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Down the winding trail of memory, those who lived through the 1960s in Gilgit-Baltistan may find themselves yearning for a simpler, more harmonious era—an era when the valleys breathed peace and unity, and the hearts of the people beat as one. It was a time before the divides of modernity had carved invisible lines between communities, and when society, despite its modest resources, stood tall in its values of mutual respect, brotherhood, and human dignity. In those halcyon days, Gilgit town was home to the only secondary school of the region, located just across from the Post Office in Gilgit Bazar. This school served as a crucible of unity, drawing students from across the vast stretches of Gilgit-Baltistan: from the remote and rugged valleys of Ghizar, Hunza, Nagar, Astore, Chilas, Darel, and Tangir, to the more immediate surroundings of Gilgit itself. Within its walls, diversity found its strength in shared learning and collective experience. There were no distinctions of ethnicity, sect, or origin—only the pursuit of education, friendships formed in innocence, and bonds rooted in mutual trust. To accommodate students from the far-flung areas, a dedicated boarding house was maintained at the very site where the Education Secretariat stands today. This facility ensured that distance would not become a hurdle in the way of learning, and that young minds from across the region could coexist, study, and grow together under one roof. Life in the boarding house, like that in the school, reflected the spirit of coexistence that permeated every layer of the social fabric.
The modest bazaar of Gilgit in those days echoed the same sentiment of unity and simplicity. Though humble in structure and limited in scale, it served as a vibrant microcosm of the region’s cultural diversity. Traders, shopkeepers, and customers from various valleys mingled daily in an atmosphere defined by mutual respect and communal trust. Sectarianism, tribalism, and political dogmas—the divisive “isms” that later crept into society—were virtually unknown or simply irrelevant in that context. The values that reigned supreme were hospitality, humility, and the innate decency of mountain communities, bound together by common hardships and shared joys. The bazaar itself was confined mainly to what was known as Raja Bazar and Saddar Bazar. In addition, a few makeshift kiosks, or khokhas, lined the edges of Ghari Bagh, mostly improvised with wooden planks and tin sheet roofs. During this period, the extension of shops in Raja Bazar remained underway. Across town, a few ramshackle shops formed what came to be known as Cinema Bazar, which faded into obscurity shortly thereafter. The bazaar in those days was so sparsely populated that one could easily recognize others from a distance by their facial features and identify the valley or locality they belonged to. Opposite it stood small, clay-baked structures of a primitive nature, stretching toward the area that was later renamed Nabi Bazar (now converted into Dar Plaza). The road leading from Nabi Bazar to the Gilgit Aerodrome was widened and made suitable for jeep traffic during the 1960s. Unfortunately, the construction required the removal of all the old willow trees that once lined the route, erasing yet another element of the town’s gentle, green past. All the former localities (mohallahs) — such as Majinee Mohallah, Kashrote, Amphari, Barmas, Khomar, Jutial, Naopura, Basin, Sakarkoi, and others — retained their original form, with houses constructed entirely from indigenous materials. The farmland also remained intact, with ongoing cultivation; notably, certain parts of the Kashrote area still produced rice crops.
Inside the classrooms, students forged friendships that transcended cultural and linguistic barriers. Love and camaraderie were not ideals—they were lived realities. Even today, those bonds remain intact for many who studied together in that era. Encounters with former classmates—whether from Chilas or Hunza, Nagar or Astore—are still marked by warmth, mutual affection, and a deep sense of belonging to the same beautiful chapter of life. What is also worth remembering—and lamenting—is that the education system of the time did not suffer from the stratifications that plague it today. Children of all backgrounds and social strata sat in the same classrooms, studied under the same teachers, and played in the same dusty schoolyards. There was no concept of elite private schooling for the few and under-resourced institutions for the rest. Education was a level playing field, and it sowed the seeds of equality and empathy that shaped generations of balanced individuals. Today, as society grapples with increasing divisions—fueled by identity politics, sectarian prejudices, and economic disparities—the memory of those times stands as both a beacon and a reminder. A beacon of what was possible when simplicity met sincerity; and a reminder of how far we have drifted from those values. Indeed, for those who lived through it, the Gilgit-Baltistan of the sixties remains not just a memory—but a lost paradise, where harmony reigned and humanity was the only common identity that mattered.
Postscript:
One important aspect I forgot to mention is the remarkable spirit of brotherhood and camaraderie found among the early batches of Cadet College Skardu (CCS) students—an admirable trait that closely mirrors the ethos of the Boys High School Gilgit, as referenced in the preceding memorandum. I have closely observed and carefully evaluated these exceptional humanistic values in the CCS alumni, and found them strikingly compatible with those of the earlier institution.
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