To escape their crowded cities, to breathe the fresh air of Baisaran, to touch the snow, to smile in the lap of our beloved Pahalgam. And we, as Kashmiris, welcomed them like we always do—with open arms, warm hearts, and the fragrance of kehwa in the air. But on the afternoon of April 22nd, something unholy happened. The meadows of Baisaran, once echoing with laughter, were silenced by a sound that no one ever forgets: the sound of death. A blast tore through the valley like a scream, taking 28 lives with it. Tourists, families, children, Kashmiris too, all gone. In seconds.
I wasn’t there. But I felt it. Every Kashmiri felt it.
Because when a mother from Mumbai dies here, she becomes our mother too. When a child from Anantnag is buried, we lose our future too. And when Baisaran weeps, we don’t look away. We hold her. We cry with her.
I saw an old man kneeling in the grass, holding a girl’s shoe in his hands. He wasn’t speaking, just shaking, as if the earth beneath him was gone. I heard someone whisper, “They came to see beauty. They died in blood.”
And I ask you how many more times must this happen before the world remembers Kashmir not in silence, but in its screams?
We are not just a headline. We are not just a conflict zone, we are people. And on 22nd April, 28 parts of our humanity were taken from us.
Let Kashmiris live before the world decides to mourn us.
Let our children play, not disappear.
Let our meadows bloom, not bleed.
Let our sky be blue, not grey with smoke.
Let Kashmir breathe. Let us breathe.
“Har shaam poochti hai yeh Darya-e-Khoon se,
Kab tak sahoge yeh aag, yeh gham, yeh rooh ki cheekhein?”
Kabhi toh roko yeh khoon ka saawan,
Kabhi toh jeene do, Kashmir ko insaan ban ke”
And if you’re reading this with dry eyes… read it again.
Because somewhere in Baisaran, a breeze still carries their last breath.
Malik Salik Hilal
ma**********@***il.com