‘On April 21st, my houseboat hosted twelve Marathi guests, with two small shikharas (mobile boats) prepared to navigate the serene Dal Lake, where life, commerce, and nature thrived in a vibrant dance. All seemed well, thanks to the grace of Allah. However, everything changed with the Pahalgam attack on April 22nd; life came to a standstill, and the lake mirrored that stillness. I hurried my guests to the airport, shaken to my core. Imagine the turmoil tourists endure. This was an unexpected tragedy, occurring just as life in Kashmir began to recover. I find myself without answers.’
Abdul Sattar, 55, wore a sombre expression, his silver hair resembling sharp weeds in the Dal Lake. Perched on the edge of an empty boat, recently refurbished for fifteen thousand rupees, he conversed with a fellow Kashmiri who had come to offer solace during this dark time for the valley. They spoke in hushed tones, aware of the CRPF soldier nearby, vigilant with his eagle eyes and finger poised on the trigger. The Boulevard was nearly deserted since the violent incident, and it was unclear who the soldier was guarding—perhaps the fearful boatmen.
He should have been in Baisaran, where over two thousand tourists were left vulnerable, reliant on pony wallahs and local guides
The man offering comfort to his despondent friend smirked, contemplating the soldier who had once ensured tourists’ safety but now stood watch over the abandoned land. Ironically, the Boulevard, a secure and monitored area housing high-ranking officials, was not where he was needed. He should have been in Baisaran, where over two thousand tourists were left vulnerable, reliant on pony wallahs and local guides. No one dared to voice concerns or challenge the government.
The boatman turned to his companion and whispered, ‘Yes, I sense your thoughts; our feelings are mutual.’
Democracy has never truly taken root in Kashmir, and the locals have been denied its benefits
Amid such bleak surroundings, they exchanged faint smiles, lamenting the government’s misplaced priorities and the trust deficit that has festered since the two nations emerged on the map in 1947. The government has aimed to suppress local voices, leaving no room for expression or dissent. Democracy has never truly taken root in Kashmir, and the locals have been denied its benefits. Instead, remote controls have governed the region, further alienating the population and pushing them toward separatism. The sentiments etched on their faces are often whispered in moments like these.
Over the past few decades, Dal Lake has rarely experienced a day devoid of global and national visitors, even amidst the violent turmoil of the early 1990s.
All the large residential boats have been fully occupied with an influx of guests for the last five years. Despite the ceasefire, the border has been marred by numerous violent incidents. Yet, who truly cared about the turmoil in the border areas? The government seemed intent on projecting a façade of ‘normalcy.’ Tourists flocked to witness the lake’s shimmering waters under the full moon and to admire the majestic mountains that stand sentinel over the lake. ‘The mountains are there to keep an eye on the ghosts in the Lake,’ my father would tell me during my childhood.
This sixteen-square-mile Dak Lake, which has diminished from approximately twenty-five square miles, holds countless memories of my childhood mischief
This sixteen-square-mile Dak Lake, which has diminished from approximately twenty-five square miles, holds countless memories of my childhood mischief. It conceals many of my secrets beneath the weeds and overgrown grass. Although weed cutters from Germany were procured to manage the growth, it reached such heights that many boats can no longer navigate its waters. The waters have become damp, stagnant, and polluted in many areas.
In my childhood, my father would carry me and my sisters across the lake, swimming from one end to the other with me on his back, employing his unique breaststroke style.
We would converse with foreign tourists, perch on the top decks of boats, and cheer for my father as he swam close to their vessels, seeking their admiration for his swimming prowess.
A few months ago, finding a spot among the sea of tourists was challenging. Every boat was occupied, and I had to wait three hours for a ride to Charchinari, a cherished dream of mine from childhood: to reach the grand Chinars there.
Hundreds of boats transport tourists from one end of the lake to the other, offering them a taste of Kashmiri brew, kehwa, while allowing them to enjoy the floating gardens adorned with fresh vegetables at the lake’s rear. ‘If you haven’t tasted the cucumber, you are truly unfortunate,’ the vegetable seller would chuckle at tourists.
