Border Economies, Broken Lives

EDITORS’ NOTE: Throughout this essay, names marked with * have been changed to protect the source’s identity. This is due to the enormous fear of state reprisal for speaking out honestly about conditions in Kashmir.

The contacts from the Pakistan-administered Kashmir side were arranged by Haroon Janjua. Additionally, due to restrictions and limited access to the border areas of Indian administered Kashmir following a recent escalation between India and Pakistan, reporting and interviews in these areas were conducted remotely via phone through local sources.

SRINAGAR, India: In the beautiful border town of Uri, nestled close to the Line of Control (LoC) in Indian-administered Kashmir, 48-year-old Bashir Ahmad stands before a monumental, rusting iron gate.

The gate, a barrier of steel and memory, once swung open to the bustling markets of Muzaffarabad, capital of Pakistan-administered Kashmir. For years it had allowed exchange of goods, kin, and vital conversations. Now it stands shut, creaking open only in the wind that blows across one of the world’s most militarized frontiers.¹

But for countless individuals on the ground, the official narrative feels distant, even irrelevant, to their daily struggle. “It was the only tangible thing that made the Line of Control feel less like an open wound, less like a permanent scar,” Bashir said, gesturing toward the empty road that once signified hope for a better future.

Bashir’s hands once deftly counted walnuts and checked bales of shawls. He was renowned in local trading circles, dealing in wares entwined with Kashmiri identity: saffron, Pashmina shawls, and the rich, earthy walnuts unique to the valley. When the cross-LoC trade, a lifeline for countless families, was abruptly halted in 2019, Bashir lost more than just his substantial income; he lost a part of his identity. His warehouse is now in decay, filled with stacks of abandoned, rotting cartons and unclaimed goods.

“We were traders, striving for an honest living. We were not criminals, yet they [the authorities] painted us all with the same broad brush of suspicion,” he whispered to me in an informal meeting near the Bund side of Lal Chowk in Srinagar, Kashmir. I had called him there, and as we sat down, with the soft murmur of the Jhelum River flowing nearby, he began to unburden himself. Over steaming cups of tea, his story began to unfold.

Local transporters, who once navigated treacherous mountain roads with their cargo, as well as countless small-scale vendors in Uri and its surrounding areas saw their hard-earned livelihoods vanish overnight. Entire support industries, from repair shops to tea stalls near the trade facilitation centres, withered.

The cross-LoC trade, initiated in 2008, was envisioned as one of the most ambitious and impactful confidence-building measures (CBMs) between India and Pakistan.²It operated on a unique barter system between designated traders, bypassing the complexities of formal banking and currency exchange and allowing for direct local trade. For a region long defined by militarized borders and hostile diplomacy, this new trade relationship became a rare wellspring of peace, fostering personal connections that flouted geopolitical animosity.

Its sudden and indefinite suspension came after allegations from the Indian side that the cross-LoC trade was being widely misused for illegal activities, including the smuggling of narcotics, illegal arms, and counterfeit currency, often with alleged links to Pakistan based militant groups.

The Past and Present of the Kashmir Conflict

Nestled in the Himalayas, Kashmir is a geographically diverse region encompassing mountains, valleys and plains. It is culturally rich and strategically vital. To understand the enduring volatility of the Kashmir border, it’s essential to look beyond the map and into the strategic stakes that keep three powerful nations locked in rivalry.

India administers Jammu and the Kashmir Valley. Pakistan controls parts of the region including Azad Kashmir and Gilgit-Baltistan. China holds Aksai Chin in the east. But the dispute isn’t only about territory – it’s about resources, defense, and influence. Kashmir’s rivers are a lifeline for both India and Pakistan: India harnesses them for hydropower, while Pakistan depends on their flow for nearly 80 percent of its agriculture. The region’s high-altitude terrain also gives India a critical military advantage, which Pakistan sees as a threat. At the same time, India has long accused Pakistan’s intelligence agency of backing anti-India groups in the region, reinforcing its desire to maintain firm control.

Meanwhile, China’s interest in Kashmir is far more strategic than often acknowledged – Aksai Chin forms a crucial part of China’s overland Belt and Road ambitions.³ Beijing also sees value in aligning with Pakistan in order to counterbalance India’s growing influence as a regional power.

