In the wake of Pahalgam tragedy: A child’s voice, a nation’s silence

In a tragedy that claimed the lives of 28 innocent civilians in Jammu and Kashmir's Pahalgam, once deemed “mini Switzerland” for its surreal beauty, India was reminded, once again, of the perilous undercurrent that runs beneath the surface of peace in Kashmir. But while the attack itself sparked momentary outrage and diplomatic retaliation, it was not the chorus of political statements or the international condemnation that cut through the national psyche, it was the piercing voice of a grieving child.

Naksh Kalthia, a boy no older than ten, became an accidental symbol of both loss and courage when he stood before a sea of microphones and asked the very questions that many in the country’s media and political spheres were too hesitant, or too complicit to ask. The young son of Shailesh Kalthia, a civilian slain in the terrorist attack, Naksh didn’t just recount what happened; he challenged a nation’s conscience.

“Sarkar toh gayi hui hai… matlab itna bada atankwadi hamla hua, unhe kuch pata hi nahi hai,” said Naksh. “I want the Army to be deployed in Pahalgam,” he added, without trembling, without faltering.

These are not the words a child should ever have to say. But then, Naksh isn’t just a child anymore. In a matter of moments, trauma has aged him in a way years never could.

What makes Naksh’s voice so profoundly moving is not just the tragedy he endured, but the clarity with which he framed it. In a country where political accountability is often dodged with rhetoric and where media narratives are frequently hijacked by spectacle, it was a boy who rose from personal grief to question the system. His composure has been lauded as “more sensible than elected leaders” apt descriptors in an age where true questions are often met with deflection or derision.

One can only imagine the world spinning around him in that moment: cameras clicking, journalists pushing microphones in his face, his father’s death still a raw wound. And yet, Naksh articulated what millions wanted to ask, Where was the state? Where was the promised protection? How could such a coordinated attack happen near an army base with no immediate response?

What followed his statement was a digital wave of praise and sorrow, tweets that compared him favorably to elected leaders, posts that shamed the silence of the mainstream press. But what did not follow, unfortunately, was a national reckoning.

Even as the government moved quickly to enact diplomatic and security countermeasures, cutting ties, downgrading missions, and imposing stricter travel protocols for Pakistani nationals—the core issue raised by Naksh remains unresolved: Why were civilians so vulnerable in one of the most sensitive regions of India?

The Cabinet Committee on Security, chaired by the Prime Minister, condemned the attack and pledged vigilance. Yet, there is something deeply unsettling in the realization that it took a massacre, and the words of a child, for the conversation about security failures to even surface.

Naksh also highlighted the swift and brave response of local people who rushed to help survivors, while security forces, according to his account, arrived only after the victims had descended from the attack site. This contrast is striking and heartbreaking. It is the everyday citizen who once again stood between life and death, who carried the burden of heroism where institutions faltered.

This is not the first time in Kashmir’s tumultuous history that local civilians have had to play saviors in the absence of state response. But it’s a pattern that should shake the very foundations of our collective complacency. Is national security a matter of paperwork and press conferences—or people’s lives?

Naksh is not a media-trained activist, nor a seasoned analyst. He is a son who lost his father to violence that should have been preventable. And yet, his few words have exposed a void in governance, a vacuum in media courage, and a society that too often forgets to demand answers until tragedy strikes too close to home.

In the days to come, the headlines will fade, the hashtags will dwindle, and the political machine will return to its regular programming. But Naksh’s voice should not be forgotten. His questions should not be left unanswered.

Because in his voice, we heard not only the grief of a child—but the conscience of a country.