Under Drones and Conflict’s Shadow: Punjab’s Border Villages Endure

In the border villages of Punjab, life unfolds under constant watch—beneath CCTV cameras, near floodlit fields that never go dark, in full view of Border Security Force (BSF) watchtowers on one side and the sweeping eyes of Pakistani rangers on the other. A tall metal-and-concrete barbed wire fence delineates the Indian side; a few hundred metres in, reinforced bunkers and ditches are everywhere. Their constant reinforcement is a stark reminder of conflicts past and new. Life here means waking to the sounds of gurdwara kirtans and mosque aazans, both rising together in many villa­ges, and in today’s times, it also means learning to live with the regular hum of drones.

But drones—usually known in the region for ferrying drugs and other contraband—took on a completely different meaning just weeks ago. During a blackout in Amritsar amid mounting tensions between India and Pakistan in the wake of the April terrorist attack in Pahalgam, Kashmir, a doctor was jolted awake by strange noises. She stepped onto the rooftop of her home, where she also runs a hospital on the ground floor. Atop the large red cross painted on the roof at the authorities’ insistence, she froze, taking in the haunting sight of trees swaying in the bright moonlight. In the distance, a JCB vehicle moved slowly, presumably deployed by armed forces. Military personnel stirred cautiously, their presence stark against the stillness of the night. Nearby was a gurdwara that had once lent space for the forces in previous battles, a silent testament to the escalating situation. Soon after, her sister from Ferozepur called, transmitting the chilling sounds of a dogfight overhead and reporting that a drone had been downed at Ram Tirth, a locality near Amritsar city.

The night air was thick with trepidation as the doctor felt the weight of living just minutes from the international border at Attari—where everyday life and conflict can blur in an instant. “If there’s a shutdown in Delhi, that won’t affect us as much as one along the border. Four or five thousand vehicles ply this route daily, bringing supplies and tourists—the mainstay of our economy. The khana-peena here depends entirely on cross-border trade. But it’s not easy to live here. During the terrorism era in the eighties, factories left Punjab. Since then, people live in mortal fear of losing trade income as well if conflict breaks out,” says Kawaljit Kaur from Guru Nanak Hospital near Attari, also a member of the All India Democratic Women’s Association (AIDWA).

The Cost of Displacement

That fear is widely shared. “Hum chahtey hain ki thandey-thandey mahaul mein baithey rahein, ladai mein kya rakha hai—we just want to live in peace, in calm conditions; what’s the point of conflict?” says Manpreet Singh, a landless worker at Daoke, a small village near the Attari border, hemmed in on three sides by five Pakistani villages, with only a single road leading out. The fear of being caught in any potential crossfire between India and Pakistan had many of its less-well-off residents pack their meagre belongings and leave to shelter elsewhere during the recent escalations.

They left because of memory—of past conflicts, when entire communities fled across raised embankments that encircled their village, housing bunkers where soldiers conceal themselves and fire from vantage points. They left because of what they saw on TV the night Operation Sindoor was launched—people in states like Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, Karnataka, Maharashtra clamouring for war with Pakistan, far removed from the frontlines. “But it’s us sitting on the border. When the bombs fall, we go to relatives’ houses for shelter,” says Lakhbir, who sent his children away to family while he stayed behind in Daoke. “And who wants visitors arriving for indefinite stays these days—nobody. It’s best to stay home if we can, and to resolve conflicts with discussions rather than battles.”

News and mobile updates poured in, filled with vivid accounts of rising hostility between India and its neighbour. Schools shut. Work came to a halt as the Attari-Wagah crossing closed, choking trade and silencing the economy. “For ten or twelve days, we were roaming empty-handed, with nothing to do, barely able to sustain ourselves,” Manpreet says. During those two weeks of tensions, he took on a loan of over Rs 30,000—his daily earnings of Rs 300 as a coolie at the Integrated Check Post had suddenly disappeared. The checkpoint, where limited trade with Afghan truckers continued, had long suspended trade with Pakistan. Alongside customs, immigration, security and warehousing, the post also draws growing tourist interest. (Trade recently resumed along this border crossing, but slowly).