The roots of this land dispute stretch back to the partition of British India in 1947, when the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir, which had a Muslim majority but a Hindu ruler, became a critical point of contention between the newly independent India and Pakistan.

This geopolitical fate has tragically evolved through multiple armed conflicts, with both nations laying claim to the entirety of the region. There have been three major wars between India and Pakistan.⁴ The “First Indo-Pakistani War” (1947-48) began shortly after the partition and was ignited by tribal militias from Pakistan, leading the Maharaja of Kashmir to appeal to India for military assistance. The war concluded with an UN-mediated ceasefire, establishing a de facto division that would eventually become the Line of Control (LoC).

Indian Army trucks carrying supplies move in a convoy near Changthang village, towards the Line of Actual Control (LAC) in the Ladakh region of Indian-administered Kashmir. Photo Sajad Hameed

Beyond these full-scale wars, the two nuclear-armed neighbours have engaged in numerous armed skirmishes and border clashes, most notably the Kargil War in 1999, a localized conflict that brought India and Pakistan to the brink of wider confrontation.

In recent years, the conflict has seen significant escalations. The Pulwama suicide attack in February 2019, for example, killed 40 Indian paramilitary personnel. This led to heightened tensions, Indian airstrikes on alleged terror camps, and even an aerial dogfight between the two countries.⁵

Indian Army trucks carrying supplies move in a convoy towards forward areas in the Sonmarg region of Indian-administered Kashmir. Photo Sajad Hameed

In August of that same year, the Indian government unilaterally abrogated Article 370, a special provision that had been enshrined in the Constitution of India when it came into effect in 1950.⁶ Primarily drafted by N. Gopalaswami Ayyangar, it had granted Jammu and Kashmir significant autonomy, allowing the region to have its own constitution, flag, and control over all matters except defense, foreign affairs, and communications. In abrogating Article 370, the Indian government stripped Jammu and Kashmir of its special autonomous status and reorganized the formerly unified territory into two Union Territories.

This move was a significant change to the region’s constitutional relationship with India and was met with widespread protests. In response, India imposed a severe communication blackout and security lockdown in Kashmir. And as we’ll see, the resulting economic devastation would lay the groundwork for the brief but violent war between India and Pakistan earlier this year.

The End of Trade and its Economic Consequences in Kashmir

The abrogation of Article 370 and the end of Kashmir’s relative autonomy in August 2019 were portrayed by the Indian government as a pivotal step towards integration, development, and an end to separatism.⁷

For countless Kashmiris, it has instead deepened a sense of emotional disconnect from national politics, reinforcing feelings of disempowerment. The promise of unprecedented investment and economic development, touted as a panacea for the region’s long standing issues, has largely failed to materialize on the ground, or else has been unevenly distributed.⁸

Youth unemployment, a chronic problem, has consistently remained among the highest in India According to recent data from the Centre for Monitoring Indian Economy (CMIE), the unemployment rate in Jammu and Kashmir hovered around 11.8% in December 2024 – nearly double the national average of 6.4% – whereas among the aged 15-29 demographic in these areas, the unemployment rate stood at 32%.⁹ This persistently high unemployment has shattered the aspirations of a generation, particularly in densely populated districts like Baramulla, Anantnag, and Pulwama. Many young graduates, who once envisioned promising careers in emerging sectors like IT or tourism, now find themselves either in menial, exploitative jobs or struggling desperately to find any meaningful work at all. Their disillusionment and hopelessness are palpable in conversations with them.¹⁰

In Pampore, 23-year-old Mahira Jan,* a determined young woman, runs a small tailoring unit from her home, stitching clothes for local clients.

“We were constantly told that the removal of 370 would bring new markets, new opportunities, that the world would open up for us,” she says, pausing to thread a needle, her brow furrowed. “Instead, all we got was more check posts, more barriers, and more uncertainty. The promised investments feel like a mirage.”¹¹

Farmers, the backbone of Kashmir’s economy, have also been severely impacted. With the loss of certain subsidies linked to the erstwhile special status, and the uncertainty surrounding new land laws, many farmers now struggle to sustain their generations-old apple orchards or transport their produce across former administrative lines without bureaucratic hurdles.¹²

Apple growers in Shopian, a region famous for its fruit, lament that their exports have significantly declined due to a lack of adequate state support and market access challenges.

