Rameez Bhat
The morning of the attack in Baisaran began gently. The sky was clear, the pine trees stood still and spring had finally arrived in the meadows after a long wait. Ponies walked calmly up the trails carrying tourists, families, children’s newlyweds , as local boys offered saffron tea and memorial calling out with a mix of Hindi and broken English. It was one of those rare, peaceful days in Kashmir, filled with light and laughter then everything changed.
The sound of gunfire didn’t just break the silence it broke something much deeper: a fragile sense of safety that had slowly started to return. In just a few minutes, a place full of joy became another scene of horror. Innocent tourists who had come seeking beauty, lost their lives. But Kashmir lost something too: a season of hope, a sense of dignity and the quiet dream that things might finally get better.
From far away in Delhi New on TV screens this will look like just another act of violence. Another news story. Another political talking point. But here, among the mountains, it felt very different. For Kashmiris, it wasn’t about strategy or ideology. It was about loss. About heartbreak. About once again being left alone in the aftermath. Few will remember that pony handler who was guiding a couple through the woods when the bullets came. He ducked to the ground, but the young woman riding the pony who had just called him “uncle” was killed. He couldn’t stop crying not for himself, but because he felt like he had failed to protect her. “They trusted me,” he said.
This is the Kashmir that doesn’t make headlines. Not the one filled with labels or accusations, but the real one the one where ordinary people live and try to make a living. We are not militants or fanatics. We are guides, workers, craftspeople. We serve tea with shaking hands. We walk visitors through the snow and say with pride, “This is where I come from.” Violence in Kashmir always kills more than bodies. It destroys trust between Kashmiris and the rest of the world. One shooting, one bombing and everything falls apart. Tourists cancel their trips. Hotels close, shops stay shut. Children miss school. Troops return to the streets. And once again, we are blamed not because we did anything wrong, but simply because it happened here.
After the Baisaran attack, social media filled with anger and sadness. Politicians sent their condolences. Celebrities posted statements. But few asked about the people of Kashmir the ones caught in the middle. The ones who didn’t fire the bullets, who don’t support violence but who now carry the burden of suspicion yet again. A man walking home, a woman opening her store, a child playing in the street all looked at differently now. For years we’ve been called names like “separatist” “stone pelter” “terror supporter.” But those words don’t describe the girl in Shopian who stitches soft toys to help her family. Or the teenager in Baramulla who dreams of becoming a photographer. Or the old woman in Anantnag who prays each night for tourists to return safely. These are the real people of Kashmir. And they deserve to be seen. People who haven’t lived here often don’t understand the kind of fear we live with. It isn’t dramatic or loud. It’s quiet and constant. It comes when a convoy passes, when the internet disappears without warning, when loudspeakers buzz in the night. The worst part is that we fear not because we are guilty but because we know we will be treated like we are.
That night in Pahalgam, no one slept. Not out of fear of another attack but because of what would follow: cancelled bookings, closed shops, more silence. A guesthouse owner said softly, We had thirty bookings. Twenty-eight were cancelled by morning. After COVID, after the floods, after 2019 we thought maybe this summer would be different. But peace is never given a chance to stay. The world must stop seeing Kashmir only as a conflict, It is a home. It is filled with people who wake early to bake bread, who lead ponies through mist, who paint traditional bowls with care and pride. When the news says “The Valley erupts” or calls this place a “terror hub,” it erases all of that. It erases that pony handlers pain. The chefs who made dinner for guests who never returned. The shopkeeper who laid a flower near a blood-stained path.
Those who fired the bullets they were not heroes. Not martyrs. They didn’t defend anything. They only destroyed. They didn’t just kill they attacked the very idea that people from different places could share peace in this valley. They betrayed the land. But we must not let them define Kashmir. This place belongs to others: the shepherd who sings to his sheep, the woman weaving wool by the fire, the boy writing poems about rivers and dreams. It belongs to those who still believe in kindness.
Living in a place that’s misunderstood is lonely. And we know that loneliness well. We’re asked again and again to prove we are human, every time someone commits violence in our name. But how many times must we say we are not like them? How loudly must we repeat, That is not us. There is still a softness that remains here. We stood up against those terrorists we observed a complete shutdown across Kashmir, held candlelight marches and demanded justice for the families who lost their loved ones. Notes were written to the families of the victims. We are with you in your sorrow. These small acts of care are never shown on the news.
Kashmir is not a threat. Kashmiris are not the enemy. We are tired not just from pain but from having to explain our pain. We don’t need pity. We need understanding. Not slogans but respect. Not judgments but humanity. Our students who are studying outside the valley are living under constant threat. Ever since the recent attack Kashmiri students across the country have feen facing hostility and fear. Why this inhumane treatment of Kashmiri’s outside the valley? Why are they being made to suffer for something they have no connection?
We still believe in what this valley can be a place where people come for peace, not funerals. Where no mother has to panic when her child goes on vacation. Where our children too can grow up hearing laughter echo through the hills.
The Baisaran attack was more than a tragedy. It broke something that was already fragile a hope for healing. But even now, as the fear returns and tourists stay away, life quietly begins again. Tea vendors open their stalls. Pony boys polish saddles. Guesthouses light their stoves. Because if there is one thing this valley knows well, it is how to carry on. And in that quiet persistence there is strength. In that strength a kind of dignity. And in that dignity still a flicker of hope.
Rameez Bhat can be reached at ramizspeaks77@gmail.com
