Villagers with their belongings move to safer places as authorities evacuate residents living near the International Border (IB) with Pakistan, in Jeora Farm.
Credit: Reuters Photo
Srinagar: An eerie, suffocating silence once again shrouds the Kashmir Valley — not of peace, but of fear. As tensions between India and Pakistan spill far beyond the borders of Jammu and Kashmir into Punjab and Rajasthan, people in Kashmir are holding their breath — haunted by memories of previous conflicts and uncertain of what lies ahead.
In markets, homes, and offices across the Valley, conversations have taken a grim turn. Families huddle in front of television sets, their faces tense, flipping between news channels. Teenagers and elders alike keep their eyes glued to smartphones, anxiously refreshing social media and news apps for the latest developments.
“Whenever India and Pakistan fight, we bleed. The bombs don’t fall in Delhi or Islamabad — they fall here,” said Rubeena Jan, a schoolteacher from the border Uri town of north Kashmir’s Baramulla. “The fear never really leaves. It hides in corners of our homes, behind our curtains, inside our children’s dreams.”
Her words echo a truth etched into every Kashmiri memory: they are not the decision-makers, yet they have always paid the highest price.
The drumbeat of war has reawakened ghosts — airstrikes that shattered night skies, endless curfews, bunkers dug in backyards, sirens blaring through the mountains, and schools turned into shelters. Border towns like Uri, Tanghdar, Keran, Poonch and Rajouri are once again watching their families pack — not for a journey, but for an escape.
“Last night, my 10-year-old son asked me if war means we’ll have to leave our homes and die,” says Iftikhar Ahmad, his voice cracking as he speaks from Kupwara’s Tanghdar. “What does a father say to that? That his childhood is a sacrifice to the pride of two nations?”
For those living in firing range, every knock at the door, every loud sound, every passing aircraft reopens wounds that never truly healed.
Mental health professionals in the Valley have already sounded the alarm. “There’s collective trauma in Kashmir,” says Dr. Arshid Hussain, a professor of Psychiatry at Government Medical College (GMC) Srinagar
“The current escalation can trigger fresh panic, especially among those who have lived through long periods of unrest.”
Schools in border areas have been shut. In urban centers like Srinagar, classrooms are thinning out, as parents whisper of uncertainty and danger, afraid to send their children into a world where safety has no guarantee.
And yet, what hurts most is not the fear of bombs or bullets — it’s the helplessness.
“We’re not on the frontlines, yet the war always finds us,” says Farzana Mir, a university student. “Our futures are fragile. Our dreams feel borrowed. We live in the shadow of a fight we didn’t start and cannot stop.”
As night falls over the Valley, fear becomes louder than words. The television flickers in the background. The news never really ends. And Kashmir waits, once more, to see if peace will come — or if it will again be the price paid for politics of hate.