“The removal of Article 370 essentially cut the main cord connecting us to our past, and during the initial years nobody, neither us nor the authorities, seems to know how to tie it back properly,” says Junaid Ahmed,* a second-generation orchardist, his hands calloused from years of tending fruit trees.

His words speak to his profound sense of having lost not just a livelihood but a way of life. Adding to the fragile economic situation, Kashmir’s vital tourism industry, which had finally shown promising signs of recovery after years of conflict-induced setbacks, suffered another devastating blow following the April 2025 attack in Pahalgam.

This incident, specifically targeting tourists, once again shattered confidence, leading to widespread cancellations and leaving thousands of hoteliers, houseboat owners, pony walas, and local guides in despair, facing another season of financial ruin.¹³

The local press, already operating under immense pressure, has also felt the sharp edge¹⁴ of the new reality. Journalists speak of frequent, intimidating summons, directives for story takedowns, and an intense, almost suffocating, increase in scrutiny.

“Even reporting basic facts like unemployment statistics feels like an act of sedition in this climate,” confides one Srinagar-based journalist, who requested anonymity for fear of reprisal. The space for independent reporting has shrunk dramatically, leading to widespread self-censorship.

Where formal regulation ends, desperate improvisation begins. In the rugged, forbidding hills of Poonch and Rajouri on the Indian side, and Kotli and Rawalakot on the Pakistani side, traditional trade has been forced underground.

Twenty-seven-year-old Shabbir Ahmed,* a graduate with a degree he can’t use, is among dozens of young men who now trek treacherous goat paths and dense pine trails under the cloak of night. Their cargo is made up of high-demand items: life-saving medicines, tobacco, mobile phone accessories, and sometimes even voice recordings or sensitive documents.

“We don’t carry bombs or weapons, Allah forbid,” he scoffs, a bitter edge to his voice. “We carry phone chargers, medicines, things people genuinely need. We are trying to survive.”

For Shabbir and scores of others like him, this clandestine activity is not a criminal enterprise driven by malice – it is the only available avenue for employment, a desperate means to put food on the table. “There are no jobs here. Formal trade is dead. There is no real peace. What else do you expect us to do? Starve?” he asks, his dark eyes flashing with frustration.

His university degree in economics, which once gave him hope for a stable career, now sits gathering dust while he endures arduous night walks and perilous snow treks through the unforgiving terrain. The risks are immense: encounters with wild animals, harsh weather, accidental falls, and the threat of border patrols are ever-present.

Across the torrential Jhelum River in Muzaffarabad – the bustling, yet often tense, capital of Pakistan-administered Kashmir – 60-year old Zulekha Begum* traces a wavering line on a worn, folded map. Her eldest son, Arif, a textile worker, lives somewhere beyond that etched line, in the remote, rugged terrain of Tangdhar, on the Indian side. Their last physical encounter was in 2016, or perhaps even earlier; the exact year now blurs into the mists of her memory. “He came with the bus service, the Karavan-e-Aman,” she recalls, her voice a fragile whisper. “We hugged for so long at the gate, I almost forgot he had grown a full beard.”

Since its inception in 2005, the Karavan-e-Aman (Caravan of Peace) bus service had offered a rare, precious means for thousands of divided Kashmiri families to reunite, bridging the chasm of an arbitrary border. At its beginning, it carried hundreds of emotional passengers each month, facilitating tearful reunions and allowing families to participate in life events otherwise rendered impossible. Like other enterprises, the bus service has been suspended¹⁵ since 2019, deepening the region’s sense of isolation and despair.¹⁶

“I recently tried to mail him the new shawl I knitted for Eid,” Zulekha says, her eyes welling up. “But the postal service said it couldn’t be delivered. It never reached him.”

The harsh reality of separation has become an enduring, normalized fact of life in Kashmir’s border districts on both sides. Marriages are indefinitely postponed, dreams of joint family celebrations remain just that. Funerals are attended only in spirit, with prayers offered across an unbridgeable distance. Cousins who once shared textbooks and childhood games now exist merely as names on a list of phone contacts that cannot be called.

