Shelling and silence: Life along the border in Jammu & Kashmir

Around 6.30 pm on May 8, as I settled with a book on the couch of a deserted hotel in the border town of Mendhar in Jammu’s Poonch district, shelling began to pound the area. The sound grew unbearable, and the howling of dogs intensified. The dark streets were spectral, with only a few lights flickering in the distance. Anxious over the intermittent shelling and firing between India and Pakistan along the Line of Control (LoC), I decided to stay in the living room, which seemed safer than the front room. The front room was spacious, with two glass windows covering most of the wall; the other room, at the back of the hotel, had one small window and was cramped with furniture intended as shelter during shelling. I had arrived from Srinagar three hours earlier, and the hotel owner had left after handing me the keys to two rooms. All the employees had left for their homes, or seemingly “safer” locations.

Except for a handful of local journalists reporting from the ground, mainstream media was largely absent during the intense shelling in the Mendhar region from May 7 to 10. Residents were furious with the media for fuelling a war frenzy. An elderly man said, “We are bearing the brunt of the media’s callousness. People on the border want to live in peace.”

Anxious faces and disoriented eyes were ubiquitous during my 11-day trip through Mendhar, both amid Operation Sindoor and even after the ceasefire. I also saw around me derelict buildings, scorched cattle sheds, singed walls with deep cracks, and exploded shells and splinters scattered across damaged homes. Most of Mendhar’s population depends on agriculture, while a few run small businesses or work as labourers and government employees. Most people, however, had fled to nearby villages like Ari, Harni, Topa, and Pathana Tir, the adjoining district of Rajouri, and further down to Jammu district — many taking their livestock along.

I travelled to Jammu and Kashmir (J&K) in early May to research for a book on women in border regions and spent over a month there. Soon after I arrived, the situation became tense. In Srinagar, helicopters hovered as India struck nine targets across Pakistan and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir on the night of May 6-7. In Mendhar, I was stranded for seven days in a nameless hotel within firing range, relying on local journalists and residents who hadn’t fled to send me home-cooked meals. A few days after the ceasefire, a local family took me in. Residents of Poonch and Rajouri in Jammu bore the brunt of the border tensions, as did those in Uri and Tangdhar in Kashmir’s Baramulla and Kupwara districts respectively.

Living in twilight

For almost a decade, I have been travelling to the villages along the LoC and the International Border (IB), studying the impact of cross-border shelling on civilians. In these regions, particularly the zero-line villages, militarisation and border violence are subsumed into the daily routines of residents to the point that they have become normal. The border population seems to live in a twilight zone, where ‘wartime’ and ‘peacetime’ often blur. The frequency and intensity of such attacks had decreased since 2015, when I first visited the border villages. However, during my recent visit, many locals pointed out that even relatively safer and more distant areas — such as Surankote, Bhera Dhaki, Lower Dharana, Sakhi Maidan, and Poonch city in Jammu, as well as villages in Uri in Kashmir — came under heavy fire, catching residents off guard. This could possibly be due to advances in warfare technology.

First visit

Indiscriminate cross-border shelling and firing along the LoC and IB violate International Humanitarian Law, which seeks to regulate armed conflict and protect civilians. The violence leaves physical, economic, and psychosocial scars on border residents.

In August 2015, when I reached Balakot in the afternoon, I was greeted by the clamour of firing and shelling. Soon after, I saw grief-stricken women returning from the burial of those killed in the attack, including a 10-year-old boy. At the time, the Balakot sector in Poonch was the centre of border violence.

People told me that injured civilians often had to travel to the nearest town or city for treatment — ambulances and doctors are scarce, even in emergencies. They also spoke of the need for more and better bunkers, and adequate compensation for the injured.

During heavy shelling, economic activity comes to a halt — shops shut, agricultural work stops, and daily wage labourers are hit the hardest. My interviewees were also concerned that recurrent shelling could render their land infertile and unproductive.

Children, in particular, are vulnerable to long-term psychological effects. A resident of Garkhriyal told me, “Whenever there is firing, it is particularly difficult to explain it to the children. They are terrified.” Even after the shelling stops, “its sound continues to resound in our minds”, a man from Jowrafarm said after enduring 10 consecutive nights of intense shelling.

These tensions also disrupt education. Bilash Sharma, a college student from Sidherwan along the IB, said, “In September 2014, due to continuous shelling, we had to leave the village. Schools were shut for about 20 days.” Many other young people expressed frustration at not being able to prepare for competitive and other exams.

A decade later

My recent visit gave me a sense of what had changed — and what hadn’t. A woman from Mankote said, “My father died during shelling in 2017. We still haven’t received any compensation.” On the other hand, members of a gurudwara in Poonch city have requested a special Prime Minister’s package for rehabilitation of those affected by recent shelling. For the loss of a family member in shelling incidents, the state government announced Rs 10 lakh in compensation, while the Centre promised Rs 6 lakh. Manoj Sinha, the Lieutenant Governor of J&K, also announced a government job for the victim’s closest kin. However, aid for property loss remains minimal: Rs 1.3 lakh for fully damaged houses and Rs 6,500 for those partially affected.

Regarding medical facilities, a local journalist told me the situation is better now than a decade ago. However, during heavy shelling, ambulances may neither reach the sites where people are injured nor accommodate all those injured. Similar challenges arise when livestock are injured. Hospitals in Mendhar and Poonch city remain ill-equipped. Parveen Sarwar Khan, general secretary of J&K Congress, said there is an urgent need for a trauma centre in Mendhar.

