Pahalgam’s Deadly Question: Are You Hindu?

They came for the breeze, the pine-scented skies, and the gentle laughter that often fills the meadows of Pahalgam. It was a Tuesday like any other in the spring cradle of Kashmir—sunlight danced on the leaves, children giggled while riding ponies, and tourists, many for the first time, marveled at the emerald landscapes of Baisaran. But in a single moment, the serenity of the valley was ruptured, twisted into a nightmare orchestrated not by nature’s fury, but by the cold, deliberate malice of men. Gunfire echoed where songbirds had sung. And in that fatal instant, innocence died under the shadow of a question: “What is your religion?”

What followed was not war. It was not even terrorism in the traditional cloak of ideology or rebellion. It was a hate crime in its most naked form—a sectarian slaughter meant not to challenge governments but to frighten a nation by tearing at its soul. At least twenty-six people—Hindu pilgrims, students, newlyweds, retirees on vacation—were executed in the open air after being identified by their faith. Their only crime: being born into a religion that radicals now treat as a death sentence.

The gunmen came dressed like locals, their rifles hidden beneath shawls. There was no warning, no negotiation, no chants of protest. Just quiet footsteps through the forest, and then a sudden burst of violence. Eyewitnesses say they stopped groups of tourists and asked one chilling question—“Hindu ho?” If the answer was yes, the verdict was immediate. A bullet to the head. If no, a shove, a shout, and they were spared. In a land that once prided itself on Kashmiriyat, the idea of harmony beyond religious boundaries, the attack in Pahalgam was a funeral for that very dream.

There was blood on the flowers and on the prayer beads. A girl of seventeen was found with a tilak still on her forehead. Her mother, who survived by pretending to be a guide, watched in frozen silence as her daughter collapsed beside her. A schoolteacher from Maharashtra was killed clutching a sketchpad on which he had drawn the very trees that would soon witness his execution. The youngest victim was nine. His name was Rishi. He had come to the valley with his grandparents to experience snow for the first time. He died with his hands folded in prayer, as if even in death he believed goodness might still prevail.

But what do we say to those like Rishi now? What comfort can we offer to those whose faith, once a source of identity, has become a reason for their murder? And more urgently—what action do we demand from those in power, when silence becomes as complicit as the bullets?

The attack comes just days after Pakistan’s Army Chief referred to Kashmir as the “jugular vein” of their ideology—a bloodied metaphor that now seems disturbingly literal. Intelligence agencies have confirmed the involvement of Lashkar-e-Taiba commanders operating out of Pakistan-occupied territories. Yet again, the same deadly puppeteers have orchestrated carnage using cross-border radicals, and yet again, the world responds with polite condemnations, statements of “deep concern,” and diplomatic caution. What happened in Pahalgam was not just an attack on India—it was an attack on the idea that humanity can survive under the rule of religious coexistence.

And amid the grief, one cannot ignore the political vacuum that seems to widen with each fresh atrocity. While Prime Minister Modi cut short his visit abroad to review the crisis, the voices from opposition benches have been either muted or shamefully evasive. Where is the secular outrage that once spilled onto the streets at the first sign of communal injustice? Where are the banners and candles that should now fill India Gate in mourning and protest? Why do the same voices that rage against a temple construction in Ayodhya fall into whispers when Hindus are hunted like cattle in Kashmir?

It is not just cowardice. It is selective humanity—a plague as dangerous as terrorism itself. For when the lives of some citizens are treated as less mournable than others, the nation becomes fractured not just in body, but in spirit. The hypocrisy screams from every newsroom where anchors hesitate to call the killings communal, every social media feed where influencers tiptoe around the term “Hindu genocide,” every think tank paper that rebrands targeted killings as “militant incidents.”

Pahalgam was not an isolated event. It was the latest link in a sinister chain of religiously motivated killings that has gradually intensified since the abrogation of Article 370. Even as development projects begin to stitch new hope into the region, there remains a festering resistance—not to economic change, but to demographic balance. The radicals know that to reclaim Kashmir as a truly inclusive land, the return of Kashmiri Hindus must become a reality. And so, they resist—not with dialogue, not with dissent, but with death.

