In Poonch, mortar shells rained without warning — striking markets, homes, and lives with brutal indifference. They didn’t ask who was Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, or Christian. A labourer was shot dead just a few feet away, leaving behind six children. A 12-year-old collapsed in a stranger’s arms, drenched in blood. One shell tore through a roof, killing a young boy as his uncle watched, powerless. Elsewhere, shrapnel ripped through the walls of a decades-old seminary, scarring its classroom and killing a beloved teacher.
In Poonch, grief has settled over every street. People speak softly now, their eyes tracing the cracks in the walls. Until recently, a cross-border bus brought stories, culture, and hope. Today, only fear crosses over. The shelling has silenced laughter, splintered routines, and turned familiar corners into warzones.