You may think such disruptions are rare, but along Punjab’s border villages, they are the drumbeat that accompanies life. One day, you’re a farmer, and a BSF soldier opens the gate in the border fence—electrified for the most part—that leads to your farm across it. You toil from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., and then your fields are floodlit all night—limiting their fertility, but still sustaining your family. The next day, you find the border gate no longer opens—indefinitely—because of firing from the other side, or a bigger conflict has erupted in any part of the long border with Pakistan. Then you have to wait and watch as your fields whither, or pick up and leave, either as an entire community or in ones, twos, or by the dozen. This cycle of sudden dislocation is etched into life experiences, passed down over generations.

Neglect Beyond the Barbed Wire: A Life on Hold

“We have to go behind the defence lines and shelter if something happens,” says Swarn Singh, a prominent farmer from Daoke, who recalls the conflicts of 1965, 1971, and Kargil (1999), as well as more recent terrorist attacks in Uri and Pulwama. “Each time was different, but in ’71, we fled on our bellies, crawling. Pakistan is that close to us,” he says.

After Kargil, landmines were installed and later defused in Amritsar’s border areas by the armed forces, but not all could be removed. People still bear memories of those difficult times, when some lost their limbs—and the armed forces faced losses too—although farmers were compensated. That time, too, locals had crossed over the defensive embankments, and were not forced to go too far away to seek safety.

This year, the conflict was nowhere near many previous instances, say locals, so the sudden border closure and the fences not being opened to farming threw them into a tizzy. Even a distant threat upends their fragile normalcy. The warnings of numerous old timers, and the hypervigilant media had many leave women and children elsewhere, while most of the menfolk stayed put.

“Life on the border is difficult for everybody—those who leave, and those who stay. The authorities helped us harvest the wheat crop early this year, but we could not access our fields after that, which ruined our chances to prepare fodder from the leftover chaff. Now we must beg, borrow or buy it, or our cattle will suffer,” says Ranjit Singh, who ferried his family to a “safer place” in May.

The border fence, firmly anchored on the Indian side, shapes the daily rhythms of farmers here in ways their Pakistani counterparts don’t experience. Across the divide, Pakistani farmers move freely in and out of their fields without ID checks, permissions, or the watchful eyes of security personnel. On this side, farmers like Darbara Singh must navigate strict regulations and controlled access, their movements bounded by gates that open and close according to security protocols. The BSF sometimes instructs them not to engage with their neighbours across the fence—not even a casual greeting or a simple question like, “Had your lunch?” Darbara Singh, who has worked in these fields for over thirty years, puts it wryly: “Yeh dekho, chidiya toh aa rahi hain taar paar, sirf saanp hi rukk rahey hain fencing se.” (Birds cross the fence easily, but only snakes are stopped—a nod to how smugglers cannot infiltrate as easily, but still slip through.)

Yet, while the barrier has enhanced security, it has also disrupted the farmers’ lives, breeding resentment as they must adhere to strict timings and face constant surveillance just to tend to their own land. Their time on the fields is limited even during emergencies, such as inclement weather at night, when all they can do is wait and hope the damage is minimal. What is more, in recent years, drone-based drug supplies have become commonplace, limiting the fence’s efficacy in curbing such cross-border smuggling.

“Drones keep falling on us these days,” says Minder Kaur, an aged resident of Dhanoe Khurd. “But not during past conflicts. During the Kargil war, we moved with everything—water, wheat, beds, chairs, gold— to my mother’s house across the defence line. Ullu boltey they yahan (owls used to hoot here). Then we returned and started over.”

Another resident, Sukhwinder Kaur, says she saw news of the terrorist attack in Pahalgam in April, and that steeled her resolve to move out of her home and village again if needed. “I’ve seen it all—’65, ’71. Back then, we got no water, nothing to eat, and we lost our cattle fleeing in the dead of night. We’ll move again if we have to, leaving everything behind. But we don’t want war.”

Dhanoe Khurd is particularly vulnerable during tensions with Pakistan. Like many border villages, it’s connected to the rest of Punjab by narrow bridges tucked between homes, fields and foliage. Residents live with the constant fear that if something goes wrong, they could be cut off—left to the mercy of fate and crossfire.

A three-hour drive from the bustling city of Amritsar, Tarn Taran’s border villages tell a quieter, slower story. In places like Kalas, in Gandiwind tehsil, life is marked not just by sudden displacements but by the daily grind of absence—roads that crumble, services that never arrive, promises that slowly wear thin.

