One Year After The Pahalgam Attack: How Suspicion Still Shadows Kashmiris Far From Home

“It is exhausting to have your identity, your gender and your profession hanging over your head like a sword.”

For a 28-year-old journalist from Kashmir, the fallout from the Pahalgam attack did not arrive as headlines or diplomatic statements. It arrived in the form of unanswered calls, closed doors and suspicious questions from landlords.

She had decided to move last year, hoping for a better flat closer to work. Instead, the timing coincided with the attack. "It put every Kashmiri under a scanner," she says.

What followed were weeks of refusals. "I lived in Jamia Nagar for four years. Finding a house there is hard enough. It is a ghettoised area where even a small window feels like a luxury." Moving elsewhere offered little relief. “Brokers said they might ‘look into it’ for a girl, but would not even consider a Kashmiri man because of a ‘militancy taboo’."

The rejections were often blunt. In supposedly liberal neighbourhoods such as Chittaranjan Park and Lajpat Nagar, she says she was told not to expect anything. In another case, a broker stopped replying after owners asked whether she wore a burqa or hijab. "They made it clear that even if they accepted me being Kashmiri, they would not accept that."

She eventually found a place, but the scrutiny continued. Neighbours questioned why she lived alone and repeated stereotypes about Kashmiri Muslims drawn from films.

Inside newsrooms, the distance from what’s happening at home can feel stark. The journalist recalls covering the conflict while getting updates from her family. "I was covering the conflict while receiving videos of shelling near our home. My sister was sitting in the dark because at night they were told to keep all the lights off.'

The suspicion doesn’t stay limited to housing or workplaces. In some cases, it turns into direct hostility. In April 2025, days after the Pahalgam attack, two Kashmiri shawl sellers were assaulted in Mussoorie, Uttarakhand, in an incident captured on video. According to The Indian Express, at least 16 traders left the town soon after, citing safety concerns.

Outlook reached out to Shafi Subhan, a shawl seller from Kupwara, he was one of the 16 Kashmiri Muslims who faced the incient in Mussorie. He described the sudden escalation. "In Mussoorie, the police told us we had to leave because the situation was becoming dangerous. There were 16 or 17 of us Kashmiris, and we had to flee in the middle of the night just to stay safe."

Mohammad Iqbal Chopan, another shawl seller, also recalled how the situation had unfolded. "The police forced us out at midnight. We begged them to let us stay until the morning so we could leave safely, but they wouldn't listen and made us leave right then."

In the months that followed, similar cases were reported from different states. The Times of India reported that a Kashmiri vendor in Uttarakhand was assaulted and forced to chant slogans on camera. Traders and advocacy groups have since pointed to a broader pattern of harassment and intimidation, with some vendors avoiding certain areas or leaving altogether during such periods.

Describing the vulnerability they face, Iqbal says, "What can one person do when ten or twenty people come to attack you? When you are the target, you are completely defenseless." He added, "This year, they aren't even allowing us to set up our stalls on the Mall Road. They have simply stopped letting anyone from our community work there."

On university campuses, the atmosphere shifted just as quickly. According to Shozaib*, a second-year student at Jamia Millia Islamia, fear replaced routine. "After the attack, the situation became so precarious that instead of reporting discrimination, our only focus was basic survival — joining safety groups in case something happened to us."

At the same time, videos of Kashmiri students being harassed in other states only added to the daily anxiety. "It created a constant fear, wondering if we were next"

Every evening he would be on video calls with his family near the border, and they would show him what was happening on the ground. "You don’t get to ‘cope’ because you’re used to it," he explained. Balancing that with university life is difficult. "I’d walk out of an exam hall and immediately call home to make sure everyone was okay."

Even renting a home became harder "After the Red Fort blast in November 2025, it all started again. I was accompanying a friend who was changing flats, and the owner forced us to pay extra security deposits because we were Kashmiri," recalls Shozaib. "He knew we had no other options and that no one else would give us a place."

He sees the same pattern in the attacks on traders. "These people leave because there’s no work back in Kashmir. The market in Kashmir is saturated. They are just trying to earn a livelihood, and to target them like that is both inhumane and devastating."

Echoing this, Shafi Subhan says, "I have a graduation degree, but there are no jobs for us at home. I am forced to go to other states to earn a living because we have no other way to survive."

Both accounts point to a pattern, things seem normal, until an incident changes how they are treated.

Reflecting on the situation, Iqbal added, "There is no benefit in speaking up and no benefit in staying silent. If anyone makes a mistake, we are the ones who have to suffer for it. It feels better to just stay quiet."

Shozaib* says he avoids mainstream news coverage. "We already know what the narrative is… the real story wasn’t on the news; it was on my phone in those videos of where Kashmiri students were being harassed."

A year after the Pahalgam attack, the fallout travels—into housing refusals, higher rents, scrutiny, and the need to explain one’s presence. For many, it doesn’t end there.

*Name changed to protect privacy.