Opinion | The Pahalgam Attack and the Aftermath

In the serenity of Kashmir’s hills and the silence of its valleys, the unthinkable happened again—an attack in Pahalgam that shook our collective conscience. It was not just an act of violence; it was a wound to our shared soul, a crack in our effort to heal, to grow, to reclaim normalcy.

Fifteen days have passed since that dark day, and yet the echoes continue. As someone brought up in Kashmir, who now lives with anxiety, I feel paralyzed—not just by what happened, but by what it might mean for the path ahead.

On that very day, I was preparing to appear in a Facebook live session about the Tulip Garden. I was to speak on Kashmiri hospitality, a trait so deeply rooted in our culture that we wear it as a badge of honour. But just minutes before going live, the session was suddenly called off. I was initially frustrated, unaware of the gravity that was about to dawn upon us. As news of the attack surfaced, frustration turned into a heavy silence, then anxiety. The very idea of celebrating or promoting Kashmir suddenly felt misplaced.

I received messages from friends across India. The tone was cautious, yet heavy with resentment—questions like “Why did this happen?” quickly followed by, “Are you safe?” I also reached out to local friends studying outside the Valley. The tension was everywhere. A chilling familiarity had returned—of being reduced to stereotypes, of being seen through a lens of suspicion.

There is a pattern here. The people suffering are always the innocents. We didn’t do anything, yet we’re made to feel like we did. In a recent article, I hinted at how such attacks derail local progress. But more pressingly, as someone who has long advocated for mental health, I wonder: Who will talk about trauma now? When will mental health be seen as the damage it truly is?

Today, another live session of mine was cancelled due to escalating tensions. It wasn’t about the event itself—it was about the conversation we were hoping to have. In mental health circles, we often say: “We’re not at war anymore. We don’t need to hide our emotions or just be angry.” But how can we justify that now? We are, quite literally, at war—whether through physical violence or the silent war on our psyche. There will be trauma. There will be a new layer of PTSD, of CPTSD, of wounds that may never fully heal.

And still, I believe this is exactly the time to continue talking—about mental health, about pain, about how to support one another. Because if we don’t, these moments will seed generational traumas that no ceasefire can undo. We need safe spaces to process, to speak, to simply be, so that even when the war ends and the dust settles, we don’t continue fighting our inner wars.

I remember how ordinary that day had started. We had people over, a small homecoming, a gesture not of luxury but of reclaiming some normalcy. But as soon as the news broke, everything changed. My smile disappeared. The clothes I had chosen no longer fit the mood. I dressed in black, not as a statement, but because it felt right—like my spirit had made the choice for me.

That was the moment I understood: this wasn’t just grief. It was a declaration. We now call it a black day—not merely because of what happened, but because it stole every flicker of light we were trying to nurture.

What violence does best is halt momentum. It interrupts narratives. Every time we take a step forward in Kashmir—toward education, toward healing, toward dignity—something like this pulls us back, forces us to start from scratch.

Even worse is the blame. Once again, Kashmiris are being eyed with suspicion, as if we’re collectively responsible. As if we, too, have not mourned. This kind of stereotyping is not just unfair—it’s dangerous. It turns grief into guilt, and trauma into alienation.

In these moments, I fear numbness more than I fear pain. I fear that people will stop writing, stop speaking, stop showing up for the causes we’ve spent years nurturing—mental health advocacy, education drives, gender equality, trauma healing. I fear that we will be taught to disengage, to protect ourselves by no longer hoping. Because hope, when ripped away, leaves scars.

But maybe this is when we must resist the temptation to go silent. Maybe this is our moment to remember what we’re capable of. Even in mourning, even in black, even in despair—we remain human. And that still matters.

Wearing black that day wasn’t just grief—it was defiance. It was my way of saying, “I still feel. I still care. And I won’t let this turn me cold.” We owe it to those we’ve lost to continue caring. We owe it to ourselves to remain human.

We must continue creating safe spaces, speaking about our pain, resisting the idea that war has no survivors. Because it does. And those survivors must be seen, heard, and supported.

To those we lost in Pahalgam: may you rest in peace. And to those of us who remain: may we honour you not only in sorrow, but in action, in compassion, and in the quiet, determined courage to keep hoping—even when it hurts.

The writer is an author, columnist, and speaker. He studies Chemistry at Amar Singh College.

He can be contacted at: musaibbilal.216061@gmail.com