“A few days after the Pahalgam attack, the local gurudwara urged people to leave and seek shelter elsewhere. Rumours spread of tanks spotted across the border, and those who had lived through previous conflicts grew anxious, some pleading with others to leave. Many responded by ferrying children and the women to safer ground,” says Gurpreet Singh, a member of the Aam Aadmi Party and resident of Assal Uttar, a village that hosts a memorial to a pivotal tank battle during the 1965 war with Pakistan.

Kalas residents recall a wedding interrupted by the 1965 war, when guests from the marriage party were dragged across the border—it is just a few feet from their homes—to the Pakistani side, and were allowed to return only days later. “After the attack in Kashmir, we took our children, women, and belongings. They left out of fear of a repeat,” says Gurpreet, a twenty-six-year-old kabaddi player whose family owns farmland—all of it on the Indian side of the fence.

“We never want to leave our homes, but I’ve done it at least three times before,” says his mother, Balwinder Kaur. She remembers the day she left in May. “We wept as we rode away on tractors and cars, not knowing when we’d return—or what we’d return to—as memories of past exits haunted us.”

Jinder Kaur, her sister-in-law, adds: “I stayed in Dyalpur for a couple of weeks—I had to go. Who would want to leave their home, everybody loves their home, but we have no choice in these matters.”

Even the men who stayed back wept as the women and children left. Fear was so palpable that staying on seemed impossible. “The problem is,” Gurpreet adds, “hamarey gharon me fauj aa jaati hai, aur unkey peechey civilian—the Pakistani army reaches our houses and the civilians follow them in.”

The Collective Memory Of Conflict

In the 1965 and 1971 conflicts, families recall returning after weeks away to find their belongings gone. Sometimes, relatives took things in their absence; other times it was the Pakistani civilians who crossed over with their troops. “Pakistani taar utha ke chaley aatey hain—they lift the wire and saunter in, taking our things. We have land and businesses here, but in ten minutes, we become beggars when things change for the worse,” Gurpreet says.

That’s why, this time, he also packed off their most precious belongings—beds, mattresses, clothes—while he stayed behind to care for his own cattle and that of his neighbours.

“The forces and administration just told us to switch off the lights at night and sit tight,” he says. “But with the border gates closed for farming, schools shut, soldiers mobilised, bunkers reopening and JCBs roaming around, we couldn’t wait for the first shots to be fired.”

But the feeling of abandonment runs deeper than the fear of conflict. For years, say members and leaders of the local sangat—the congregation of devotees that forms the core social unit in Sikh villages, especially in times of crisis—pleaded with the authorities to repair the road connecting them to the nearest town. When no help came, they pooled their resources and laid a makeshift path over the crumbling stretch. The road—a patchwork of yellow dust held together by communal effort and hope—snakes unevenly through fields and homes. As the only path out of the village, it is, in its very neglect, a reminder to all that this is a border village, visible only when convenient, forgotten otherwise.

Gurpreet, the kabaddi player, says the lack of basic infrastructure extends well beyond roads. There is no gymnasium for young athletes to train, and despite his pride in the village, he sends his children to a private school. The government ones just don’t teach properly,” he says. He himself received no support for his education and never attended a government school. “It’s been all on our own—like that road,” he adds with a wry smile.

In 2016, Gurpreet bought a car, and drove many seriously ill locals to the hospital in it. Most of the time, the patient died before they arrived, the hospital was that far away, and the roads were always that bad. “Many have died in my car. My own father had a heart attack, but when they took him from here to Amritsar, the doctors said he arrived just minutes late. That’s how it is here,” he says.

Manjeet Kaur, another Kalas resident, whose tiny house overlooks a BSF checkpoint right at the border, and whose family is landless, says she, too, left with all her possessions and her two sons during the recent tensions. They ‘visited’ relatives in Patti tehsil nearby, as they had during the Kargil conflict. “It was very difficult for us as we could not afford to take our cattle with us—we left with the clothes on our backs. My brother came to take us—hum dar ke maarey yahan sey nikaley hain. (We left in terror.”)

Here, the arc of the story shifts again. In Ferozepur, farther south along the border, the anxiety of conflict is atop another layer of erosion—of opportunity, infrastructure, and hope. If Amritsar pulses with cross-border trade and Tarn Taran strains under absence, Ferozepur drags under neglect. War is not always at the gates here, but poverty is.

