Opinion | Revival of Tourism in Kashmir: Healing Through Hospitality After the Pahalgam Tragedy

There are moments in life when silence carries more weight than words. here are some mornings in Kashmir when the air seems heavier than usual. The mountains, which usually rise proudly into the sky, appear muted in grief, and the rivers flow a little slower, as if mourning with the people. After the tragic Pahalgam attack, Kashmir woke up to one such morning. It wasn’t just an attack on lives; it felt like an assault on the spirit of a place that has always tried, despite its painful history, to welcome others with warmth and open-heartedness. I remember returning home to Kashmir from Delhi shortly after the Pahalgam tragedy, and I’ll never forget how that silence greeted me. The usual hum of life—vendors calling out their goods, tourists asking for directions, shikaras gliding gently over the Dal Lake—had disappeared. The streets were not just empty; they felt hollow. The same roads that once burst with the energy of visiting families, cameras in hand and wonder in their eyes, now lay bare and still. My heart broke a little in that moment—not just for the lives lost, but for what it meant for my people, for our identity, for our collective spirit.

As someone who has grown up watching Kashmir struggle between moments of beauty and bouts of conflict, I’ve seen how important tourism is to us—not merely for economic survival, but for the emotional dignity it brings. Tourists make us feel seen, valued, and connected to the world beyond the mountains. Their presence tells us that people still believe in the beauty of our land, and by extension, in us.

After the attack in Pahalgam, there was a deep pain in the air. It wasn’t just the grief of what had happened, but the grief of what might follow—the fear, the hesitation, the judgment, the withdrawal. There was a looming worry that we would be remembered once again only through the lens of tragedy, that the warmth and hospitality we have spent years building would be lost in a single moment of violence.

But something quietly began to shift. Not in grand, dramatic gestures, but in the everyday resilience of people who have learned to stand up, again and again. The same streets that had fallen silent began to whisper back to life. Slowly, carefully, and with immense care, the people of Kashmir started doing what they’ve always done best—welcoming others. Hospitality in Kashmir is not a profession; it’s a culture. It runs in the way we greet strangers with salaam, in the way we pour tea not just once but twice, insisting a guest take more. It’s in the way a tourist is not treated as a customer but as an honoured visitor. That spirit—bruised but not broken—began to re-emerge with quiet strength.

The revival of tourism wasn’t just about travel bookings or reopened hotels. It was about a shared decision across towns, villages, and cities that we would not let fear define us. People began participating actively in restoring trust. Safety measures were not just state-driven but locally encouraged. Tourism areas saw increased coordination between communities and officials to ensure that every guest felt protected and welcomed. Locals, especially the younger generation, took it upon themselves to reassure others that Kashmir was still a place of warmth and peace.

I began to notice the changes. I saw how people greeted visitors with extra softness, how signs of reassurance were everywhere—help desks, helpline numbers, medical kits in shops, public awareness banners. And slowly, very slowly, the tourists began to return. Not in the same numbers as before, but in a way that mattered more—deliberate, trusting, hopeful. Their presence was a balm. It reminded us that one tragedy does not erase decades of love and welcome. That even in grief, there is room for healing. And healing, in Kashmir, often takes the form of hospitality. It is in the way people will offer you a meal even when they have little, in the way they will tell you stories of their land not soaked in sorrow but sprinkled with poetry.

As a Kashmiri who had watched from afar in Delhi as the news of the tragedy unfolded, coming back home was painful. It was like returning to a garden where the flowers had been crushed but were still trying to bloom. Yet, in that pain, I found something else too—a deeper understanding of what resilience truly means.

It means not giving up on goodness even when the world tries to strip it away. It means continuing to smile at strangers, continuing to open doors, continuing to say, “You are welcome here,” even when our hearts are heavy. It means understanding that tourism in Kashmir is not just about sights and scenery—it is about human connection. It is about telling the world, again and again, that we are not just a land of mountains and lakes, but a people who refuse to be defined by violence.

Yes, we are tired. Yes, the attacks have left us shaken. But we are not broken. And that is what tourists now feel when they visit—an undercurrent of strength, of care, of quiet grace. The meadows of Gulmarg, the valleys of Pahalgam, the alleys of Srinagar—they are slowly filling up again with voices, laughter, footsteps. And with every returning visitor, a small part of our collective wound begins to heal.

This revival is not just a return to business—it is a return to belonging. For both the host and the guest, it is a shared act of faith. A belief that despite everything, beauty can still be trusted, people can still be kind, and Kashmir can still be loved—not from a distance, but up close.

The pain of Pahalgam will linger for a long time, just as every wound in Kashmir has. But so too will our hospitality. Because that is what defines us in the end—not the darkness we’ve faced, but the light we continue to offer in return.