Peace and tranquility has been shattered in Kashmir every now and then since the independence of the two bitter rivals, Pakistan and India in 1947. And the latest incident took place in its key tourist spot of Pahalgam in the Indian-controlled Anantnag district of Jammu and Kashmir that claimed lives of at least 26 people in one-go. Afterwards, it prompted both mortal enemies to launch tit-for-tat military attacks in which over 50 people were killed, though a ceasefire has been agreed by the both countries in the present time.
This attack affected the tourism industry badly in the Kashmir region which is popularly known as the "Heaven on Earth" because of its captivating and stunning natural beauty, including snow-capped mountains, serene lakes, and vibrant fields of flowers which beckon thousands of tourists every year from around the world.
In the northernmost reaches of the Indian Subcontinent lies a valley that once stirred the very heart of poets and saints alike-Kashmir. Draped in shrouded splendours of snow-capped peaks and mirror-looking lakes, the land of haunting beauty has long ceased to be merely a place on a map. Instead, it has become a theatre of unending sorrows. The tragedy of Kashmir -now approaching its centennial cycle of grief -is not simply the story of disputed borders, but of lives fractured under the weight of unfulfilled promises and utmost political obstinacies.
For the last month's terrorist attack, a militant group operating from the Pakistani-administered segment of Kashmir claimed responsibility, broadcasting its message in blood: "Kashmir remains unsafe, unwelcome, and unhealed."
India, swift to react, accused Pakistan of harbouring militants, denying the state complicity but admitted, it could not fully control the splinter element lurking within its bounds. What followed was all too familiar: strikes were launched; retaliation ensued; fighter jets sliced through the air; sirens wailed; civilians fled; and the region once again stood at the brink of catastrophe.
For over 40 years, the war has come to this valley in predictable waves. Firstly in 1947, there was partition's chaos. As British India collapsed, princely states were left to choose their fate. Kashmir's Hindu ruler, governing a Muslim-majority population, hesitated. Pakistan sent tribal militias under the guise of liberation. India intervened after the controversial Instrument of Accession was signed. The ceasefire -that followed- drew a line through Kashmir's heart: an armistice etched in ink, and later-on deepened in blood. Yet the true casualty was trust: between India and Pakistan.
The second war in 1965 began with delusion. Pakistan -believing Kashmiris would rise in revolt -sent in insurgents under Operation Gibraltar. But the people did not rebel. They recoiled. India responded with the military might - not with the political clout. The war spilled into Punjab -thousands perished before the Soviet-led Tashkent Agreement restored the surface calm. But underneath, the damage had been done. Kashmiris were -once again-reduced to pawns: spoken of, or never spoken to.
In 1971, the theatre of conflict shifted to East Pakistan. India's intervention, prompted by Pakistan's brutal crackdown and the refugee deluge, resulted in the birth of Bangladesh. Kashmir was peripheral to the war's operations but central to its backlash: aftermath. Pakistan's military defeat bred an obsession with reclaiming lost honour -with Kashmir now the ultimate proving ground. A deep, aching resentment was seeded, destined to sprout anew in the mountain of the north.
The Kargil Conflict-1999 was a dagger in the back of diplomacy. Just months after the Lahore Declaration kindled cautious hope, Pakistani soldiers -disguised as militants -seized Indian positions along the high-altitude Line of Control. And India responded forcefully. But the spectre of nuclear war loomed. Under international pressure, Pakistan withdrew. But a deeper damage had occurred: the betrayal of dialogue. Now it became clear that military and political establishments did not always speak the same language. Where leaders sought peace, generals sharpened their bayonets.
Since 2016 to 2021, Kashmir endured a quieter yet crueler form of warfare, packed with insidious, sustained, and suffocating. The 2016 Uri Attack and the 2019 Pulwama Bombing shattered any remaining illusions. India's retaliatory strikes in Balakot were bold. But their fallout devastated daily life. Tourism, once Kashmir's lifeline, collapsed. Children missed years of schooling. Villages became garrisons. Communication blackouts blanketed the region like a second winter. Dissent was criminalised. Militancy grew leaner -much extreme. There were fewer large battles. But the air itself became heavy with fear.
And then in 2025, not a military convoy or a covert raid, but tourists, the most innocent, most hopeful of visitors, fell to bullets. Their presence in Kashmir had symbolised an improbable belief in normalcy. Their deaths destroyed it. Their murderers sought to extinguish not just lives -but the very idea that Kashmir could, once again, be touched by joy. The subsequent military posturing by India and Pakistan felt rehearsed. Condemnations echoed. Borders bristled. But what remained absent, still, is the honest reflection.
In the meantime, the enduring wound of Kashmir festers not because resolution is impossible. But, because it has never been truly desired. For India, the valley represents a test of national integrity -a refusal to let Partition's wounds reopen. For Pakistan, it remains the unfinished dream, the unclaimed promise of a Muslim-majority state. And for the both, it is the political theatre. But for Kashmiris, it is home: a home besieged, misunderstood, and tragically expendable.
The 2025 tragedy must mark a turning point. Not for another fragile ceasefire or performative summit, but for the beginning of genuine empathy. Let both nations -in a rare moment of unity-construct monuments: one on each side of the Line of Control
Kashmir does not bleed because its people demand war. It bleeds because their voices are ignored. Each war has begun with pride and ended in pain. Each government has spoken of honour, while burying truth. But the real, unseen reason behind every skirmish, is the fear: fear of loss, of compromise, of the Kashmiri-itself.
What if that fear were replaced by courage? What if India and Pakistan chose boldness-not in aggression, but in compassion? What if Kashmir were allowed to become not a reason for hatred, but a path to healing? What if the valley's rivers ran clean with melted snow -not sorrow?
The writer is a journalist with The Daily Observer
