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“I thought I would die holding my grandchildren that night,” says 58-year-old Parveen Akhtar, pointing to the charred patch of land next to her home in Uri. “We were all asleep when the house started shaking like an earthquake. The blast was so loud I felt it tear through my chest. My grandchildren screamed, the windows exploded, and a piece of the roof fell. We crawled under a table and held each other. I prayed harder than I’ve ever prayed. We live hard lives here, but this kind of fear it’s not something the heart forgets.”
That terrifying night in the border village of Uri shattered more than glass. It shattered the fragile calm families had clung to. The mortar shell echoed the brutal violence that followed the deadly militant attack in Pahalgam. On April 22, 2025, a group of militants ambushed a tourist group near the popular tourist destination of Pahalgam, killing 26 people and injuring many others. The attack, which specifically targeted tourists, was seen by many as an attempt to stir up communal tensions. The militants reportedly singled out people based on their religion, further igniting fears across the region.
In retaliation, India launched ‘Operation Sindoor’, a series of aerial strikes targeting militant camps across the border. The Indian airstrikes were meant to dismantle the militants’ network and send a strong message of deterrence. Pakistan responded with shelling along the Line of Control (LoC), particularly hitting civilian areas in Uri, Rajouri, and Poonch, pushing the region back into an old, painful cycle of violence. The consequences were devastating, innocent lives lost, homes destroyed, and an entire population living in constant fear.
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“My son flinches at every sound now a door bang, a car horn. He thinks it’s another shell,” says Abdul Rashid, a schoolteacher in Salamabad. “That night, he saw blood on our cow, glass stuck in a neighbor’s leg. He hasn’t gone out after sunset since. He asks me if the soldiers are coming to save us, and I don’t know what to say. I teach him about history in school, but now we are the history — the kind filled with fear, loss, and things no child should witness.”
The impact of the violence is devastating for families like Abdul’s. The sound of war now punctuates daily life. The innocuous noises of everyday life like a door closing, or a car horn have become triggers for terror. Children who once played in the open are now confined to their homes, hiding from the violence that has upended their worlds. The psychological scars are just as deep as the physical ones.
“I can still hear her scream,” whispers Zahida Begum in Rajouri’s Nowshera, remembering the moment her daughter’s school was hit. “I ran barefoot, tripping over stones, crying. The building was cracked. Smoke everywhere. I found her shaking in a corner. Since then, she won’t go back. She clings to me like a baby, even in her sleep. And I lie to her I tell her we’re safe, that it won’t happen again. But inside, I’m just as broken. I’m a mother who can’t promise her child safety.”
Zahida’s story is another heart-wrenching example of the toll war takes on families. Her daughter’s school was struck by a shell, leaving the building cracked and the classrooms filled with dust. The emotional aftermath has been just as devastating as the physical destruction. Zahida’s daughter, once a carefree child, now trembles at the thought of leaving their home. The scars left by the attack go beyond the broken walls and shattered windows. The fear has taken root in her young heart, and it is a fear that no parent can erase with mere words.
In Poonch, the price of this war is written in blood. “He was my only son,” says Bashir Ahmed, sitting beside the wreckage of his house in Shahpur. “Arif was just nine. He was dreaming beside me when the blast came. It threw me across the room. When I woke up, he wasn’t breathing. My wife hasn’t spoken properly since. She still cooks for him. Still folds his clothes. I keep hearing his laughter, but it’s gone. They said it was crossfire. But for me, it was the end of everything.”
Bashir’s voice cracks with pain as he recalls the loss of his young son, Arif. The blast that killed Arif didn’t just take a life it took a part of Bashir’s soul. His wife, too, is lost in her grief, unable to come to terms with the brutal loss of their child. The empty room is a constant reminder of the life they once had. The explosion was called “crossfire” by authorities, but to Bashir, it was a senseless tragedy that claimed his son’s future and left his family in a state of unbearable grief.