The message they sent at Pahalgam was chillingly clear: “You may come to our land, but you will not leave it alive—unless you belong to us.” It is not only a challenge to national integrity; it is psychological warfare, aiming to suffocate the spirit of Indian unity through fear. But fear is not what built this country, and fear must never be allowed to define its borders.

Security forces have launched a manhunt in the surrounding forests. Drones circle the mountains, commandos comb the trails. There is fury in the eyes of our jawans, but justice must rise not only from their rifles. It must echo from our policies, our courtrooms, our Parliament halls. For how many more Rishis must die before a doctrine of deterrence replaces our addiction to restraint? How many times will we invite the world’s sympathy while ignoring our own citizens' screams?

Kashmir cannot be healed by tourism campaigns and political speeches alone. It must be protected with the same rigor we reserve for our most sacred sites, for it is not just territory—it is testimony. And every drop of blood spilled on its soil demands not just vengeance, but remembrance.

This is a call not just to soldiers, but to citizens. Not just to ministers, but to the media, to intellectuals, to every Indian who still dares to dream of a nation where faith does not decide your fate. Raise your voice now, not tomorrow, not after another attack. For if we do not scream when the innocent are gunned down for their religion, we lose the right to ever speak of justice again.

The meadow still stands in Pahalgam. The grass still sways in the wind, and the trees still whisper stories of both beauty and pain. But beneath them lie the memories of twenty-six souls who only sought peace—and found a bullet instead. Let that meadow never forget. Let none of us forget. And above all, let none of us forgive silence.

As the terror unfolded that day, it was not just the innocent who bore the brunt of the gunmen's hatred. The world, too, was forced to watch—albeit from a distance. The silence of the international community during the Pahalgam massacre is something that no Indian citizen should ever forget. While the gunfire roared across the valley, the diplomatic world responded in the same stale way it always has when India is targeted—soft, muted expressions of concern, as though the lives lost are not lives at all but mere statistical points on a map. If the victims of Pahalgam had been from any other part of the world, any other nation, the response would have been instantaneous and vigorous. But when it comes to Kashmir, the world seems to operate on an entirely different moral compass.

The United Nations and the so-called human rights organizations condemned the attack, as they always do. But where were they when Kashmiri Hindus were systematically cleansed from their homes during the 1990s? Where were they when these same radical groups targeted schools, hospitals, and places of worship? The hypocrisy is deafening. The loss of Hindu lives is seen as part of the price of peace, a collateral damage that cannot be prevented. But there is no equivalent sympathy for their killers, no international calls to bring those responsible to justice. Instead, there is an almost resigned acceptance of Kashmir as a "disputed" region—where the bloodshed is somehow normalized, as though it were an expected consequence of unresolved territorial claims. No matter how many innocent souls are sacrificed on that unforgiving land, the international community turns its gaze elsewhere, unwilling to address the very root of the conflict: radicalization fueled by state-sponsored hate.

In India, however, the narrative is different. The national response to the Pahalgam attack should have been one of unity, resilience, and defiance against the forces that seek to divide the nation. Yet, as we often see in times of tragedy, the political landscape became as fractured as ever. While Prime Minister Narendra Modi expressed his shock and sorrow, cutting short his overseas visit to return home, the opposition parties seemed to grow quiet, perhaps too quiet for a nation that has suffered so much. One might have expected this tragedy to spark the most robust debates in Parliament, but instead, the nation was subjected to half-hearted calls for justice, and political posturing overshadowed the gravity of the event.

Where were the voices of outrage from those who otherwise clamor for justice? Were they so consumed by the need to score political points that they couldn’t even speak when twenty-six lives were taken in the most barbaric fashion? It is a sad reflection of the state of India’s political discourse that even in the face of such a gruesome act, political parties, regardless of their affiliation, could not set aside their differences and unite against the barbarity that had been unleashed on Indian soil.

