The human cost extends beyond economics. The image of a young bride sitting beside her husband’s lifeless body has become seared into the national consciousness. Their honeymoon, meant to be the beginning of a life together, ended in a hail of bullets.
By Umar Manzoor Shah
Abdul Majeed Mir strolls leisurely among the purple crocus flower rows in Pampore’s saffron fields as the morning mist hovers low over them. His family has been growing this valuable spice, called “red gold,” for many generations, but now his hands go through the harvest mechanically. There is a noticeable lack of the typical commotion of tourists haggling over saffron packets.
Mir rubs a pinch of the fragrant stigma between his fingers and sighs, “This should be our best season in years.
“Who will buy it now, even though the yield is great? Most tourists left within hours of the attack.” His gaze moves over the deserted roadside stands where merchants would typically vie for customers’ attention.
While the Pahalgam terror attack on April 22 lasted less than 30 minutes, its effects will be felt for years to come. Twenty-six people were killed and numerous others were injured when four gunmen opened fire at one of Kashmir’s most visited tourist spots. Local employees like Adil Shah, a 32-old pony-wala who was the only provider for his elderly parents, as well as honeymooners and vacationing families, were among the victims.
The attack ratcheted up tensions between India and Pakistan, with New Delhi’s response being to revoke visas, close a border crossing and suspend the Indus Water Treaty. The region has been in dispute between the two countries and China since, and in 2019 India revoked the self-governing special status for Jammu and Kashmir. Islamabad closed its airspace to India and warned that interference in the water supply will be considered an act of war.
Livelihoods
The exodus started as word got out about the massacre. Dal Lake houseboats filled up in a matter of hours. As houseboat owner Tariq Ahmed remembers, “Guests were packing one minute and photographing the sunset the next. All twelve of my boats were empty by midnight.
His voice cracks as he adds, “They didn’t even wait for breakfast. Just left in whatever transport they could find.”
The statistics present a bleak picture. Within 48 hours, 90 percent of scheduled tourist reservations were cancelled. More than 2,000 tour packages were cancelled. The immediate losses are estimated by the hospitality industry to be more than fifteen million dollars. However, there are innumerable human tragedies playing out in slow motion behind these figures.
Arif Khan, owner of a souvenir shop in Srinagar’s Lal Chowk market, puts unsold walnut wood carvings back in their boxes. Wiping dust from an elaborately carved jewelry box, he explains, “April to September is when we earn our entire year’s income.”
“I’ll have to pull my kids out of school if tourists don’t come back.” As he puts another unsold item back on the shelf, his hands shake.
Tourism is just one aspect of the crisis. Shopian apple grower Ghulam Mohi-ud-din Khan strolls through his orchard. He looks at a young flower on one of his apple trees and remarks, “Nearly a third of our direct sales come from tourists.
“They purchase boxes to take home after visiting the orchards. Without them…” he ponders as he gazes down the endless rows of trees that symbolize his family’s livelihood.
Devastating Psychological Toll
The timing of the attack couldn’t have been worse for the farmers of Kashmir. This was meant to be a recovery season following years of droughts and erratic weather patterns brought on by climate change. Pampore has the highest saffron yield in recent memory. There were lots of apple blossoms in Shopian. Farmers now have to deal with the possibility of their harvests rotting in warehouses as the tourism industry collapses.
Master carpet weaver Mohammad Yusuf works alone in his quiet workshop in downtown Srinagar’s handicraft district. Usually, a dozen craftspeople would be working, and the sound of looms would fill the air. Only Yusuf is left today. He runs his fingers across a partially completed carpet and says, “I had to let everyone go.
“No orders if there are no tourists. Since my showroom hasn’t seen any customers in three days, how can I pay wages?”
The psychological toll is equally devastating. In Pahalgam, where the attack occurred, hotelier Imtiyaz Ahmad sits in his empty lobby.
“We had just finished renovations,” he says, staring at the vacant reception desk. “New furniture, new linen, everything ready for peak season.” His investment of nearly USD 50,000 now seems like a cruel joke. “The banks won’t care that there was an attack. The loans still need to be paid.”
For pony-walas and shikara operators, the situation is even more dire. These daily wage workers have no savings to fall back on. “I used to earn eight hundred rupees a day [10 USD] taking tourists on rides,” says pony-wala Bashir Ahmad. “Now I’m lucky if I make fifty rupees carrying firewood.”
He gestures to his two ponies standing listlessly in the shade. “How do I feed them? How do I feed my family?”
Human Cost
The human cost extends beyond economics. The image of a young bride sitting beside her husband’s lifeless body has become seared into the national consciousness. Their honeymoon, meant to be the beginning of a life together, ended in a hail of bullets. Similar stories echo across India as families mourn loved ones who went to Kashmir seeking beauty and found only tragedy.
Yet amid the despair, there are glimmers of hope and humanity. Local residents opened their homes to stranded tourists, offering food and shelter free of charge. Doctors tirelessly worked around the clock to treat the wounded. “This is not who we are,” says college student Aisha Malik, who helped coordinate relief efforts. “We want the world to know the real Kashmir—the one of hospitality and peace.”
Uncertainty
As the sun sets over Dal Lake, the silence is deafening. Where there should be laughter and the splash of oars, there is only stillness. The houseboats sit empty. The shikaras remain tied to their docks. The souvenir shops have turned off their lights.
Abdul Majeed Mir walks home through his saffron fields, the day’s harvest in his basket.
“We survived the worst of the conflict in the 1990s,” he says. “We’ll survive this too.”
But the uncertainty in his eyes betrays his words. For Kashmir’s tourism-dependent economy and for the thousands of families who rely on it, the coming months will be a test of resilience unlike any they’ve faced before.
“The terrorists may have only pulled their triggers for minutes, but the echoes of those gunshots will reverberate through Kashmir’s valleys for years to come. In the empty hotels, the silent markets, and the untrodden paths of what was once a paradise for travelers, the true cost of violence becomes painfully clear. It’s measured not just in lives lost, but in dreams deferred, livelihoods destroyed, and a people’s faith in the future shaken to its core,” Showkat Ahmad Malik, a fruit grower from Kashmir’s Anantnag, told Inter Press Service.
Tourism accounts for 6.98 percent of the state’s GDP and is considered a key sector of Kashmir’s economy; 80 percent of Kashmir’s population, which is 12.5 million, is directly or indirectly dependent on it.
This piece has been sourced from Inter Press Service.