An old man walks along a path near the border in a village in the Uri district of Indian-administered Kashmir. Photo Sajad Hameed

In Teetwal an elderly man, Ghulam Nabi,* has kept his battered old radio tuned to the same faint frequency for decades, hoping that one day a transmission will come in. He yearns for a voice, a song, anything familiar from across the LoC. Once, he recounts, he heard someone playing an old Kashmiri folk song, a melody from his youth.

“I just sat there and cried,” he murmurs. “It felt like my own brother was singing directly to me, a ghost from the past reaching out.” The human cost extends beyond direct family ties. Communities that once shared spiritual leaders, traditional healers, or even sports teams across the border now find themselves fragmented. Sufi shrines once accessible from both sides now sit isolated, their cross border congregations a thing of the past.

By the river, the long-closed Godown Market still bears the faded, ghostly logo of the Cross-LoC Trade Union. The stalls that once buzzed with activity – truck drivers loading goods bound for Salamabad, traders meticulously cross-checking handwritten manifests, the constant chatter of haggling – are now enveloped in silence. Only thick cobwebs adorn their rusted shutters.

“We were a vibrant community of more than 100 licensed traders in Muzaffarabad alone, directly engaged in this cross-border commerce,” recounts the former general secretary of the local Cross-LoC Trade Association, his voice filled with a lingering sense of disbelief. “When the trade was suspended in 2019, our entire sophisticated network, built over a decade, collapsed overnight. Families that had meticulously built livelihoods for generations were suddenly, inexplicably, without income. It was an economic earthquake.”

Fencing near the Line of Control, which divides Kashmir between India and Pakistan, at Machil — the last village on the Indian-administered side of Kashmir. Photo Sajad Hameed

Among the many struggling is Mohammad Feroz,* a weary 44-year-old, whose family had dealt in dry fruits and essential surgical supplies for decades. Discarded sacks of rice and a thick pile of outdated invoices are all that are left in his once-thriving warehouse.

“We tried desperately to pivot, to shift to local trade within Pakistan,” he explains, “but the local market here is simply too small, too saturated to absorb what we once traded. Most of us are now deep in debt, our assets mortgaged and our futures uncertain.”

In Rawalakot, another town in Pakistan-administered Kashmir, young people like 21-year-old Rimsha Bashir,* a bright university student, increasingly feel that their career dreams are futile, overshadowed by the economic reality.

“My elder brother used to work as an assistant to traders, helping with customs slips and logistics. He earned more than our father, who is a government clerk,” she says, her voice tinged with sadness. Now he sells mobile SIM cards on the street. “I’m studying business administration, but I constantly ask myself, what future is there for me here, for any of us, if the borders remain closed?”

The pervasive sense of hopelessness and the lack of viable economic opportunities have spurred a quiet, yet significant, wave of youth migration from border areas of Pakistan-administered Kashmir. Many young men and women are forced to seek work¹⁷ in Pakistan’s larger cities or, increasingly, in the Gulf states – a process that further erodes the social fabric, drains Kashmir of human capital, and weakens the community bonds of their ancestral villages.

A comprehensive study¹⁸ conducted by the Bureau of Research on Industry and Economic Fundamentals (BRIEF)¹⁹ in January 2021, titled “Bridging the Divide: Cross-LoC Trade and the Politics of Connectivity,” found that 4,229 families – including traders, truckers, laborers, guest-house staff, and mechanics – were severely affected by the April 2019 suspension of trade at Uri–Muzaffarabad and Poonch–Rawalakot.

Pakistani border villagers like Sajjad Hussain* in Chinari describe the profound shift in their lives in weary and resigned tones.

“First we lost the legal trade, then the bus service, our only connection to our loved ones. Now, we largely survive on meager remittances sent by relatives working tirelessly in Gulf countries,” he states, looking out toward the distant hills. “The state, it seems, remembers us only during elections or, God forbid, during periods of cross-border shelling.”

From the Pakistani side, community initiatives to support separated families (often run by overwhelmed local NGOs) struggle with limited resources, straining against the inevitable emotional and psychological trauma that will shape generations in the region.

