Blood on the ground. Fear in the air. Hope on the horizon. Hundred days have passed since terrorists murdered 26 tourists on April 22 in Pahalgam’s idyllic Baisaran meadow. Now Kashmir and Kashmiris are trapped between two deadly vectors: the fear of being dragged out of home and shot by security forces and fear of terrorists committing another massacre which would further disrupt the conflict torn economy of the state that had begun to sprout some green shoots.
Nafisa Dar, 28, is a student at the University of Kashmir. Her PhD dissertation is due in two weeks, but she is distraught; her eyes keep drifting towards the broken roof of her house. Her 60-year-old father, Manzoor Dar, spent his lifetime savings on building the house which is situated in the border village of Chowkibal, 40 km from the Line of Control. Now the building is battle-scarred. The walls are blackened, there is the skeletal remain of the outer boundary, the roof has a gaping hole in it. Nafisa and her father (names changed), are wary of talking about what they went through. “How do we talk of lives paused, sleep cycles disrupted, savings depleted, and to rebuild what we had already built,” Nafisa laments. During the night of May 8, the day after Operation Sindoor, the Pakistan Army resorted to heavy shelling across the LoC—Kupwara, Baramulla, Uri and Akhnoor areas were hit badly. The ceasefire between India and Pakistan may have paused the military conflict, but for Kashmiris like Nafisa and her family, turbulent times are far from over. “We want peace. We have careers to build. The vulnerability of living in a border town can’t keep pushing us back,” Nafisa says. Other families in the area share her pain. Basant Sharma and his cousin Alok Sharma are working on the village Sarpanch Mohmad Maqbool Khan’s broken house. The Sharma brothers are construction workers from Bihar and have been living in the Valley since 2007. “We have lived here for almost 20 years. But the looming fear of violence doesn’t allow us to take the risk of bringing our families here,” rues Basant. The contract to rebuild the Sarpanch’s house was given to them two weeks after the carnage in May. “The cost of repair has touched `3 lakh already. It is difficult to bring material up here. Maqbool sahab told me that the government is yet to give any compensation,” Alok says. Across the road from the house, a grocery store owner laughs at the mention of government compensation. “You know how much the government is giving us? Rs 5,000 for damages worth lakhs. No one pays the cost of war except those suffering it.”
Another kind of terror has raised its head among Kashmiris after the Pahalgam massacre—one that wears uniform and speaks the language of suspicion. Six years after the abrogation of Article 370, on August 5, 2019, there was the hope that maybe the usual disruptions to normalcy were over. The attack in Baisaran was a hard pushback against that hope. Suddenly, Kashmir is a terrain of conflict again. There were always boots on the ground. But now locals whisper of midnight knocks, of young men taken from their homes without explanation, of families left with unanswered questions. In Lidroo village, a short drive uphill from Pahalgam, 19-year-old Ishfaq Ahmad (name changed) was picked up by security personnel for “questioning” a week after the attack. His charred body was found two days later near the banks of the Lidder River. The army labelled him a militant; in heartbreaking self-denial, his mother still sets out his tea every morning. In another hamlet near Aishmuqam, Parvaiz Lone (name changed), a pony handler, was shot in what authorities described as an encounter in the forests above Aru. Those who knew him scoff at the official version. “Parvaiz didn’t know how to fire a gun,” says his neighbour. “The only thing he ever aimed at was getting tourists a good view.”
Member of Legislative Assembly from Pulwama, Waheed Para, says, “Tourism to terrorism is what the last 100 days have been about. After the April 22 killings, Kashmiris came out on the streets to condemn the attack. But the same people who protested against the killings were made to suffer. Young men were randomly picked from their houses. Almost 3,000 people were arrested after the attack. It is always the common Kashmiri who suffers.” On July 29, J&K National Conference MP, Aga Syed Ruhulla Mehdi, condemning the Pahalgam attack, reiterated the same in the Parliament. He claimed that many young Kashmiris were arrested. He also slammed the Centre over razing 13 houses of “suspected militants”. “They could have been responsible. But there was no proof. How could you raze 13 houses merely based on suspicion?” asked Ruhullah.
The administration, however, is doing its best to restore normalcy. A cyclothon—Pedal through Paradise—recently drew participants from all walks of life. A contestant says, “Organised by the Jammu and Kashmir Police it is a message for those who try to disrupt peace.” Earlier in June, another cyclothon had been organised by the Jammu and Kashmir Sports Council in Srinagar. The event underscored the region’s commitment to fostering peace.
