Pushp Saraf
The public outcry in the Valley following the April 22, 2025 massacre in Pahalgam marks a rare and significant departure from the past. For decades, silence, fear or carefully coded responses followed acts of terror. But this time, the condemnation was open, spontaneous and widespread. To understand the gravity of this shift, I trace the evolution of public and political response in Kashmir through three pivotal moments-1990, 1999, and 2025-each revealing the Valley’s slow but unmistakable journey from silence to resistance.
Scene One
The night of February 13, 1990 is etched in my memory with painful clarity. I was in Srinagar when a call came from a close friend-one of the finest sons of the soil, then holding a senior position in Doordarshan Delhi. He was home on leave. His voice trembled and in between sobs he managed to say: “Lassa Kaul has been shot.”
Lassa Kaul, the widely regarded Director of Doordarshan Srinagar, had been assassinated. My friend, deeply shaken, cried out, “I want to go to his home.” But even as he spoke, his helplessness was unmistakable.
At the time, terrorists had issued chilling threats: anyone who dared retrieve the bodies of those they killed would meet the same fate. It was a decree that few dared to defy. The murder of Lassa Kaul sent yet another wave of terror through the already-battered Kashmiri Pandit community, most of whom had fled their ancestral homes after a spate of targeted killings.
For Lassa’s Muslim friends and colleagues, the moment was fraught with conflict. They wished to grieve openly, to condemn the murder and stand in solidarity with his family-but doing so could cost them their lives. In the face of such danger, they turned to a strategy that, in hindsight, reveals the brutal irony of the time: they staged a public protest blaming the then-Governor, Jagmohan, for Lassa’s death.
It defied logic. They knew full well who had issued the threats and why they themselves could not visit Lassa’s home. But such was the grim calculus of survival. The armed militants controlled the narrative and held the streets in their grip-especially in Srinagar, where fear dictated public behavior and truth was often buried under layers of forced silence.
Scene Two
In May 1999, I stood on the banks of Dal Lake, across from Nehru Park, having just ensured that two relatives were safely settled in a hotel room I had arranged for them. The room offered a scenic view of the famed water body-a moment of calm amid what would soon become a season of unrest.
To my pleasant surprise, Babar Badr-real name Firdous Syed Baba-appeared around that time. We exchanged pleasantries. Once among the most articulate voices from the militant ranks, he had recently come overground along with three other top militants. It was the first such shift on the secessionist landscape. Remarkably, the four had made a high-profile visit to Delhi’s North Block, where they met senior officials in the Union Home Ministry-a move that had created ripples in political and security circles alike.
Even as we spoke, it became clear that anxiety was rising in Srinagar. The Kargil conflict had just broken out, and panic had begun to spread among tourists. Most were unaware that Kargil was over 200 kilometers away from Srinagar, separated by terrain so distinct that fighting there posed no immediate danger to those in the Valley. Yet the thundering roar of jets taking off from Srinagar airport unsettled them, reinforcing their fears.
Chief Minister Farooq Abdullah made repeated appeals, assuring tourists that they were safe and had no reason to flee. But fear is rarely rational. Despite his efforts, the exodus began. Tourists packed their bags and departed, leaving behind a city that had only just begun to taste the early stirrings of normalcy.
It was a disheartening sight. With some strategic communication-perhaps a well-publicised campaign clarifying the geographic and strategic separation between Kargil and Srinagar-the mass departure might have been avoided. But that moment passed, and with it, the hope of a vibrant tourist season faded once again.
Scene Three
In light of the earlier scenes, what has unfolded after the horrific Pahalgam massacre of April 22 marks a significant and poignant shift in the Valley’s atmosphere.
First and foremost, no words can sufficiently condemn the brutal killing of 26 innocent persons. Such heinous crimes are beyond justification. The perpetrators deserve no sympathy; their barbarity has triggered an exodus of tourists from the Valley and led to widespread cancellations of bookings even in the Jammu region-robbing countless ordinary citizens of their primary source of livelihood.
The gun first entered Kashmir’s political vocabulary in 1988. And yet, for the first time since then, the people of the Valley have unambiguously condemned a terrorist atrocity. This is no small development. In interviews, statements, and actions, the public response has been vocal and direct-no hedging, no evasions. Demonstrations against the Pahalgam bloodbath have emerged across the region, a stark departure from the past when silence or passive indifference often prevailed.
Chief Minister Omar Abdullah, speaking in a special session of the Assembly, captured the moment with honesty and grace: “For the first time in many years, I witnessed protests that were truly unified. No political party or leader orchestrated them, and no organised banners or candlelight marches were planned. The outrage and grief were spontaneous, coming straight from the hearts of the people. Every mosque observed silence.”
His remarks reflected a rare political maturity. He went on to add: “We must boost and nurture this spirit of unity, compassion, and resilience that has emerged from among the people themselves.”
Even more striking is the political response. In an atmosphere often fraught with division, Kashmir’s political class has, for once, shown restraint and solidarity. The National Conference has deliberately avoided using the tragedy to push for the restoration of statehood or to target its rival, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), despite criticisms directed at the Centre for its handling of the Pahalgam incident.
Instead, all political parties came together in the Assembly to unanimously pass a resolution endorsing the Central Government’s diplomatic steps against Pakistan-a rare show of consensus in an otherwise deeply polarised landscape.
It is a fragile but powerful moment-one where grief has sparked clarity and tragedy has stirred conscience.
Conclusion
What has driven this change? How is it that the very people and political parties who once remained silent in the face of relentless terrorist violence have now found the courage to speak out with such clarity?
Back in 1990, silence was a survival strategy-grief masked in evasive gestures to avoid the wrath of the gun. By 1999, even the mere echo of conflict sent people fleeing from the Valley. But now, in 2025, there is a discernible shift: people are calling a spade a spade, openly condemning terrorism without ambiguity or fear. Political leaders are no longer hiding behind rhetoric or partisanship. And tourists, though cautiously, are once again expressing a desire to return-an understated but significant gesture of hope.
Is this transformation solely the result of the sheer horror of the Pahalgam massacre? Perhaps partly. But similar tragedies in the past failed to evoke such widespread and united condemnation. Something deeper seems to be at work.
It could be that the people and their representatives have reached a moral and emotional tipping point-that, finally, they have decided that enough is enough. That they must speak, act and resist-regardless of the cost. It may also reflect the impact of a political establishment, particularly the BJP-led government at the Centre, that has taken an unflinching stance against terrorism and separatism leaving little room for ambiguity in public discourse.
Whatever the reasons, the response to Pahalgam offers a glimmer of hope. A long-suppressed voice is beginning to rise in the Valley-one that no longer hesitates to call violence by its name.
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