Paradise or the land of terror? Unmasking the other side of the Kashmir valley

I was seven when parts of Jammu and Kashmir were plunged into blackout under the guise of drills and exercises meant to maintain peace and vigilance at the borders. Everyone has that one faint childhood memory that leaves a lasting impression. This was mine.

One of my earliest and most vivid memories is from that time - a fear-laden atmosphere, soldiers probably warring at the borders, and a household held together by the quiet strength of just women that night. 

As the fearless women fastened black curtains to the windows and lit up an oil lamp to keep us feeling warm and safe, I was directed to retire for the night and not ask to play or watch television. A few minutes later, we would hear the roars of lions in air - jets dispatched to assist bravehearts in the drill. This went on for a few days - becoming the most important memory that has always stayed.

I grew up far from my birthplace, from the home that was truly "mine" - but my heart never left it. All my life, I’ve felt a deep connect to that "paradise" which has transformed into "terror-land" over the years. We would however visit every vacation, at least twice a year, to see our extended family: visits that left me grounded. 

“Have you seen a terrorist?”, “Do your relatives have guns?”, “Do they roam around with rifles there?”, "Were you asked to leave" - Growing up, these were the questions handed to me by curious friends and even acquaintances. As strange as it may sound, those questions used to thrill me a little and instil a sense of mystery, of being tied to something larger than the small world we lived in.

Part 1: They came to destroy, we chose to endure: Unheard Hindu voices in J&K

But the April 22, 2025, terror attack in Pahalgam shook something in me. It shook my confidence and chipped away at the quiet, genuine way I have come to always love my home — virtually, emotionally...from a distance.

Jammu and Kashmir, with its many districts, towns and not-overly populous cities, has long been adorned with befitting names — "Paradise on Earth," "Land of Valleys," "City of Temples," "Land of Lakes," "City of Beauty." Yet, in recent times, a new name has silently attached itself: "Land of Terror" — at least for me, and for the countless innocent people who wake up each day clinging to the hope of a better tomorrow.

Recalling the horrors of the Indo-Pakistani War of 1971, my mother and her sisters heave a sigh of relief. "We survived it, but the never-ending fear of an attack never left us," they admit. As they recounted their ordeal — one strikingly similar to my own experience, though theirs far more harrowing — my mother described the scene vividly. "The elders lit a diya to help us move around, but it was pitch-black," she said, explaining how windows and doors were tightly sealed with dark covers, and beyond them, not a single glimmer of light could be seen. "We were scared out of our wits," she added, her voice heavy with the weight of that memory. 

"Of course, the men terrorising us could not catch even a slight glint of life thriving in any of the regions," my aunt nodded, adding, "Otherwise, many would die." 

Though a phenomenon not particularly appealing, similar incidents have disrupted the lives of many residents in the state. Living in a beautiful region amidst snow-capped hills, with a breeze that tantalises the senses, sceneries that mesmerize the eyes, greenery that instills freshness, and water bodies that flow with tranquility, one cannot ignore the looming backdrop – a sense of fear that a war could erupt, a bomb blast could occur, or random gunfire might break the peace.

The tourist experience is not meant to be overshadowed by fear or terror, yet one fateful afternoon altered that experience for the entire world. On that day, 26 innocent lives were brutally lost in Pahalgam, Jammu & Kashmir — a picturesque hill station that welcomes hundreds of tourists every day.

Many continue to speculate whether the locals themselves are responsible for the unrest that has plagued the region over the years. While there may be some truth to such claims, a more unsettling question persists: Who funds them? The answer remains unknown — and as long as it does, the shadow of doubt will linger. 

Sitting with family in a quaint house tucked away in the core of Jammu and Kashmir never quite felt complete without a 'kangri' by our side. A 'kanger', more commonly called a 'kangri' in Kashmir, is far more than an earthen pot containing red-hot embers. In the snow-wrapped valleys, it is a symbol of survival, clutched beneath heavy 'pherans' and thick blankets to battle the brutal cold. Yet, in a land long scarred by decades of conflict, even something as personal and comforting as a kangri has not escaped darker narratives.

As my cousins and I exchanged stories from the past, Aastha, a doctor now posted at a hospital in Jammu, recounted a chilling memory from her days as a medical student in Srinagar. Kashmir was not just tense - it was like living on the edge of a matchstick, moments away from ignition.

"I felt like the end was near," she said, describing an incident from 2016 - the year Kashmir erupted following the death of militant leader Burhan Wani in a gunfight with Indian armed forces. 

Wani’s death was seen as a tactical victory for India, who branded him a terrorist. But for many across Kashmir, the Hizbul Mujahideen leader became a martyr, a defiant young face who never hid behind a mask — for the rights of Kashmiri Muslims, against what they saw as the Indian government's injustice and oppression.