As a result, in Ferozepur’s border villages like Hazara and Yaarawala, the fear is different—it’s not just about conflict but about being forgotten.

In Yaarawala, residents recall nights of relentless, warlike sounds echoing from across the border and flying objects zooming overhead. “Children quivered with fear,” says Rajkumar, describing how the entire village sat through blackout-imposed nights, gripped by dread. When the noise didn’t stop for two or three nights, people packed up and left. The images on TV—of bombings and escalating military movement—only deepened the sense of urgency.

In nearby Hazara, home to around 700 voters, memory carries its own weight. During the 1971 war, residents say Pakistani forces entered and took over homes and belongings—only to be pushed back later. The older generation hasn’t forgotten. “The moment we hear tanks, bombs or gunfire, our minds go back to that time, which our ancestors had described to us,” says the elderly Hardev Singh, who runs a repair shop here and lives across the single bridge connecting the village to the rest of Punjab. “If something happens, people here know they’ll have to leave.”

This bridge is their only lifeline. If it were to be damaged, they’d be trapped. That fear pushed many to flee again this time—just in case. “The whole village emptied out,” says Bitta, the sarpanch. “Civil and police officials and the Army and BSF made the rounds and didn’t ask us to leave. Still, old memories passed over generations pushed people to go.”

Bitta, though, acknowledges that this time wasn’t as bad. “Yes, there was tension. But it didn’t escalate. The farmers’ gates have reopened. Though it’s too late now—the chaff has rotted on many fields, and many people will have to buy fodder.”

The villagers know they live in a place few choose to see. “We are grateful for the wheat we receive from the government, for the electricity we get,” says Jinder, a local farmer, “because we see the conditions across the border—it’s much worse. Prices are sky high.”

But this gratitude exists alongside deep disillusionment. “The media?” says Bitta, waving his hand. “There’s no point talking to them.” For a while, the press was requested not to cross the bridge into this area because their reports spread panic.

Others point to problems that go far beyond conflict. “This is a backward area,” Jinder says, flatly. “No one notices. For six months of the year, we are forced to leave anyway—because the land floods. And now the government has control of our land; we’re just occupants, even though our forefathers settled here from across the border.”

The flood water stands for weeks, halting any farming. That’s why there’s such intense poverty here. Even MGNREGA doesn’t run properly—nothing does.

Back in the Khasa area of Amritsar city, where military installations dot the landscape, people recall how the blackouts cast a surreal glow on the nights. For three nights, from around 5 a.m. onwards, the sky remained fully lit for a few minutes—even without electricity—as drones appeared in the sky, then were shot down. Residents followed instructions to stay indoors, their fear thick and silent.

Gurinder Kaur and her three sons ate and slept in their parked car during two of those nights, wary of what they couldn’t see—or predict. “Hamley ka pata thodi chalta hai,” she says. You never know when an attack might come. They’d never seen a drone before, but one night, they watched it loop overhead—red lights blinking—as it vanished down the road to Attari. Minutes later, the sky exploded in flashes and sound, a fury they believed was the military’s response. “A light and sound show,” says her son, Sonu, half-jokingly, though his voice is edged with unease.

New to drones, unlike their rural brethren, and also to blackouts, city-dwellers were terrified, imagining the worst—but never thought they might have to leave their homes and flee. “It never crossed our minds to leave—where would we go?” says Sonu. Rural folk were more circumspect—about having to move, as well as returning, eventually.

But amid such nights of tension, there’s a long-term fatigue for all. “What we really need is a better education system,” Gurinder finally says. “This government one... it’s not working.” The lights they live by now aren’t just from towers—they flicker from a future that feels uncertain and dim.

For those who live in Punjab’s border belt, home is both sacred and uncertain—indistinguishable from movement. It is the field fenced in by wires, the lanes paved by collective will, the cots and utensils dragged to safety in the dead of the night. It is where they long to stay rooted, even as they are forced, time and again, to leave it behind. Home here is defined by return, not permanence, by rebuilding and restocking, not accumulating. Near the international border, what holds people together is not just land or livelihood—but a deeper sense of belonging that assures them they will always find their way back.

This article is part of Outlook Magazine's June 11, 2025 issue, 'Living on the Edge', which explores India’s fragile borderlands and the human cost of conflict. It appeared in print as 'Lines Drawn In Blood.'