Kashmir's Stillness Tells a Story

After the Baisaran bloodbath, visitors disappeared and silence took over. But for Kashmiris, tourism isn't just about survival, it's about hope.

- Ahmad Ayaz

When the recent attack in Pahalgam made the news, everything changed in an instant.

Tourists cancelled their trips. Hotels sat empty. Streets that usually buzzed with life fell silent.

In places like Lal Chowk and Dalgate, even the usual evening crowd faded fast. It wasn't just a dip in business, it felt like a wound reopening.

This is what violence does to Kashmir. It doesn't just take lives. It takes away the everyday rhythm of living.

Tourism here isn't just a seasonal industry. It's the thread that ties together livelihoods, memories, and hope. When a visitor steps into a shikara on Dal Lake or hikes through the meadows of Gulmarg, they do more than admire the view. They help keep entire communities afloat.

Roughly one in five people in Kashmir depend on tourism, directly or indirectly. That includes hotel owners, drivers, guides, cooks, craftspeople, and ponywallahs.

When a tourist comes, it sets off a chain. A houseboat gets cleaned, a basket of fresh apples is delivered, a shawl is sold, and a family eats dinner that night.

Handicrafts those delicate papier-mâché boxes, Pashmina shawls, and hand-knotted carpets - aren't just souvenirs. They're cultural legacies. But with no tourists to buy them, they gather dust in locked shops.

After COVID-19, things were finally picking up. Kashmir welcomed over 18 million tourists in 2022. In 2023, the number touched 2.1 million just in the first quarter. And then, this attack happened.