In any protracted conflict, there are always those who profit from the continued instability, from the very paralysis of peace. The longer a genuine peace is deferred, the more certain sectors and individuals seem to thrive.

This hidden economy of conflict runs parallel to the suffering of ordinary citizens. Defense contractors, security companies, and surveillance technology vendors find lucrative markets in these volatile zones, offering sophisticated equipment and services that range from high-tech fencing to complex data analysis systems. Political parties on both sides of the border often benefit²⁰ by trading in narratives of fear and national security threats, consolidating power by painting the “other” as an existential enemy, diverting public attention from domestic failures. In both Delhi and Islamabad, official narratives consistently emphasize “national integrity,” “border security,” and the omnipresent threat of “anti national elements.” These narratives, constantly amplified by state controlled media, dominate public discourse, overshadowing the human cost of the conflict.

“It’s like we are perpetual subjects in a vast, ongoing laboratory of loyalty,” a prominent scholar in Srinagar told me, wishing not to be named. “They are constantly testing how much we, the people of Kashmir, can endure, how much silence we can internalize, before we simply vanish as distinct individuals, before our unique identity is completely eroded.”

The financial flows are significant. Local contractors with political connections often see their businesses boom in this environment.

From “Cold Peace” to Hot War in Kashmir

In recent years, the evocative yet troubling term “cold peace” has gained traction in conversations on both sides of the Line of Control. Its precise meaning, however, subtly shifts and refracts depending on one’s geographical location and lived experience.

“For us in Muzaffarabad, it means a forced pretense of stability, a facade maintained while our very livelihoods are hemorrhaging,” asserts Dr. Samina,* a local researcher.

Dr. Samina shares that the cross-LoC trade was not just about economics: “It was a vibrant social circuit, a thread binding our communities. Without it, our youth are either migrating out of desperation or being pushed into perilous, illicit smuggling activities. That, by any definition, is not peace; it is a precarious, suffocating calm.”

A 2020 report by The Hindu²¹indicates that 900 families in Kashmir and 9,354 in Punjab (about 50,000 people) lost livelihoods due to the closure of Attari–Wagah and LoC routes in 2019.

This included Khadija Bibi,* a lady in her 50’s who is among the estimated 40,000 migrants who fled Indian administered Kashmir in 1996 alongside her husband, Alif Din.*

“I cannot attend the last rites of my father in 2019, we are suffering a lot from the conflict and trapped between the powerful people of both the countries,” said Bibi.

Her husband, Alif, was then taken by the Indian military in 1994 from Kupwara without any charges and imprisoned for 18 months in Kot Bhalwal, a notorious jail in Jammu. He was held with three friends. Reflecting on his time in jail, Din recounted:

In prison, I was electrocuted, my private parts were burned and my body was beaten with a hot iron rod, demanding to collect information… I was continuously asked where the gun was, to which I replied “I don’t know and have nothing like this within me and never ever had kept the same.”

The Indian military asked me, “Do you want freedom? Why did you chant pro-Pakistan slogans?” After my release, I decided to migrate to Pakistan in 1996 with my wife and two sisters.

At the time of their escape, Din and Bibi were newlyweds. They trekked for four days through treacherous mountainous terrain in August 1996, in a group of fleeing locals, carefully avoiding landmines. “If we had gone back, only death awaited us,” the duo said as they held each other’s hands.

The “cold peace” of recent years has been punctuated by sharp, brutal thaws into armed conflict, most notably in April and May of 2025. Following a devastating militant attack in Pahalgam on April 22, which tragically killed 25 Indian tourists and one Nepalese national, a profound political crisis erupted.

The militants were initially identified²² by investigators from India’s National Investigation Agency as five armed Pakistani nationals primarily affiliated with the Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT).

The group, based in Pakistan and designated as a terrorist organization by the United Nations, United States, United Kingdom, and India, is now under further scrutiny as investigations continue to verify the extent of its links with Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI).

International intelligence reports,²³ including those from the U.S. State Department and the UN Security Council, have alleged that LeT maintains links with Pakistani intelligence. However, Islamabad denies offering the group any official support. India’s government, meanwhile, believes the attack was a joint ISI-LeT project²⁴ aimed at sowing communal discord²⁵ and disrupting Kashmir’s vital tourism economy.

