No Politics Over the Dead

For the first time in 35 years, all Kashmiris and politicians are speaking the same language—the language of condemnation

- Toufiq Rashid

IN July 2016, militant leader Burhan Wani, 22, was killed in a gun battle with government forces in Kukernag, Anantnag. Despite restrictions on movement, thousands assembled in Tral, Wani’s hometown, to participate in his funeal prayers. Eyewitnesses said the prayers had to be conducted multiple times owing to the sheer number of mourners. Several others performed funerals in absentia in south, central and north Kashmir.

The news of Wani's death triggered protests across the Valley. Several installations of security forces were reportedly attacked and protesters were injured in clashes. Fearing more violence, the state government imposed curfew-like restrictions in Srinagar, Pulwama, Anantnag, Shopian, Sopore, Kupwara and Kulgam. Internet services were snapped across the Valley. Kashmir came to a standstill.

Fast forward to 2025, Kashmir shuts again, spontaneously, without any prompts from political or social organisations. On April 22, in a matter of hours, Kashmir Valley—a buzzing tourist hotspot—turned silent. People were stunned after the Pahalgam terror attack. As tourists started packing and leaving, frantically looking for the first flight or train back home, something was gradually shifting in the Valley. The change in narrative unfolded over the next few days.

The terror attack that killed 26, brought people together on a common platform. Kashmiris and politicians cutting across political lines were speaking the same language—the language of condemnation. For the first time in 35 years, that the entire Valley reacted furiously and openly to an act of terror. For the people of Kashmir, known for their hospitality, the massacre was devastating. Kashmir reacted with rage to the brutality of the attack on its guests.