swain says, “The real war was for narrative dominance.” “Violence became normal, and the roles of victim and perpetrator switched.”
The numbers tell a sad story. Since 1989, almost 47,000 people have died in violence linked to terrorism. Of these, 6,000 to 7,000 were soldiers, police officers, and other security personnel—men and women who died on the front lines. About 22,000 militants were killed, which shows how big the armed conflict was in the area. The deaths of almost 12,000 civilians, which included not only regular people but also important people in politics, religion, and society, may be the most painful.
Swain says that these numbers can’t be understood on their own. These numbers show that a society is under attack, not just numbers. The deaths of well-known people like Mirwaiz Farooq and Abdul Gani Lone, which are often misrepresented in public discourse, show how propaganda can change even the most basic facts.
The tragedy is worse because there is no justice. “How many of these 12,000 civilian deaths have been brought to a logical conclusion by the law?” Swain asks. “Who hired the killers? Who paid for them? Who took care of the logistics? Too often, these questions go unanswered.
You can’t fully understand Kashmir’s problems without looking at them from an international point of view. Swain and other high-ranking officers are clear: Pakistan was never on the sidelines. Pakistan kept the armed struggle going, as well as the fear and uncertainty that let parallel authority grow, by giving money, training, and ideological support.
This effect was most clear in the border districts of Poonch and Rajouri. At first, these areas were just transit corridors for militants, but over time they became operational centers. Militants were able to recruit, plan attacks, and scare people because there were no border fences, the land was easy to move around on, and the government wasn’t doing much to stop them. Some people worked with the militants because they were scared or needed to. Some people who had been hurt by violence later joined the fight against terror and did a great job in Special Operations Groups.
Swain says that the real genius of Pakistan’s plan was that it could change. When one group of operatives was killed, another group took their place. The goal wasn’t just to kill people; it was also to keep people feeling like they were in a constant state of crisis, always looking over their shoulders.
The state police weren’t ready for the early years of militancy. Most officers were trained to keep the peace, so they didn’t have much experience with the kind of violence that crossed borders and was based on ideology that was now happening in their areas. At the time, not many people wanted to work in the J&K cadre, but Swain did.
He remembers that the violence wasn’t the only problem; it was also the unpredictability. Police stations were looted, stones were thrown every day, and neighborhoods turned into “firing zones” overnight.
The police learned slowly over time. Coordination with the Army got better, surveillance and intelligence networks were set up, and technical skills grew. But the central government’s decision to focus on breaking up the ecosystem that caused the violence was the real turning point. Intelligence-led policing went after not only the militants, but also the people who paid for, sheltered, and justified them. This method started to work over time: networks were revealed, financiers were cut off, and the cycle of fear became less strong.
Swain is honest about the system’s problems, even though it has gotten better at running. For years, the focus was on “firefighting,” which meant stopping gunmen and responding to immediate threats, instead of putting out the fire. He says that political pressures were partly to blame for this way of thinking.
After democracy returned to power in 1996, direct interference with police work was rare at first. But Swain noticed a small but important change as the competition for votes grew. The unspoken order was, “If you have to, neutralize terrorists, but don’t mess with the ecosystem that supports them.” Because of this, the people who funded, hired, and spread terror were often not punished.
Swain also talks about times when operations were stopped or terrorists were let go because of political pressure, which is even worse.
In Kulgam, there was a well-known case where an operation was stopped because a crowd showed up. The militants then held a public “victory procession.” He says that events like this hurt the morale of the troops and gave the enemy more strength.
There was almost no accountability. Even when there were credible reports that politicians were helping or supporting militants, formal investigations rarely followed. “The lack of political accountability sent a dangerous message: that decisions made in the name of politics, no matter how harmful, had no consequences.”
Swain uses the phrase “white-collar terrorism” a lot in his story. He uses it to talk about a kind of subversion that depends on groups of lawyers, financiers, educators, clerics, and bureaucrats—people who may never carry weapons but whose power is, in some ways, even more harmful.
Swain says that the biggest mistake the government made was letting these people get away with what they did.
Sometimes, relatives of militants or well-known separatists were given jobs or public positions, even if they were called “victim rehabilitation.” Without strong oversight, some of these people kept pushing hostile agendas from the inside.
Swain says, “In criminal law, the benefit of doubt goes to the accused.” “But when it comes to national security, the state and society must get the benefit of the doubt.” Without careful attention, the state could become weak from the inside.
The end of Article 370 was a clear break with the past. Swain says that the move wasn’t just political; it was also necessary for national security. The shadow authority lost a lot of its legal and psychological power when the special status ended. People made decisions in files again, not in secret rooms. The time of unofficial notes and threats was coming to an end.
Swain is clear, though, that the fight isn’t over. The power of networks backed by Pakistan has been greatly weakened, but there are still pockets of resistance and intimidation. This is especially true for organized groups like The Resistance Front (TRF), which keep sending hit lists and threats to journalists, politicians, and civil servants.
Some people have said that Kashmir is like a “pressure cooker” that is about to explode since the changes in August 2019. Swain is very clear that he does not agree with this story. He uses things that happen every day, like kids going to school, stores and markets being open, public transportation running, and people starting new businesses, as proof that fear is no longer a big part of daily life. “People still call for shutdowns,” Swain says, “but the average person doesn’t respond. People are not working under pressure. The idea that calm is only enforced by the state is a story device, not a fact.
He stresses that real problems still exist, like unemployment, economic problems, and political uncertainty, but he says that going back to the dual authority of the past won’t fix them.
Swain still believes that the only way to achieve lasting peace and prosperity is to fully and openly follow the law. He warns, “Ambiguity is the biggest threat.” “If the government sends mixed messages or lets both sides live, the average person is left scared and confused.” He says that leadership is about being responsible, not being liked.
Restoring statehood is not about feelings; it’s about objective standards like governance, public safety, and economic performance. Swain wants to see progress that can be measured, like better schools, roads, and law and order. Political rights should only come back when these things happen.
Swain says that we should not forget what we learned in the past. Killing terrorists alone won’t stop terrorism; the larger system that allows and justifies violence needs to be broken down. Accountability isn’t about getting back at people; it’s about making sure that people who protect or support violence know that there will be consequences.
He also talks about the J&K Police’s job and how it is different from that of central forces. “We live here. Our families are here with us. Unlike those on temporary assignments, success or failure has a direct effect on us. He thinks that this feeling of ownership is why local officers are often more passionate and less willing to accept half-measures.
Swain says that waiting for Pakistan to change was a bad move in hindsight. “Pakistan’s hostility isn’t just a reaction to something; it’s built into its military and government culture.” He says that India needs to focus on its own unity and not be distracted by what is happening across the border.
Swain ends with a clear warning: “If we take the same path again, we will end up in the same place: violence, fear, and stagnation.” He says that the valley’s future depends on people being honest about their past mistakes, having the guts to break up the cycle of violence, and being committed to upholding the law.
“Leaders in Jammu and Kashmir need to choose what kind of future they want: one where people are afraid and terrorised, or one where kids go to school, businesses grow, and regular people don’t have to worry. They can choose, and so can we as a country.
