Baisaran Bleeds: A Kashmiri’s Apology 

Baisaran, with its lush meadows, towering pines and untouched snow, has long been a place of refuge. Tucked away in the serene hills of Pahalgam, it has drawn not just Kashmiris, but also tourists from across the world. Its wide expanse of green promises peace, solace and natural beauty, a stark contrast to the world’s often chaotic pace. On any given day, visitors would sit on the grass, children would roll in the snow, and couples would take photographs, capturing memories in a land that had seen so much heartbreak, but has yet managed to preserve its beauty. 

But one day, the sky betrayed its promise. Baisaran, the valley that had long been associated with innocence and quiet wonder, became the backdrop of horror. In an instant, a peaceful afternoon turned into chaos as gunfire cracked the air. Within moments, the laughter and joy of tourists who had come seeking peace were replaced by screams, confusion and terror. Twenty-eight lives were lost, and with them, a piece of the valley’s soul. These visitors were not just tourists; they were children, parents, wanderers and couples who had placed their trust in this land, believing it to be a sanctuary. They did not speak our language, but they spoke the universal language of humanity of love for nature, of the joy of discovery and of the hope of finding peace in a world too often filled with conflict. 

The tragedy that unfolded in Baisaran was not just an attack on visitors from afar; it was an attack on the very identity of Kashmir. It was an assault on the land we hold dear, a land that has, for years, been the subject of political battles, economic struggle, and external narratives. But above all, Kashmir is a place of people―people who have long endured their own suffering, yet have always extended their hands in warmth and kindness to those who sought peace in our home. 

And so, when the news of the attack reached us, it did not come as a distant event. It was not a headline. It was not a political statement. It was a wound. A wound that cut deep into our hearts, as we realised that the very land that had been a source of hope for these tourists had, in a cruel twist, become the place of their death. The tragedy reverberated through every home in Kashmir. We stood in silence, our hearts heavy with grief, as we saw the faces of the victims some of them children, others elderly captured on screens and in news reports. These were not strangers to us. These were guests who had come to see the beauty of our land, and in return, they had found only the cruelty of violence. 

This is not who we are. When we speak of Kashmir, we often speak of its natural beauty, the majestic mountains, the serene lakes, the meadows where wildflowers bloom in spring and the crisp air that fills the lungs with life. But Kashmir is more than its landscapes. It is more than its snow-capped peaks and picturesque valleys. Kashmir is its people—people who have lived through loss, who have endured pain, but who have also, time and again, shown resilience, warmth and compassion. 

We are a people who understand loss deeply. Kashmir, throughout its modern history, has been a land scarred by conflict. Families have been torn apart, lives shattered, dreams unfulfilled. Yet, in the face of all this, Kashmiris have always extended a welcoming hand to visitors. Our history, despite its wounds, has been one of hospitality. We have hosted tourists from across the world, shared our stories, served our cuisine, and invited the world to experience the peace we longed for. And now, in the wake of this unimaginable tragedy, we find ourselves not only mourning the loss of lives, but also grappling with the shame and sorrow that come with it. 

Baisaran was never meant to be a place of fear. It was our refuge, our sanctuary. We spoke of it with love, a place where families could go to escape the harsh realities of daily life, a place where children could play without fear, and couples could find moments of peace away from the pressures of the world. But today, Baisaran is forever changed. It is no longer just a meadow; it is a memorial. The landscape is now marked by the echoes of gunfire, the ghosts of a day that should have been filled with laughter, not sorrow. 

As I walked through the valley in the days following the attack, I saw the remnants of that lost joy. A scarf fluttering from a tree branch, where a mother once stood capturing a moment with her child. A packet of chips, abandoned on the ground, its contents spilling out, a forgotten snack. A child’s toy, left behind, lying in the grass. These items, once so mundane, now served as haunting reminders of the lives lost. They were not just inanimate objects. They were symbols of lives interrupted, of dreams shattered, of a visit that was meant to be one of joy, but turned into one of tragedy. 

We, the people of Kashmir, are shattered beyond words. We do not have the answers. We cannot undo the pain. We cannot bring back the lives that were taken. But we can share the grief. We can mourn with the families who lost their loved ones. We can stand in solidarity with those who have been touched by this tragedy, even if they are strangers to us. We may not have answers, but we do have empathy, and it is this empathy that binds us together in these dark times. 

The response to the attack was not one of indifference. Kashmiris did not turn a blind eye to the suffering. When the news broke, we wept. We gathered outside hospitals, waiting for news of the injured. We saw the pain in the eyes of the families who had arrived with hope and excitement, only to be greeted with horror. Ponywalas, the local guides who take tourists on horseback through the hills, wept as they carried the wounded on their backs. Shopkeepers closed their businesses without being asked, as if to honour the silence of mourning. A local person, without hesitation, picked up a child and whispered prayers in a language that the child did not understand, but perhaps felt in the tenderness of the gesture. 

In Kashmir, we understand the fragility of life. We understand that peace is not guaranteed, that joy can be fleeting, and that tragedy can strike when we least expect it. But this was not just a tragedy for the families who lost their loved ones. It was a tragedy for all of us, Kashmiris who have always prided ourselves on our hospitality and our willingness to open our hearts and our homes to others. This act of violence has shattered the faith that has been so carefully nurtured over the years. It has left a scar not only on the valley’s landscape but also on its very soul. 

We, too, feel the emptiness. We, too, feel the shame. Because when visitors come to Kashmir, they do not come just for the beauty of the land. They come for the people. They come for the stories we share, the warmth we offer and the peace we promise. And when that peace is broken, when that trust is betrayed—we are left not just with grief but with the weight of lost innocence. 

There is no easy way to explain this. There are no words that can take away the pain of the families who have lost their loved ones. There are no actions that can undo the harm that has been done. But as Kashmiris, we must say this: We are sorry. Sorry that you were not safe in our home. Sorry that a day meant for laughter and joy became one of bloodshed and sorrow. Sorry that the land you trusted to offer you peace instead offered you grief. 

This is a loss that extends beyond the families of the victims. It is a loss for Kashmir, a land that has always sought peace in the midst of turmoil. It is a loss for the world, which now may question whether it is safe to visit our land. It is a loss for the spirit of hospitality that Kashmir has so long cherished. And it is a loss for humanity, as we realise that even the most peaceful of places can fall victim to cruelty. 

As dusk fell over the meadows, the wind whispered the names of those we lost. It rustled through the chinars, the trees that have witnessed both joy and sorrow throughout the years. It moved through the empty hotel corridors, a reminder of the lives that had been disrupted. And it moved through our hearts, where it will remain long after the headlines fade and the cameras turn away. 

We condemn this inhuman act in the strongest possible terms. We mourn the loss of lives, the silencing of laughter, the destruction of innocence. And we pray for healing, for justice, for peace. For a world that understands that our sorrow is not one of indifference, but of shared humanity. 

Let this not be remembered as just another “incident”. Let it be remembered as the day Kashmir wept; not for itself, but for its guests. For the families who came with hope and left with grief. Let it be remembered as the day our valley, once known for its serenity, became a place of mourning—a day when the innocence of a beloved land was lost, but its people’s humanity remained, fragile yet enduring. 

We stand with the families who have lost their loved ones. We grieve not as strangers, but as hosts who failed to protect. And we will continue to pray for the healing of the land and the hearts that have been broken. 

(Views expressed are personal) 

(The author is a freelancer who specialises in political analysis)