“We sleep with our shoes on, ready to run,” says Muhammad Latif, a farmer in Rajouri’s Dheri village. “We’ve left our homes, our cattle, everything. We now live in a school building that could be hit too. At night, I listen for the sound of shells. We don’t even talk much everyone’s scared their voice might bring trouble. My children ask if they can go back to their toys. I tell them soon, even though I don’t believe it. This isn’t living. It’s waiting to die slowly.”
The trauma of the border conflict has forced many families like Muhammad’s to seek shelter in whatever buildings they can find. What once was a classroom is now a makeshift home, offering little comfort in the face of constant threats. The fear that clings to their daily lives has left people unable to even speak openly. The quiet, once a symbol of peace, is now a harbinger of fear. And the question that lingers in every parent’s mind is whether their children will ever get to live a normal life again.
“My son doesn’t speak anymore,” says Fatima Jan from Uri, her voice trembling. “He was such a talkative boy. Now, after the shelling, he just stares. He clings to me when thunder strikes. He doesn’t ask for his favorite food. He doesn’t play. The animals are gone, the cowshed destroyed but it’s his silence that breaks me. Something inside him has died. What will happen to a generation that only learns to fear and hide?”
Fatima’s words are filled with the sorrow of a mother who has seen her child change in ways she cannot understand. Her son’s silence speaks volumes. The shelling, the fear, the constant threat of death have robbed him of his innocence. Fatima’s heartbreak is shared by countless parents who have witnessed the emotional destruction of their children. This generation is being shaped not by education or play, but by trauma and loss.
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“We support our army, yes we want justice for those killed in Pahalgam,” says Mushtaq Ahmed in Poonch. “But this isn’t justice. This is punishment. Our homes are in ruins, our children are afraid of the sky. The militants are hiding. We’re the ones out in the open, paying the price. We never asked for war. We asked for dignity. To live like other Indians with lights on at night and no bunkers in the garden. Is that too much to want?”
Mushtaq’s frustration reflects the sentiment of many border villagers who feel they are the ones caught in the crossfire. While military operations may target militants across the border, it is the civilians who bear the brunt. Their lives are torn apart by conflict, and yet they continue to hope for peace a peace that has eluded them for decades.
“I feel like I’m living in a story that never ends,” says Imran, a 20-year-old college student from Poonch. “My grandfather told me about 1947, 1965, 1999. Now it’s our turn to run for cover, to carry wounded neighbors, to bury children. I keep asking myself when will it stop? Will I ever graduate in peace? Will my children be born into another war? Or will someone finally hear us and say, enough?”
Imran’s words echo the despair of a generation that has never known peace. From one conflict to the next, the people of Kashmir have been caught in a cycle of violence that seems unending. Imran looks to the future, but what does that future hold for him and for the children of this region? Will they ever know a life free from the sounds of shells and the fear of war?
“No one here wants revenge,” says Shakeela from Dheri, gripping a bag of medicine in her lap. “We’ve lost too much already. We just want a night where we can sleep without fear. We want our children to laugh again. To go to school. To come home safe. We want our lives back not just from the enemy across the border, but from this endless fear. If peace has a price, we’ve paid it many times. Now we just want to live.”
As the night falls once again, the people of these border villages brace themselves for another uncertain evening. They cling to one another, hoping for a night without explosions, a night where their children can sleep peacefully. But the sound of distant shelling still lingers in memory, reminding them that their lives have never truly been safe.
On 10 May, both India and Pakistan agreed to a fresh ceasefire along the Line of Control a decision that brought a fragile sense of relief to war-weary villages. For the first time in weeks, families stepped out into the sun without scanning the sky. Children picked up their toys again.
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Yet, for many, the silence feels temporary — just a pause, not real peace. The fear hasn’t gone; it’s only hiding beneath the quiet.
“We’ve seen many ceasefires,” says Bashir Ahmed, standing outside his cracked home. “They begin with hope and end with heartbreak. One day it’s calm, the next day the sky falls again.”
He looks toward the hills, his eyes tired. “How long will this one last? A few days? Maybe weeks? We pray it holds, but we live ready to run. That’s how we survive here.”
In these villages, people still pack emergency bags, children still wake at loud sounds, and families still whisper at night. The guns may be silent for now, but the fear never truly fades.