In fact, many of the statements from opposition leaders were disturbingly devoid of any specific mention of the religious targeting that had occurred. To ignore the sectarian nature of the killings is not just a gross miscalculation; it is a dangerous denial of the reality of the situation. It is an acceptance that some lives, based on their religion, are less important than others. The victims of Pahalgam were not just "tourists" or "civilians"—they were Hindus, and in the eyes of the attackers, their lives were worth less. This is a critical point, and one that should have been addressed head-on by every leader, every policymaker, every Indian who claims to stand for justice.

But there is another reality here—one that has been building quietly for years. The abrogation of Article 370 in August 2019, which removed Jammu and Kashmir’s special status, was intended to bring greater integration of the region into the Indian Union. It was meant to be a step toward resolving the festering wounds that had plagued the state for decades. Yet, in hindsight, one can argue that this very decision, while politically significant, also opened the doors to greater conflict. For decades, the political and social landscape of Kashmir had been shaped by separatism, terrorism, and the ideological backing of Pakistan’s army. The abrogation, while necessary from a legal and constitutional standpoint, exposed the deep, unresolved fault lines within the region.

Since that momentous day, there has been a sharp rise in religiously motivated violence in the valley. The radical factions operating in Kashmir have not been concerned with the welfare of the Kashmiri people. They have been motivated solely by an unrelenting desire to push out non-Muslim inhabitants and establish a caliphate under their interpretation of religious law. This ideology cannot be defeated through military might alone. It must be confronted at its core—through a reassertion of India’s commitment to secularism, through the strengthening of social cohesion, and through a relentless commitment to justice.

The Pahalgam massacre is a chilling reminder of how far we still have to go. While the government has made strides in re-establishing its control over the region, the question remains: can India truly integrate Kashmir without losing its soul? Can we ensure that Kashmir remains a land of peace for all, regardless of religion, or will it continue to be a battleground for those who wish to see it torn asunder?

The survivors of Pahalgam are the ghosts who will haunt our collective conscience. They are the ones who will speak the truth when others refuse to listen. The young girl, whose only wish was to see the snow-covered peaks of the Himalayas, will never know that dream. Rishi, the nine-year-old boy who just wanted to see snow for the first time, is forever gone. They did not deserve to die. No one does. But their deaths are not just a personal tragedy for their families—they are a tragedy for all of India. Every Indian who calls this land their own should feel a deep sense of loss, because what was taken from Pahalgam was not just lives—it was the very fabric of our unity.

The question now is: what do we do next? How do we ensure that the sacrifices of these twenty-six souls are not in vain? How do we turn this tragedy into a turning point, a moment when the whole of India stands together, no matter the ideological divide, no matter the political opposition, and says, “Enough”? It is not enough to mourn their deaths. It is not enough to express outrage on social media. It is time to act.

Security forces will continue to hunt down the perpetrators of this heinous act, but the fight cannot rest solely in their hands. This is a fight that must be taken to the streets, to the institutions, to the very soul of our nation. We must recommit ourselves to the values that make us strong—freedom, justice, and above all, unity in diversity. We must reclaim Kashmir from the forces of hatred and radicalism that have poisoned its soil for far too long.

It is time to stop pretending that this is a problem of a distant region, a political issue that can be debated over tea in the chambers of Parliament. It is time to acknowledge that Kashmir’s pain is India’s pain, that every bullet fired in that valley is a bullet aimed at our hearts. If we cannot rise to the occasion now, then we will never be able to rise.

Kashmir is India’s most beautiful contradiction. It is a land of unparalleled natural beauty, yet it is scarred by years of violence, suffering, and loss. It is a region that once saw the harmonious coexistence of Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs, but now faces the consequences of radicalism and division. The attack at Pahalgam is not the first tragedy, nor will it be the last if we do not address the root causes of violence in the region.

This is our moment to decide: do we allow Kashmir to be defined by those who seek to tear it apart, or do we choose to define it by the values of unity and brotherhood that have always been its true spirit?

The meadow still stands in Pahalgam. The grass still sways in the wind, and the trees still whisper stories of both beauty and pain. But beneath them lie the memories of twenty-six souls who only sought peace—and found a bullet instead. Let that meadow never forget. Let none of us forget. And above all, let none of us forgive silence.