SRINAGAR, India, Jun 03 (IPS) – In the war-worn borderlands of Jammu and Kashmir, the silence that followed the May 10 ceasefire between India and Pakistan is not the comforting kind—It is uneasy.
After a week of heavy cross-border firing that left at least 16 civilians dead and thousands homeless, the ceasefire brokered by U.S. President Donald Trump brought a fragile halt to the violence. But for people living along the Line of Control (LoC)—in villages like Uri, Kupwara, Rajouri, and Poonch—the damage goes far beyond broken homes.
The official statement, calling for an “immediate and full cessation of hostilities,” might have quieted the guns, but the psychological and material scars remain deep and fresh. Funeral fires still burn. Children refuse to sleep. Schools remain shut. The trauma lingers like smoke in the air.
‘We Buried her Before the Ceasefire’
Twenty-four-year-old Ruqaya Bano from Uri was meant to be married this week. Instead, she stood over her mother’s grave, clutching the embroidered dupatta of her bridal dress. Her mother, Haseena Begum, was killed by a mortar shell that landed in their courtyard.
“She was helping me pack my wedding clothes,” Ruqaya says, her voice thin. “She smiled that morning and said, ‘Soon this house will be full of music.’ Hours later, we were digging her grave.”
Four others died in the same barrage in Uri, all civilians. Many more were wounded—some critically. As the schools remain shuttered, the young are left to process trauma with no support.
For some, words have vanished entirely.
Eight-year-old Mahir sits on a thin mattress at a relief camp in Baramulla, his eyes fixed on a blank wall. He hasn’t spoken since the shelling began.
“He watched his cousin, Daniyal, die when a shell landed near their cowshed,” says Abdul Rasheed, Mahir’s uncle and a farmer from Kupwara. “Now, if a dog barks or a door slams, he hides under the bed.”
His reaction is not unique. Dozens of children along the LoC have reported symptoms of acute stress: sleeplessness, mutism, bedwetting, and panic attacks. Trauma is not just for soldiers. In Kashmir, it enters homes with shrapnel.
The violence began in the wake of the April 22 terror attack in Pahalgam that killed 26 people, including 13 soldiers. In retaliation, the Indian Air Force carried out strikes on militant camps across the LoC. Pakistan responded with heavy artillery fire, forcing an exodus from border villages.
In towns like Rajouri and Samba, panic set in quickly. Families packed into cars in the dead of night. Long queues formed outside fuel stations. ATMs were emptied. Grocery shelves went bare. Government schools and public buildings turned into temporary shelters overnight.
Relief workers describe chaotic scenes. “There were mothers with babies and nothing to feed them,” said Aamir Dar, a volunteer from a Srinagar-based relief NGO. “The fear was absolute.”
After two days of frantic diplomacy by Washington, President Trump announced on Truth Social that India and Pakistan had agreed to halt the fighting. “Statesmanship has prevailed,” he wrote.
Within hours, the rumble of artillery ceased. Indian fighter jets returned to base. A tense quiet settled along the LoC. But for those who had lost homes, limbs, or loved ones, it was too little, too late.
Government officials, including Jammu and Kashmir’s Lieutenant Governor Manoj Sinha, toured the worst-hit districts. Relief operations began slowly, and criticism mounted over the sluggish response. “We haven’t received even tarpaulin sheets,” said Rahmat Ali from Mendhar. “The help is not matching the need.”
Grief Among the Ruins
In Poonch’s Salotri village, 70-year-old Naseema Khatoon stands before the blackened remains of her two-room home. Her husband died in 2019 during a similar flare-up.
“Now the house is gone,” she says, barefoot on scorched earth. “How many times do we begin again?”
Despite their grief, villagers are trying to help one another. Young men form lines to pass down sacks of rice. Medical volunteers have set up makeshift clinics. University students from Srinagar have launched online campaigns to crowdsource food and medicine. Hope, though faint, endures.
The Night Fear Took Over Jammu
Even Jammu city, far from the immediate border, was not spared the anxiety. On the night of May 9, alarms blared about an alleged missile threat to the Jammu airport. Panic swept the city. Mobile networks briefly collapsed. Families crowded into bunkers.
“It reminded me of the Kargil War,” said Rajesh Mehra, a retired teacher. “We slept in our clothes with bags packed, ready to leave.”
Though the threat turned out to be a false alarm, public confidence was badly shaken. The Indian Air Force flew in emergency supplies. Special trains were arranged for those stranded. As the dust began to settle, some families returned home—only to find them in rubble.
In Tangdhar, a school functions now under a torn army tent. The air smells of diesel and fear. Thirteen-year-old Laiba, a student, holds a pencil but stares at the floor. “I want to be a child again,” she murmurs. “Not someone who remembers bombs.”
The shelling left behind more than memories. Fields are littered with unexploded ordnance. Houses have cracks from shockwaves. Local hospitals are stretched to the brink.
The army has cordoned off danger zones. But until the shells are cleared, a casual step can mean disaster.
Back in Uri, Ruqaya Bano lays a garland on her mother’s grave, freshly dug beside their walnut tree. “She always said peace would return. Ruqaya whispers, “No guns, no fear. Maybe that day is still far off. But I hope it comes. For everyone.”
She wipes her tears, then picks up a hammer to help rebuild their shattered home.
The ceasefire, while welcome, is merely the first step toward lasting peace. In these villages, peace is not just the absence of war. It’s the presence of dignity, safety, and memory. This is the kind of peace in which children can laugh again. Where weddings are celebrated, not postponed by gunfire. Where people sleep without fear and wake without sorrow.
A Long Shadow
Kashmir has remained a flashpoint between India and Pakistan since 1947, with both nations claiming it in full. The region has seen at least three wars and countless skirmishes. Since the start of the insurgency in the late 1980s, over 100,000 people have been killed.
In August 2019, the Indian government revoked the region’s special constitutional status and bifurcated it into two union territories. Since then, Delhi has claimed a return to normalcy, but local voices tell another story—one of militarized quiet, silenced dissent, and growing fear.
Last October, for the first time in over five years, local municipal elections were held. It was a step toward restoration, but a small one.
For now, the ceasefire is holding. But like the mortar scars on the walls of these villages, the emotional damage remains etched deep. The silence that follows war is never just silence—it carries the weight of every scream, every loss.
Note: Names of survivors have been changed at their request to protect their privacy.
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