Pahalgam, often called “the valley of shepherds,” rests gently in the cradle of the Himalayas. With its snow-fed Lidder River, dense pine forests, and sprawling meadows, it’s easy to see why this corner of Kashmir is called “paradise on Earth.” Each spring, travelers from across the world arrive to ride ponies into the hills, sip hot kahwa by the riverside, and breathe in the crisp mountain air. It is a place where time slows down and serenity fills every breath.
This year, the arrival of spring brought more than blooming flowers — it brought hope. After years of pandemic lockdowns and political tensions, Kashmir’s tourist season was finally stirring back to life. Markets began buzzing again, homestays reopened their doors, and visitors started returning.
For many local women, this revival wasn’t just economic — it was deeply personal. Tourism had become a path to independence. Women were stepping out of their homes and into new roles: hosting travelers in homestays, selling traditional crafts, running food stalls, leading nature walks, and offering embroidery workshops to curious tourists. Slowly, silently, they were stitching together lives of dignity.
Then came April 22, 2025. On that day, in broad daylight, five armed militants attacked a group of people in Pahalgam, opening fire with chilling precision. It was sudden, merciless. Twenty-six people lost their lives, and more than twenty others were injured. It was the deadliest terror attack India had witnessed in recent years, and its impact reverberated far beyond the blood-stained valley.
National headlines captured the horror of the moment — but what happened in the days that followed, especially to the women of Kashmir, was barely mentioned. Tourists began cancelling in droves. According to a recent LocalCircles survey, more than 62 families across India abandoned their travel plans to Kashmir. Travel agencies were flooded with calls for refunds. Hotels and guesthouses stood empty. The laughter, the click of cameras, the joyful hum of a region trying to heal — all of it vanished overnight. And once again, silence returned to the valley. But this silence was not just the absence of visitors. For countless women, it meant the loss of their only source of income. It meant doors closing — on opportunity, on movement, on possibility. Rubeena, who runs a modest kahwa stall near Aru Valley, spoke through tears: “We had just started recovering from COVID-19. April was supposed to be our busiest time. And now, we are back to nothing.”
In Anantnag, artisan Shabnam echoed the pain: “We had tourists who returned every year, who remembered our names. Now, they’re afraid to come. And just like that, we are invisible again.”
Studies in recent years have shown that tourism in Kashmir offered women more than jobs — it gave them confidence, skills, and a space in the public sphere. In a place long scarred by conflict, these acts — selling tea, guiding a walk, teaching embroidery — were radical steps forward.
Every kahwa poured, every shawl stitched, was a quiet act of resilience.
Now, with fear in the air again, families are reluctant to let women step outside. Daughters are told to stay home. Homestays once proudly run by women stand deserted. Kahwa stalls are shuttered. Craft workshops lie still. The energy that was just beginning to return has gone cold again.
And this is where the true damage of terror lies — not just in lives lost, but in dreams interrupted. In the retreat of women from the spaces they had only just begun to inhabit. In the silence that replaces the sound of ambition. Kashmir’s instability doesn’t just make headlines; it crushes livelihoods. And while the world debates security and geopolitics, it is the women — without safety nets or alternative employment — who bear the brunt of the fallout. Every cycle of violence sets them back years. When we speak of Kashmir, let us not reduce it to borders and political disputes.
Let us also see the human cost — especially for those whose stories rarely reach the surface. It’s not just about danger. It’s about lost dignity, interrupted growth, and deferred dreams. Pahalgam has always symbolised peace. But if we allow violence to keep defining this region, we are not just losing a tourist destination — we are losing the women who dared to hope. We are letting fear win over freedom, silence over voice, and darkness over the promise of spring. And that, truly, would be the greatest loss of all.
(The writer is an associate member of the Institute of Chartered Accountants of India. Views expressed are personal)