In spite of the hesitant sanguinity, a creeping dread has settled into every home, tea shop and commercial establishment. Since April, parents have stopped letting their sons wander too far from home. Young men walk with their heads down, phones wiped clean of anything remotely political. Conversations end abruptly when a uniformed figure passes by. Even the elders—who’ve seen the worst of decades past—say the fear feels different this time. Fear of another terrorist attack and escalation in violence. Fear of a ruthless crackdown by the forces.
There may be apprehensions of visiting Kashmir, but there are intrepid travellers who take the chance, drawn by the eternal beauty of Kashmir. It is a rainy summer day, and Anirudha Tarafdar, 62, and his family of four have come to Pahalgam from Howrah in West Bengal. Heading towards the Betaab Valley, a tourist destination named after the 1983 film Betaab, which was shot there, Tarafdar is humming a popular song from the film that had young lovers in Kashmir once holding hands in packed movie halls:
“Jab hum jawan honge, Jaane kahan honge,
Lekin jahan honge, Wahan fariyaad karenge,
Tumhe yaad karenge.”
(When we become adults, I don’t know where we’d be,
But no matter where I am, I would remember you.)
“Look around you. How many tourists can you see? The attack has left a deep sense of fear among people. A lot of my friends tried to stop me from visiting Kashmir. Coming here takes a lot of guts,” he says, turning back to see if his young daughter is alright. The young girl, unlike her father, looks somewhat pensive. Her face reflects the fear of the April 22 bloodshed. “Bhoy laage (I feel afraid), she says.
Once a bustling hill town, Pahalgam, is eerily quiet. Shops are open but empty. Under overcast skies, ponywalas lean wearily against wooden railings, their ponies grazing nearby. Once hailed and harried by tourists, they now sit in small groups sipping nun chai. “Aesi hazz pyai thrath (Lightning has struck us),” says Nisar Ahmad Magray. Hair graying and body frail, the 32-year-old’s face is the face of Pahalgam today. “You must think I am very old. I am not. I got married three years ago. I have a two-year-old daughter. But this face you see is that of a jobless father struggling to feed his family while living in constant fear,” he laments. At the taxi stand down the road, the line of Sumo jeeps and tourist vans has grown longer—not with bookings, but with inactivity. Drivers flick ash from their cigarettes, casting glances toward the empty road. The shopfronts along the main bazaar now stand with shutters half-down. A palpable silence blankets the area after dusk. Small businesses shut early. Guesthouses have more locked rooms than occupied ones.
On the way to Pahalgam, private taxi driver Mohmad Shafique says his seven-year-old son still fears loud sounds. “My child couldn’t celebrate Eid this year. The sound of crackers outside reminded him of the drone attacks in Srinagar in May. He still asks if it is over or not.” Drones had flown over their Srinagar house in Humhama area near the airport. The Pahalgam horror and the conflict overall also stunted the growth of Kashmir’s economy. Nestled among pine trees, Pine N Peak by the Welcome Group of Hotels in Kashmir, is where the rich and the discerning stay. But the empty corridors and the restaurant inside tell a different story. There are 67 rooms and suites, and only five are occupied. A young staffer says, “The attack numbed us. We had guests who were supposed to stay longer. But they vacated that very day. We used to be fully booked. We are currently running on 30 per cent occupancy, on a good day.”
The Valley was very different in early spring. Bustling with visitors, a trip to Kashmir would have cost you no less than a short foreign holiday. This year, before the Pahalgam terror attack, Kashmir reportedly recorded a footfall of seven lakh tourists. An all-time high tourist influx was seen in 2024, with 34.98 lakh visitors, which included over 43,000 foreigners. According to the Economic Survey Report 2024-25 tabled in the Assembly in early March by Chief Minister Omar Abdullah, the total number of people visiting the Valley in 2024 was nearly five times higher than in 2021.
Cut to mid-2025. Tourists killed in Pahalgam. Terror is the prevalent phrase again.
After the Pahalgam blood bath, security forces launched a major search and combing operation in the region. Many locals were detained across the state for questioning. Retired JK cadre IPS officer and Former Addl Secy, National Security Council, Shiv Murari Sahai, says that maintaining order is not easy for the security forces either. “It is obvious they are under pressure after what happened on April 22. But they’ve achieved great success after neutralising the mastermind behind the attack,” he says. For Sahai, the interrogations are important. “There are two kinds of youth in J&K. The first kind is by and large aspirational. They want to get on with their lives. The other kind is radicalised. They’ve not been able to achieve much. They’ve grievances against the system. It can be political or related to unemployment. It doesn’t necessarily have to do with religion. Radicalisation turning violent is what becomes problematic,” he says.
