Bazaar without buyers

Hope had briefly returned to Kashmir. Once more, the markets were humming with the sounds of haggling and laughter. Admiring the elaborate Kashmiri carpets and shawls that hung proudly in shops that had been there for centuries, tourists meandered through Srinagar’s winding streets. Guesthouses were crowded in Kashmir, ponies were pacing the hillsides, and shikaras were gliding serenely across Dal Lake. The business was flourishing. Locals had the audacity to think that better times were at last upon us. However, the dream disintegrated as soon as it started. The fragile calm was broken by a new wave of violence, symbolized by the tragic Pahalgam attack, which left behind stunned silence, shuttered shops, and a populace once more facing uncertainty.

The business setback no one expected

Shopkeepers, hoteliers, pony riders, artisans—everyone had started to dream again. “We had good business after a long time,” says Bashir Khan, a dry fruit seller in Srinagar. “I even ordered extra stock thinking the season would be long and full. But it ended before it began.”

The recent Pahalgam attack jolted the Valley back into fear. Tourists fled overnight. Bookings were cancelled. Hotels that had just reopened were empty once more. The loss wasn’t just economic—it was deeply emotional. For locals, it felt like hope had been snatched from their hands just as they were beginning to believe in it again.

The slow death of tourism

Kashmir’s economy, which was once renowned for its thriving tourism, has completely collapsed. Following each assault, battle, and border skirmish, Kashmir’s tourism industry suffers further setbacks. As a result, local craftsmen, hoteliers, and shopkeepers in the area are fighting for their lives. Many have closed their companies or looked for work elsewhere.

These streets used to be crowded with tourists. Only locals are there now, and they don’t purchase much. Shahnaz Begum, a traditional Srinagari embroiderer, says tearfully, “We are only surviving by hope now.” The elaborate Kashmiri embroidery that Shahnaz used to adorn the world’s finest fabrics is now collecting dust on the shelves of her small store.

We are not what you see in the headlines

Nazir Ahmed, who has been in Pahalgam for 25 years selling handwoven shawls, starts crying in the middle of his statement. “I’ve witnessed shutdowns, curfews, and even stone-throwing. However, this is worse. We were recovering. And now we are hurt once more.

Visitors from Europe, Delhi, and Mumbai used to frequent his little store, which is nestled close to the Lidder River. He is now the only one sitting on a wicker chair outside the store, gazing into the deserted street. “Kashmiris are perceived as dangerous by tourists. But when they don’t show up, it’s us who suffer. We are just people trying to live their lives; we are not the headlines you see.

Pahalgam has deep wounds

There was more to the Pahalgam attack than just another terrible event. It struck in the center of the tourist route in Kashmir. According to locals, it destroyed the trust that was only starting to grow again. Within hours, tour operators were notified of cancellations. Fayaz Dar, who owns a small guesthouse, claims that in one day, he lost 22 reservations. Since then, I haven’t paid my employees. How am I going to feed my kids?

The fear of forgetting is more significant than the fear of physical safety. Of a land of storytellers, artists, and beauty being diminished to a battleground in the minds of people everywhere.

The domino effect

The owners of hotels and houseboats are not the only ones who suffer when tourists stop visiting. The cab drivers, flower vendors, woodcarvers, tea stall owners, and pony men are all part of the chain of livelihoods that rely on the trickle-down of tourism revenue.

“I haven’t received a single order in two weeks,” says Shahnaz Begum, a home-based pheran embroider. Without tourists, there would be no sales. We don’t have any other jobs. We only know this.

Even businesses that don’t seem to be dependent on tourism are suffering. Shahnawaz Dar, who owns a modest store selling cell phones at Qamarwari in Srinagar, shakes his head. In the past, locals had money to spend when tourists arrived. Young boys would purchase new chargers, cases, and earbuds. Nobody has the money or the mood right now. He stops and looks at a glass counter that is dusty. College students used to frequent my store. It is currently just filled with unsold inventory. For Nawaz, the ringtone that never comes is the source of the silence, not just the streets.

Clinging to hope

Kashmiris have a remarkable capacity for optimism in spite of the gloom. For decades, they have been doing this. They always get back up after being pushed down by violence. They stitch new pherans, repaint signboards, reopen stores, and wait for the next tourist, smile, or reason to believe.

“We’re worn out, but not broken,” Bashir says quietly. Kashmir is not just about war. It also has to do with welcome.

The world needs to keep in mind

Kashmir waits patiently, painfully, and quietly as the rest of the world moves on to other news cycles. The people still cling to their dreams, the rivers still flow with tales, and the valleys still resound with the rustle of chinars. But in the absence of peace, those dreams remain trapped behind closed stores and weeping eyes.

Consider more than just the news when you think about Kashmir next. Consider Bashir, Shahnawaz, Nazir, and Shahnaz. Imagine a paradise that wishes to mend. Peace and you are all it needs.