The workload was such that boat owners employed labour from Bihar and other states to manage the surge in tourism.
Locals previously dominated the tourism sector, but this has shifted recently, with non-local labour managing everything from parking lots to superstores, the hospitality sector and industrial units
Kashmir experiences a significant influx of labour from various states, who are employed in paddy cultivation, orchards, construction, and domestic work. Locals previously dominated the tourism sector, but this has shifted recently, with non-local labour managing everything from parking lots to superstores, the hospitality sector and industrial units.
Dal Lake and its surroundings serve as the primary source of income for residents, including boat owners, mobile shikarawalas, handicraft sellers, small food kiosks, and large hotels—all bustling during the peak tourist season, despite traffic jams and crowds. It resembles Geneva Lake in Switzerland, yet it has rarely known peace.
Everything came to a standstill on April 22nd.
Boat owners can now be seen sitting at the edges of their shikaris, worried about the future and the negative media portrayal that has undermined everything
Boat owners can now be seen sitting at the edges of their shikaris, worried about the future and the negative media portrayal that has undermined everything they have rebuilt in recent years.
‘The daughter of one of the guests fell ill before this tragic violence. I took her to the hospital in the middle of the night. The mother was immensely grateful for my care, treating them like family. Soon, she returned to Delhi and began to speak ill of our community. I had hoped she would mention my hospitality on television, but she said nothing. Instead, she tarnished our image, labelling us as ‘terrorists’. Abdul Sattar’s voice trembled after a long silence as he noticed a military vehicle approaching. His fellow Kashmiri was lost in thought, apprehensive about the vehicle that had now stopped nearby. Fear was evident in their eyes.
A few soldiers exited the vehicle, positioning their rifles, while one soldier replaced the soldier stationed near them. The two remained at a distance, and one was handed a lunchbox.
Sattar and his fellow Kashmiri sighed in relief, their shift of watching the soldiers was over.
They nodded in unison, observing the soldier with the rifle as he climbed back into the vehicle, looking exhausted. Once seated, he began to eat the food provided by his fellow soldiers.
‘Don’t look at them; their fierce expressions frighten me,’ the fellow Kashmiri warned Abdul Sattar
As the vehicle departed, three soldiers remained on the deserted road, watching a few boat wallahs on their shikars. ‘Don’t look at them; their fierce expressions frighten me,’ the fellow Kashmiri warned Abdul Sattar.
He wasn’t looking at the soldiers but rather at a local couple walking nearby. They were stopped and questioned before being allowed to continue. ‘Thank God they weren’t apprehended.’ Over two thousand five hundred locals had reportedly been arrested and interrogated following the Pahalgam attack. ‘Where have the militants gone?’
How can we fight back? They control the media, the institutions, and the judiciary. What do we have?’ He let out a heavy sigh
Sattar’s face was long and lined, appearing more intense today. He had no time to ponder his ageing. ‘They will never trust us, no matter how much we concede or prove our innocence. They have taken everything from us—land, jobs, citizenship—and now they seek to demonise us to the point of extinction. How can we fight back? They control the media, the institutions, and the judiciary. What do we have?’ He let out a heavy sigh.
‘Allah, we have the Almighty and His blessings. Do not lose heart or faith. We have endured this since the partition. We will overcome this as well, inshallah.’ The fellow Kashmiri placed his hand on Sattar’s shoulder.
‘Those in our neighbourhood(referring to Pakistan) have deceived us, using us as cannon fodder, changing stances like changing shirts. They, too, desire land without us.’ His eyes grew moist, and he wiped them with the sleeves of his pheran.
The silence had become more piercing and dreadful than during the early 90s, a time when Kashmir experienced bloodshed every moment of the day
The silence had become more piercing and dreadful than during the early 90s, a time when Kashmir experienced bloodshed every moment of the day.
Suddenly, the weather shifted, mirroring the people’s mood. The heavy winds instilled panic among the shikarawallahs, prompting them to reinforce their docking. It was a peculiar scene, with rain and sunshine occurring simultaneously.
This is how Kashmir has endured through the years.
Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author. They do not represent the views, beliefs, or policies of the Stratheia.