The Indian authorities say the attackers specifically targeted²⁶ Hindu tourists, singling out men based on their religion, and forcing some to recite Islamic verses or undergo physical checks to identify non Muslims before shooting them point-blank. While The Resistance Front (TRF), an offshoot of LeT, initially claimed responsibility, they later retracted it;²⁷ nevertheless, India has maintained that Pakistan-based entities orchestrated the killings.

On May 7, 2025, India announced “Operation Sindoor,” a series of retaliatory aerial strikes targeting several alleged “terror launchpads”²⁸ of groups like Jaish-e-Mohammed and Lashkar-e-Taiba in Pakistan and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir. Pakistan responded with heavy shelling along the Line of Control, impacting civilian areas in Uri, Rajouri, and Poonch, igniting a brief but terrifying near-war scenario that sent thousands fleeing their homes.

“That terrifying night in Uri shattered more than just window panes; it shattered the fragile calm my family had clung to for so long,” recounts Abdul Gaffar,* a resident whose home sustained damage in the cross border shelling. “The mortar shells echoed the brutal violence we thought was behind us.”

Civilian casualties were reported on both sides. In Poonch, a chilling report detailed the tragic deaths of twin children in a shelling attack. An Uri woman was also among many who lost lives while trying to flee her home.

The economic fallout from this recent escalation was immediate and devastating, particularly for Kashmir’s beleaguered tourism sector. Riyaz Ahmad, a 52-year-old hotelier in Pahalgam, whose business had just begun to recover, watched in horror as his dreams crumbled. “We were expecting a blockbuster summer season, tourist arrivals were breaking all records,” he recounts, his voice trembling with despair. “Our happiness instantly turned into a nightmare. Thousands of tourists fled the valley within 24 hours of the attack. Hotel bookings were cancelled en-masse…Local shopkeepers, pony owners, guides – all of us who rely entirely on seasonal tourism – were left with nothing.”

His words are echoed by Abdul Rasheed, a 45-year-old Shikara owner on Dal Lake, Srinagar. “There was a time we didn’t even get a moment to rest. Now, we stare at the empty lake, hoping someone will come. This silence is not peace; it is pain.”

Beyond the immediate crisis, the ongoing tensions have led to a long-term economic drain.

According to Finance Outlook India, “The Economic Impact of India-Pakistan War: A Detailed Analysis,”²⁹ done in May 2025, shows that the strained relationship continues to adversely impact foreign direct investment, along with export-import volumes across both countries.

India’s economy is projected to reach approximately $4.19 trillion in nominal GDP in 2025,³⁰ positioning it as the world’s fourth largest economy. Pakistan’s GDP, meanwhile, is estimated at $373 billion, reflecting ongoing economic fragility and weak investor confidence. Meanwhile, exports from India to Pakistan remain negligible following the halt of most bilateral trade since August 2019. Pakistan’s textile export revenues have taken a significant hit amid broader macroeconomic challenges.

On defense, India’s budget stands at about $75 billion, while Pakistan’s core defence allocation is $9 billion, expanding to around $12 billion including pensions in 2025.

The recent crisis further highlighted the strategic importance of trans-boundary resources. India’s implicit threat to suspend the Indus Waters Treaty, a critical water accord, for the first time, was seen as a move to “weaponize water.”

Similarly, discussions around the Shimla Agreement being “effectively defunct” further underscores a shift in diplomatic norms, where even long-standing agreements are no longer seen as inviolable.

For communities along the LoC, the conflict has left a landscape of devastation. Unexploded shells, fired during the intense May 2025 shelling, continue to haunt villages like Pargwal in Jammu and Gingal in Uri. Farmers cannot return to their fields until vast areas are cleared of these remnants of war, turning agricultural lands into minefields.

“Crater after crater –that’s what’s left of our farmland,” said one farmer in Poonch.

One of the least visible, yet most profound and insidious, transformations in post-2019 Kashmir has been the unsettling normalization of surveillance.

