Some tragedies are so sudden, so brutal, that they tear apart not just lives, but entire narratives. The shooting at Pahalgam’s Baisaran meadow on April 22 was one of those moments. 26 tourists -- ordinary men from across India, along with one visitor from Nepal -- lost their lives to an act of violence that seemed almost medieval in its cruelty. More than 20 others were wounded. For Kashmir, a region that had been carefully piecing together a new image of peace and prosperity, the massacre was a gut punch.
Witnesses spoke of gunmen emerging from the tree line and firing indiscriminately. Panic rippled across the meadow, families scattering, helpless against the bullets. In the chaos, the attackers vanished back into the woods, leaving only silence and bodies behind.
Within hours, a group calling itself The Resistance Front stepped forward to claim responsibility, spinning the bloodshed as a political protest against India's settlement policies. But whatever cause they invoked, it did little to mask the horror unleashed on civilians who had come seeking nothing more radical than a quiet holiday.
Not only had innocent lives been lost, but for Kashmir the fragile gains of recent years -- gains built painstakingly, tourist by tourist -- had been thrown into question. Taxi drivers, hotel clerks, pony owners: People whose livelihoods were tied directly to tourism, poured into the streets in mourning and protest. In southern villages, funeral processions turned into sombre rallies. Anger burned quietly under the grief.
Nation in shock
New Delhi wasted no time. Prime Minister Narendra Modi, mid-way through a foreign tour, cut his trip short. Home Minister Amit Shah and senior officials rushed to Kashmir, meetings piled atop meetings as India scrambled to respond. Modi promised to "hunt down the killers to the ends of the earth" -- a phrase that echoed more like a vow of vengeance than a call for justice.
Across Indian news channels, the narrative hardened swiftly. This wasn’t framed as an isolated act of terror. It was described as a coordinated assault, likely linked to actors across the border. Headlines screamed for action. Retaliation, some anchors argued, was not just inevitable -- it was overdue.
On the streets of Kashmir, however, the mood was less fiery, more despairing. The government declared a day of mourning. Armed patrols and military checkpoints multiplied overnight. And those who had just begun to believe in a future built on tourism and trade were left staring at shuttered hotels and empty taxi stands, wondering how quickly dreams can unravel.
One hotelier, his voice cracking during a local interview, summed it up best: "We were full yesterday. Today, we are deserted."
Predictable cycles
No Kashmir crisis plays out in isolation. Within hours, Pakistan was drawn into the narrative. Islamabad’s officials rejected any suggestion of involvement, calling for a neutral international investigation instead. Interior Minister Mohsin Naqvi struck a familiar chord, speaking of peace and sovereignty, offering cooperation -- while bristling at what they saw as premature accusations.
India, meanwhile, pointed fingers with increasing certainty. Two of the suspected attackers, Indian officials alleged, were Pakistani nationals. Predictably, Pakistan denied this too.
As tensions ratcheted up, the diplomatic fallout began in earnest. Pakistan shut down its airspace to Indian civilian flights. Its ambassador was recalled from Delhi. Trade routes tightened.
This pattern is old, almost mechanical by now. Attack, accusation, denial, escalation. Yet somehow, each cycle feels heavier than the last, carrying a greater risk of tipping into something uncontrollable.
Tourism dreams turned nightmare
For Kashmir’s tourism industry, the massacre couldn’t have come at a worse time. The valley had been on the cusp of a real economic breakthrough. In 2024, more than 3.5 million tourists visited the valley -- numbers not seen in decades. Luxury hotels had sprouted up, old guest houses renovated, entire towns reshaped by the influx of visitors and money.
Pahalgam, with its rolling meadows and cool spring air, had become a favorite, especially for Indians fleeing the heat of the plains. On Instagram and YouTube, Kashmir was being rebranded: Less conflict zone, more paradise rediscovered.
The attack shattered that image in an instant. Tourists rushed to the airports. Airlines scrambled to add emergency flights out. Road convoys clogged the highways leading away from the valley.
Within a day, the proud, bustling promenades of Srinagar and Pahalgam looked hollowed out. Hotels stood empty. Shops shuttered. Tour guides, who just days earlier had been turning away customers, now loitered in silence.
The fear was in the chilling possibility that this was the beginning of a longer collapse, one Kashmiris had seen before and desperately hoped never to repeat.
Tension along the border
Predictably, the attack set off fresh skirmishes along the Line of Control. Gunfire crackled across the border in a grim reprise of the bad old days. Both India and Pakistan put troops on higher alert.
India announced a series of sharp retaliations: Suspending the Indus Waters Treaty -- a dramatic, almost unthinkable move -- and downgrading diplomatic ties. Pakistan retaliated by sealing its border crossings, rerouting flights, and hardening its own rhetoric.
Meanwhile, world powers scrambled to contain the fallout. The United States offered condolences and urged restraint. China, careful as ever, issued a statement mourning the dead but warning against escalation.
Yet beneath the diplomatic platitudes, there was real anxiety. Kashmir has long been a flashpoint, but in recent years, the violence had ebbed. Now, the region seems poised to stumble back into crisis.
Peace at risk
The Pahalgam attack was a turning point, one that could either be managed with care or allowed to spiral into another lost decade for Kashmir.
The truth is, the valley’s peace was always fragile, always conditional. It rested not just on the absence of gunfire but on the quiet confidence of families booking vacations, on the tentative hope of hoteliers expanding their lobbies, on the simple belief that normal life was possible.
That belief has been shattered.
Peace, once lost, is never easily regained.
Md Ibrahim Khalilullah is a writer and analyst with expertise in the law and development sectors. Email: [email protected]