A report in a national daily says two locals, who allegedly provided shelter to the Pahalgam attackers, were arrested by the NIA, which said the men had “knowingly harboured the three-armed terrorists at a seasonal dhok (hut)” before the April 22 attack. It did not give details of when the arrests took place. On June 25, Omar Abdullah said the perpetrators of the Pahalgam attack were outsiders and the two locals accused of harbouring the terrorists were forced to comply with them. Harinder Baweja, author of A Soldier’s Diary: Kargil the Inside Story, who has extensively written on Kashmir, says there was something very different about the local response to a terrorist attack in the Valley this time. “I have seen processions for azadi. I have witnessed stone pelting in the valley. But I have never seen a candle march or a Tiranga Yatra. The way the local Kashmiris came out in response to the Pahalgam attack could have been a perfect window for the government to step in. There is only so much the security forces can do. It is the people we need to talk to,” she says.
Retribution came on July 28, when security forces killed three LeT terrorists in the Mulnar area of Harwan on the outskirts of Srinagar. Reports say the mastermind of the Pahalgam attack, Suleiman Shah, was also killed in this operation. With uncertainty and no closure, locals fear a redux of what happened in April. The war is not over for them. Magray sorrowfully remembers Syed Adil Hussain Shah, the lone Kashmiri Muslim killed in the Pahalgam attack. “He was our very own. I remember when he left from the pony stand that ill-fated day. We did not know we’d never see him again.” With the annual Amarnath Yatra underway, a few ponywalas are allowed to ferry the yatris from Chandanwari, the base camp. One of them, Bilal Ahmed (name changed), says, “Very few of us are allowed to go there. This was not the case earlier. In previous years, our hands would be full. We used to wake up at four in the morning and start taking pilgrims.” A July 24 news report says the annual Amarnath Yatra this year crossed the 3.5-lakh mark.
Forty minutes from Srinagar, at a distance of barely 16 km in Danihama village, lies Rahbagh, a 41-room luxury boutique resort designed in the Alpine chalet style, set over four acres, within an apple orchard, framed by towering poplars. The view of the Zabarwan Hills has not helped the property revive the bookings. Abid Amin Bhat, 25, a staffer, says, “We have a total of four rooms occupied right now. We lost crores because of cancellations.” The chief minister has called for collective efforts to revive the economy. “It is binding on us that we do everything in our power to ensure that Jammu and Kashmir goes back to its position as the pre-eminent tourist destination in the country and stays there,” Abdullah said in an official statement. Putting out a powerful demonstration of solidarity and resilience in May, over 100 travel companies and several allied agencies in Kolkata united under the “Chalo Kashmir” initiative, aiming at restoring tourism in Jammu and Kashmir and countering fear with hope. Indian Tourist Transport Association Honorary Secretary Kanwarjit Singh Sawhney said bookings for Kashmir have started picking up. “There is a good response; the activity will pick up pace,” he told a news channel. Opposition leaders are also looking at the ongoing Amarnath Yatra with hope. On June 12, PDP Chief Mehbooba Mufti said that the Amarnath Yatra will help increase the flow of tourists.
Aashiq Hussain, 40, a taxi driver, lives in the same hope. A resident of the Hazratbal area of Srinagar, Hussain did not get any work for months after the Pahalgam attack. “This is the first time I’ve had a passenger in my car since April 23. We have been told that the coming months look hopeful,” he says. A soldier standing outside the newly inaugurated Molly’s Café by the Dal Lake smiles looking at a young man taking a selfie. A third-year Economics student from Jindal University, Nabeel Kakroo, is home for the summer vacation. “When the airports shut in May, I thought I would never be able to set foot in Kashmir again. We learn to say our goodbyes well here. Being here now gives me a sense of relief,” he smiles.
Hearing Nabeel speak, shikarawala Numair Qazi smirks. The 24-year-old boatman at Ghat no 21 of the Dal Lake, looks at a few tourists bargaining with his father. “Dikh asal discount. Yemi naeran natt. (Give them a good discount. Otherwise, they’ll leave),” he says. Other boat owners like him whisper about the “curse of hope”—every time things begin to look up, violence returns. Meanwhile, shikaras rock gently in the breeze. The boatmen wait on the shore, cleaning their oars. The setting sun makes 65-year-old Manzoor Ahmad’s floating jewellery shop sparkle brighter. Bracelets, rings, earrings, and local ittar is what Ahmad sells. “Tourists find floating markets very attractive. I have heard there are such markets in Thailand, too. But I urge our people to visit such places in their own country. We need their support more than ever to revive our business.”
In Kashmir, they say the Valley remembers everything. This summer, it remembers blood on the grass as unanswered questions echo through the chinar forests, where spreads a silence made all the more terrifying by the knowledge that the fragile peace in Kashmir can be shattered at any moment. Or, maybe Paradise will come home again.