For many in the valley, Burhan Wani was a hero. But for Aastha and countless other students, his death unleashed a wave of unrest that turned everyday life into a nightmare. The streets became battlegrounds, gripped by relentless stone-pelting, curfews, and protests. For the youth trying to carve a future through education, the violence meant months of disruption, fear, and a loss of normalcy they could never reclaim. 

Those days, Kashmir would routinely plunge into complete shutdowns - days stretching into weeks, even months, cut off from the world without internet or mobile networks. Stone pelting was a daily reality, almost routine. The air would often be thick with tear gas in response, the streets echoing with chaos and confrontation.

The Kashmir of those days was not the postcard-perfect valley tourists dreamt of...it was a powder keg enveloped in curfews, smoke, and allegiances. A place where life paused everyday, and yet, people waited for a fresh beginning with the advent of a new dawn. When shutdowns came, they came like the snow that blankets the valleys every winter. Days blurred into weeks, and weeks into months...internet snapped. Mobile towers went dark. An entire generation learned to live without connection, both literally and emotionally.

On the streets, stone pelting was just like choreography. The youth, sometimes barely teenagers, would appear out of alleyways like shadows, armed with rocks and rage. Rumors had it - they were paid, that money flowed in from across borders. "Rs 500 a day", Aastha stated. But whether that was fact or folklore didn’t seem to matter, as the job was done by the fury in their eyes and the tear gas in their hands.

“What struck me most,” said Aastha, “was how differently people saw the same events. The militants we saw as terrorists were seen as martyrs by locals. There was this deep disconnect. I felt like a foreigner, even though I was in my own country.”

She shared a memory, still sharp in her mind. A batchmate had once posted something praising the Indian Army on social media - just gratitude. The next day the student was confronted in the middle of class by Kashmiri extremists. “It wasn’t just disagreement,” she recalled. “It was a warning. A line had been crossed, and suddenly, we became aware.”

Everywhere she turned, the contradictions loomed. Shops shuttered. Communal riots overflowed. Funeral processions for slain militants drew more mourners than weddings. There was mourning, but also a strange sense of defiance.

“For an outsider,” Aastha said, “it felt like reality had been rewritten here. Heroes and villains wore different uniforms. Loyalty was a question not of nation,” she said, adding, "They are only loyal to the neighbouring country."

In that quiet war of perceptions, truth became the first casualty.

And yet, amid the anger, there was also helplessness. Mothers waited for sons who never returned. Schools remained closed more often than open. Hope flickered faintly in the eyes of the elderly who had seen a lot, and in the silence of children who had seen enough too soon.

Kashmir wasn't just under siege from politics or militancy—it was caught in the crossfire of clashing identities. 

“He never returned,” said a 78-year-old woman from Jammu, her eyes brimming with the weight of decades spent waiting for a son who vanished at just 24. She looked away, eyes clouded with memory, and gently closed them, perhaps taking herself back to the day when her son was newly inducted into the Indian Army. 

“I don’t think he breathes anymore... but I will die with the hope that he will return one day,” she whispered, choosing to remain anonymous.

Over time, terrifying stories grew around these humble 'Kangris', where the line between life-giving heat and life-snatching terror blurred, leaving behind a chilling reminder: even symbols of home are not safe from the shadows of terrorism.

Beyond the tragedy, another reality remains bound in chains — the fractured political landscape of Jammu and Kashmir. A year ago, during a quiet sojourn to Srinagar, Nita Sharma - a native of the region though largely living outside the state - found herself engaged in a crucial conversation with a Shikara wala (boatman) amidst the breathtaking tranquility of the Dal Lake. Curious about the pulse of local politics, she asked him which political party he supported, and who he believed was worthy of his vote.

His response was subtle yet unmistakably clear. Dismissing the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), he remarked that the saffron front was "not ours." But his most telling words reflected a broader, more painful reality: "Sab chor hain (All are thieves)," he said, grouping the National Conference (NC) and the People's Democratic Party (PDP) alongside others. His sentiment captured not just political disillusionment but a deeper, festering sense of betrayal. The feeling quickly echoed by other Shikara walas nearby, who simply smirked and nodded in silent agreement.

Over the years, especially in the aftermath of Partition, those same hills have witnessed countless Kashmiri Hindus bidding farewell to their homes — homes perched on scenic slopes that, from that day on, began to tell a different story: a story of bloodshed, hatred, fear, and terrorism. The exodus of 1990 marked the displacement of thousands; others were lost to violence — or perhaps to heartbreak. Only they can truly say.

Coming to the most important question: When will the misery die? Answers abound, varying in conjecture and suspicion. Yet, amid the noise, one fact remains stark and unchanging — the cycle of misery persists, and a solution remains unreachable, retreating further into the mist with each passing season.

(Next part of this article will cover the current scenario; Pakistan's role and involvement; the response of state and Central governments and the role of the security forces.)