Fortified shelter is another critical concern. Advocate and social activist Raja Mehmood from Mendhar said, “In Poonch district, some bunkers exist in villages along the zero-line, which are historically more vulnerable to shelling.” But these aren’t enough, he added. Zaheer Khan from Sandote, a zero-line village in the Balakot sector, threw light on the current situation: “For a population of about 1,000, there are only 13-15 bunkers.”

Trail of devastation

This time, I spent 21 days in Poonch district visiting 12 villages and towns. Everywhere I went, the same narrative emerged — lives lost, homes in ruins, bunkers in short supply, a growing call for rehabilitation, and the heavy task of starting over.

Mankote was the first village I visited after Operation Sindoor began. The village was in mourning, shaken by the death of Balvinder Kaur, killed on May 7 when splinters from cross-border shelling struck near her home. Balvinder, also known as Ruby Kaur, is survived by her husband, a daily wage labourer, and three children. Her 12-year-old daughter, who is differently abled, was injured, and her youngest child is just over a year old. After the shelling, the entire Sikh community took refuge in the local gurudwara. I visited the family three times. One of their relatives said that settlements right on the LoC — called zero-line villages — have some bunkers, but those a short distance away, like theirs in Mankote, have none. “We have kaccha or mud houses. This makes us vulnerable during shelling,” he said. A middle-aged woman from the neighbourhood added, “I have four daughters and a son. If you visit my house you will know its condition. It’s a mud house. After the shelling on the morning of May 7, we left for Rajouri and returned only after the ceasefire.”

In Bhera village, residents described the destruction of their homes but reported no injuries or casualties. Some had immediately fled to nearby “safer” locations. As residents showed me damage to ceilings and walls, I noticed a woman standing in a corner outside a dilapidated room, visibly shaken, her gaze heavy with pain.

In Upper Dharana village, two families near the LoC witnessed severe damage to their homes on May 10, just hours before the ceasefire was announced. A middle-aged woman recalled the harrowing moments: “We were all home when it happened. Anxious and agitated, we rushed to the basement to take shelter in the area meant for livestock.” Their quick thinking ensured the family escaped unharmed. While I was with the affected families, the sarpanch of Upper Dharana, advocate Chaudhary Nazir Hussain, arrived and said the residents were unprepared and couldn’t evacuate when shelling began. Pointing towards the LoC, he added, “The border is right there. In Basoni, a nearby village under the Upper Dharana panchayat, there are a few bunkers. But this village has none. We have raised the issue of bunkers with the administration several times.”

Bhera Dhaki was one of the worst-hit villages in Mendhar. On the first night of shelling, the locals tried to protect themselves by lying on the floor. The next morning, they left the village — mostly for their relatives’ homes — and only returned after the ceasefire. Kashaf Iqbal Khan anxiously recalled, “When we came back, we found dozens of homes and shops destroyed.”

Residents from across Mendhar migrating to 'safer' zones with help from J&K police and administration.

Uneasy calm

Border residents have found some relief since the ceasefire, yet unease lingers. As instability continues to shadow this volatile region, their demand for high-quality, bulletproof bunkers has grown stronger than ever, preferably individual family shelters within 200-300 metres of their homes, rather than shared community bunkers. The people of Bhera Dhaki have even offered land to build them. Narinder Singh, president of the District Gurudwara Parbandhak Committee in Poonch city, put it plainly: “The last time this city faced shelling was in 1971. Unlike zero-line villages that have long been vulnerable, we did not see the need for bunkers before. Now bunkers are an immediate requirement.”

Over a month after Operation Sindoor, during my visit to Balakot village, where a mosque was damaged in shelling, retired lecturer Mohd Rayaz Khan reiterated the concern. “In Balakot tehsil, at least 13 villages on or very close to the zero-line, such as Balakot, Sandote, Basoni, Swala, Tarkundi, Drati, and Panjini, need an adequate number of good-quality bunkers,” he explained. He alleged fund embezzlement as the cause of the shortage and noted that most existing bunkers are substandard or non-functional, often flooding during monsoons. He stressed the need for regular monitoring and upkeep. Additionally, residents in Uri and Poonch emphasised the importance of washrooms inside bunkers for those stranded long-term.

Beyond the urgent need for bunkers, unexploded shells and sharp artillery splinters, which pose serious danger, especially to children, remain a major concern. On this front, on May 18, security forces reportedly destroyed 42 unexploded shells in several forward villages near the LoC in Poonch district.

While locals in Surankote, Bhera Dhaki, and Sakhi Maidan witnessed shelling for the first time, generations in the zero-line villages have grown up amid intermittent firing and shelling. For border residents, the periods between violence are anything but ‘peacetime’ as the threat and wounds of conflict linger long after the shelling ceases.

On June 6, I travelled to Lower Dharana village to visit the family who had lost their five-year-old child. Seated on the carpet, her face pallid, the child’s mother looked at me with sorrowful eyes. Between sobs and silence, she said: “On the night of May 6, as the shelling grew louder, my two-year-old son was asleep, but the older one couldn’t sleep. All night he kept saying, ‘Cover my ears, cover them with the quilt’. He was petrified. In the morning, he fell extremely ill,” she explained. “After two days, when
we managed to arrange a taxi, we left for Jammu. There, my child underwent treatment. He went into a coma. Soon, my son lost his life,” she continued, her voice trailing off as she wiped her tears and lowered her head in grief. An uneasy silence filled the room — echoing the eerie calm now gripping the regions along the India-Pakistan border in J&K.