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

Like vampires, they vanished...women — daughters, sisters, mothers — disappeared into thin air, leaving behind only unanswered questions. A resident of Jammu and Kashmir, who chose to remain anonymous, blinking back tears, recalled the chilling memory, his voice breaking as he tried to make sense of the inexplicable.

For the people of the conflict-scarred region, such moments are not confined to the dark pages of the 1990s exodus as the horror did not end there. It seeped into the years that followed, manifesting in wave after wave of trauma where women bore the worst of it. The atrocities never paused; they evolved and cloaked themselves in silence.

The iconic quote: “If there is a heaven on earth, it is here... it is here... it is here”, famously attributed to Emperor Jahangir, has long been associated with the breathtaking beauty of Kashmir. For many, it evokes images of snow-capped peaks, serene valleys, and picture-perfect landscapes. But in recent years, the same words echo with irony, burdened now by the weight of bloodshed and sorrow. The paradise once celebrated is increasingly viewed through a lens of tragedy - its charm overshadowed by the sounds of gunfire and the silence that follows.

The history of the state is not merely a chronicle of natural, regal legacies. It is etched with the scars of exodus, displacement, and the enduring pain of people whose emotions have been submerged in years of conflict. Beneath the idyllic vistas lies a reality often overlooked - of sorrowful survival.

26 innocent lives were claimed on a beautiful April afternoon, when blue skies, tall Chinar and Deodar trees, and lush greenery bore witness to blood spilling from bodies of victims - people who had come to embrace the beauty, to soak in the warmth, and instead met a violent end. 

Sunita Bhatt Goja, who now lives in Jammu, still speaks with a tremor in her voice...of days when she lived a happy, peaceful life with her family in Kashmir, before the deadly 1990s turned everything familiar into something frightening almost overnight.

"There was silence all around," she recalls. "We were huddled together in a single room, too scared to even breathe loudly. Then, from the mosque loudspeakers, the Maulvi’s voice rang out: 'All Muslim brothers, gather at the mosque.'"

Within minutes, the silence shattered. Men poured out from the neighbouring houses, rushing toward the mosque. Soon, the air was filled with deafening slogans - a sea of voices shouting spine-chilling verses in unison: "What do we want? Freedom! What is your and my desire? Kashmir will become Pakistan - without Hindu men, but with Hindu girls and women!" (Hum kya chahte? Aazadi! Tera mera kya armaan? Kashmir banega Pakistan. Hindu aadmiyon ke bina lekin Hindu ladkiyon aur auraton ke saath.)

The incident subtly echoes the chilling events of April 22, 2025 in Pahalgam, when terrorists murdered Hindu men in broad daylight while sparing women. A survivor, who pleaded to be killed alongside her husband, was coldly told, "Go tell this to Modi." The contrast is stark — in the 1990s, as Sunita’s account reveals, the attackers sought to eliminate the men but keep the women for illicit gains, severing families at their very core.

Sunita vividly remembers the terror as the crowd outside grew more frenzied. "They began pelting stones at the homes of Kashmiri Pandits. My mother quickly shut all the windows and motioned for us to stay silent. We were so scared, our lips went dry."

That terrifying night was not an isolated incident. "It became an everyday story," she says. "Each day brought news of another killing, of someone we knew, someone from our community. Prem Nath Bhatt, the lawyer from our neighborhood, was murdered. Swarnand Premi and his son - taken. And so many others we still mourn."

The growing fear eventually forced families to make unimaginable choices. "The next morning, my mother told my father, 'We must send the girls to Jammu to stay with their brother. It’s not safe here anymore.' My father agreed. Both my sister and I were sent away. And soon after, when the situation worsened even further, my parents too had to flee."

Sunita’s voice softens as she speaks of the decades that have passed. "It’s been 35 years now. My sister-in-law still waits, still hopes, asking, 'When will we return home?'"

Her story is just one among countless others - stories of loss, of uprooted lives, of a longing for a home that now exists only in memory. Stories that, even today, remain too painful to fully put into words.

An artist who expresses his emotions through the delicate strokes of his quaint paintbrushes spoke in dismay about the days that defined his childhood - days marked by IED blasts, bombings, and the constant fear of being blown apart. "My biggest fear was losing my close ones," Abhinav smiled faintly as he recalled the terror that had shaken his spirit time and again.

"The first time I was just 4," he nodded in disbelief, continuing to paint a portrait of the hills standing before him in all their glory. Yet, behind their majestic beauty lies silent suffering, an unspoken tale that coexists in the very landscape he now paints.

For the people of the state, blasts, bombings, killings, and terrorism have become everyday realities. "I am not even surprised, it keeps on happening," Abhinav said when asked about the Pahalgam killings. "I was just disheartened to realise that there is no end to this atrocity."

Back then, IED blasts and the tightening grip of militancy formed a grim pattern, common, yet never unfamiliar - for the people of the state. “Every now and then, there would be a massive blast, and the hair on our bodies would stick out in fear,” recalled Seema Malik, a long-time resident.

“Imagine what our childhood was like,” she exclaimed. Her words echo the collective trauma of a generation raised in conflict. The recent killings in Pahalgam are not isolated - they stand as a chilling testament to a long-brewing silence, one that has only deepened and darkened with time.

Media flashes have often captured glimpses of the pain, the protests, the grief. But what happens behind closed doors remains largely unspoken. What lingers is a saga, not just of suffering, but of survival. A quiet endurance to tolerate the intolerable. Words may falter, twist, or contradict — but the emotions never lie.

(Next part of this article will have more heart-wrenching stories from J&K)