In towns like Kupwara and Rajouri, stretching along the LoC, and deeper into the Valley, advanced surveillance technologies such as facial recognition, drone patrols, and thermal imaging are being deployed and operated by Indian authorities – primarily the Indian Army, paramilitary forces, and local police – on their side of the Line of Control and within Indian-administered Kashmir. These have systematically transformed once-intimate, bustling spaces into zones of hyper-visibility and constant scrutiny. Every movement, every gathering, every face is potentially logged, analyzed, and stored.

Mehmood,* a soft-spoken school teacher from a remote village near the LoC, recalls with a shiver how his entire village was meticulously mapped and scanned using drones flying relentlessly overhead for two consecutive nights. “It felt like alien eyes were watching us, always,” he recounts, his voice hushed with residual fear. “Now, even our humble cows, grazing peacefully in the fields, feel like they are being monitored.”

In Handwara, locals speak in hushed tones of “invisible eyes” – a chilling term they use for sophisticated, high-altitude surveillance devices that monitor vast stretches of land, capable of detecting the slightest movement. It’s an unnerving constant; youth are routinely, and seemingly arbitrarily, summoned for questioning, their digital histories scrutinized, their social media activity flagged. Every new SIM card purchase is linked to elaborate biometric data, creating an inescapable digital footprint. Popular messaging apps are believed to be under constant monitoring, forcing a culture of coded communication.

“This is not peace; it is a meticulously managed silence,” states Saleem Shah,* a lawyer in Srinagar. “The stillness you see, the quiet on the streets, is not born of contentment, but of caution, of fear.” In a secondary school in the northern part of Kashmir’s Baramulla, a sophisticated CCTV system was recently installed under a “safety” scheme. The school’s teachers, speaking anonymously, confirm a different reality.

“We are being watched, not protected,” one teacher confided, her eyes darting nervously around the empty classroom. “Every interaction, every conversation is potentially recorded. It stifles the very spirit of learning and open discussion.”

This pervasive culture of surveillance has seeped into the most intimate spaces, of families now routinely advising their children Kashmir to delete text messages, clear their browsing histories, and communicate in coded words, even within their own homes, fearing that an innocent remark could be misconstrued with severe consequences. The very concept of privacy, once a given, has become an unattainable luxury.

A young photographer from Gurez, pleading anonymity, said he had once dreamt of documenting the vibrant daily life of his community, but has abandoned his passion.

“What’s the point?” he asks, his voice devoid of enthusiasm. “People say even our cameras are suspicious now, that taking a photo might be seen as an act of law. The beauty of Kashmir is being seen through a filter of fear.”

This constant state of being under observation cultivates a deep seated anxiety, eroding trust and fostering a sense of perpetual vulnerability. The laughter feels forced, the conversations hushed, the very air thick with unspoken apprehension.

Coda: Youth as Witness and Resistance

Despite the overwhelming weight of geopolitics, the atmosphere of relentless economic hardships, a quiet defiance continues to bloom among Kashmir’s youth. In remote villages near Tangdhar and Drass, often battered by cross-border shelling, nascent youth collectives are creating powerful murals on crumbling walls, depicting themes of peace, unity, and hope, often under the cover of darkness.

In Kupwara, an interfaith poetry circle, comprising young men and women from both Hindu and Muslim backgrounds meets monthly in secret locations, sharing verses that articulate their collective longing, profound losses, and unyielding dreams for a more peaceful future. Their gatherings are more than artistic expression; they are acts of resistance, reclaiming space for dialogue, empathy, and coexistence in a climate where such values are increasingly rare.

On digital platforms like Instagram and Facebook, young artists curate and showcase homemade zines, digital artwork, and raw, unfiltered photographic essays that document the harsh realities of their lives. Secret WhatsApp groups, constantly vulnerable to detection, connect youth across the physical barriers of the LoC, allowing them to converse, exchange voice notes, share digital art, and organize small, symbolic acts of remembrance or protest.

And on both sides of that unyielding Line of Control, where lives are perpetually shaped by the currents of geopolitics and the quiet resilience of the human spirit, someone waits. ~

Authors

Sajad Hameed

Sajad Hameed is a visual journalist based in India, reporting on human rights, politics, and technology across South Asia. His work appears in both international and local media.

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Rehan Qayoom

Rehan Qayoom is an independent journalist based in Kashmir, covering human rights, politics, and technology across India. His work has appeared in both international and local media outlets.

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