UMAIR ASHRAF
BLOOD IN THE VALLEY, TEARS ON THE STREETS
Kashmir’s heart stopped for a moment after the bloodshed in Pahalgam. Just when flowers had started blooming and families were unpacking dreams, a wave of fear crushed the peace. The attack didn’t just claim innocent lives — it wiped away an entire season of hope. Hotel phones went silent, bookings vanished, and roads emptied overnight.
It wasn’t just a massacre of people. It was a massacre of livelihood, trust, and spirit. The streets that were filled with life are now carrying the weight of fear. Everyone’s asking the same question quietly: “Is it even safe to smile here anymore?”
People don’t just mourn the lives lost — they mourn the seasons lost too. Taxi drivers who waited for fares now wait for hope. And small kids look through windows asking why people stopped coming.
The silence is not peaceful — it’s heavy. It’s the kind of silence that carries questions, not answers. And while the world moves on, Kashmir stands still
— holding its breath, hoping someone notices.
EMPTY BOATS, EMPTY PLATES, EMPTY LIVES
The Shikaras lie still, not out of choice, but out of despair. Every tourist that cancelled a trip took away a family’s dinner. The pony riders, the shopkeepers, the hotel boys — all sit with hands folded and eyes full of worry. In Kashmir, tourism is not business, it’s lifeblood.
Many had taken loans, painted their shops, stocked their rooms for the season. Now everything is still, but the hunger is real. You see it in the eyes of the man who once sold kebabs on the boulevard — now he sells nothing but silence.
Behind every closed shutter is a story — of debt, of struggle, of someone silently breaking. School fees are delayed, medicines are skipped, and laughter has been replaced by whispers of uncertainty. This isn’t just an industry collapsing — it’s people being forgotten.
And it’s not just about income — it’s about dignity. People who lived proudly, who served with smiles, now bow their heads in worry. They don’t want charity — they just want safety, stability, and a chance to stand again.
FROM WARM HOSTS TO WOUNDED HEARTS
Kashmiris have always treated guests like family. But today, that warmth has frozen into helplessness. Girls who opened homestays have locked their doors again. Boys who became guides now walk past tourists without words. People feel betrayed by fate — punished for crimes they didn’t commit. There’s no space for anger anymore. Only a silent ache that spreads with every shutter that doesn’t open and every phone that doesn’t ring. They keep waiting for tourists, like waiting for rain in a drought. But hope here is thinning — like smoke after fire.
Even the children have started asking — why do bad things keep happening here? Their innocence is getting bruised by the noise of sirens and silence of lost guests. Everyone smiles, but their eyes are tired now — tired of pretending things will get better soon.
The warm hospitality Kashmir is known for now hides behind curtains. People peek out, not with curiosity, but with caution. Every footstep outside feels like a risk, not a welcome.
WHERE REELS ONCE ROLLED, RUINS NOW STAND
Just months ago, Kashmir was back on the map — not for bullets, but for beauty. Bollywood shoots had resumed, social media was buzzing, and stories of revival were finally being told. But now, it’s all gone. One night of terror was enough to bring back the old fear.
Tourists packed their bags. Influencers deleted their flights. Café owners removed “Open” signs. In Kashmir, you don’t just survive violence — you carry it in your economy, your emotions, your silence. And the saddest part? The world moves on, but Kashmir stays stuck.
The dream of turning Kashmir into a peaceful tourist heaven is now lying in the dust. The cameras are off, the lights dimmed, and once again, people ask: Will they ever come back? Or is Kashmir only meant to be remembered in times of tragedy?
It’s heartbreaking to see valleys that once echoed with laughter now echo with sirens. What was once shot for travel reels now becomes breaking news. And each new attack rewinds years of progress, like someone hitting the reset button on peace.
Umair Ashraf holds a Master’s in Psychology and is an independent scholar in molecular neuroscience, focusing on decoding brain biochemistry and its impact on behavior and society. He is also a passionate mental health advocate. He can be reached at Umairvani07@gmail.com.
