The attack in Pahalgam has once again plunged Kashmir into sorrow, leaving 27 civilians—mostly tourists—dead in one of the most horrifying strikes the valley has witnessed in years. These were people who had come to experience the valley’s beauty and famed hospitality of its people. Instead, they were met with unimaginable brutality. The tragedy does more than claim lives—it strikes at the very soul of a region striving to rebuild itself from decades of turmoil. It injects fear where trust was beginning to grow, and sows doubt at a time when normalcy was gradually returning to daily life. Yet, what emerged in the wake of the violence was not paralysis or indifference but a deeply human response marked by mourning, defiance, and unity. Across towns from Pahalgam to Srinagar, from Handwara to Kupwara, ordinary citizens gathered in candlelight vigils. These were not organized by governments or institutions, but led by shopkeepers, hotel workers, ponywalas, and students—people whose lives and livelihoods depend on peace and the steady flow of visitors. Their participation wasn’t driven by pressure or performance; it was an instinctive reaction rooted in shared grief and a desperate need to hold on to what is still good and decent. The attack targeted civilians, but its aim was far broader—it was designed to fracture the delicate hope Kashmiris have held onto, to scare away those who seek to connect with the valley through travel and exploration. The violence tried to turn Kashmir into a place where strangers are no longer welcome. But the people’s response has powerfully resisted that narrative. Candle marches and shutdowns weren’t just displays of sorrow—they were declarations. Declarations that the identity of this land will not be defined by those who carry weapons, but by those who carry candles, who open their homes and hearts even while mourning. This time, the silence that followed the gunfire was filled not with resignation but with a shared vow. Across the valley, voices rose—not in anger alone but in collective resistance to being portrayed through the lens of violence. These actions speak of a population deeply wounded, yet unwilling to let grief be manipulated into hate. Kashmiris know too well what it means to suffer loss. They have carried the burden of conflict long enough to understand the importance of saying: this killing does not speak for us, nor will we allow it to erase the memory of who we truly are. The observance of a shutdown on Wednesday was not a pause in daily life alone—it was an act of remembrance, a moral stand, and a refusal to normalize horror. In every shuttered shop and quiet street, there is a message being sent: that this valley still belongs to those who protect life, not those who end it. The people have stood up—not simply against the act of terrorism, but against the fear it was meant to breed. And in doing so, they remind the world that Kashmir, even when wounded, still chooses dignity over despair, and peace over silence.
Shared Grief
