Dear India, From Kashmir With Love

A few days ago, I stood in the heart of Srinagar at Lal Chowk, surrounded by hundreds of flickering candles. Not as an event curator, not as a hotel owner, not even as someone working in tourism—but as a Kashmiri heartbroken by what happened in Pahalgam. Terrorists opened fire on tourists riding ponies, eating bhel puri through pine-scented meadows. Among the chaos was a young Muslim horseman, Syed Hussain Shah. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t flee. He stepped between the bullets and the Indian tourists he was guiding. Not for any ideology. But because they were his guests. He was the first to fall.

As a Kashmiri who has devoted my life to welcoming visitors, the horror felt personal. I thought of the faces I had greeted just last month—of laughter echoing off our mountains, suddenly replaced by screams.

As dusk fell after the attack, I found myself on the phone with friends in Pahalgam. One of them, a local Muslim guide could barely speak through his tears. He kept saying the same thing over and over: “Mehman hai yeh humare” – They were our guests. In our Kashmiri way of life, guests are sacred. We call them “mehman”. To hear that our guests had been targeted in such a cowardly way broke something inside all of us. For a moment, I felt despair. Would anyone ever trust us again? Would this beautiful land I love become synonymous with death and fear in the eyes of my fellow Indians?

But something else happened. Instead of retreating into silence or fear, Kashmir rose in compassion. Shops shut voluntarily. Towns stood still in grief. Muslim mothers and Hindu fathers lit candles side by side. Hospitals like Paras Health in Srinagar activated 24/7 free emergency care for tourists. Taxi drivers gave rides for free. Hotels like Nedous Gulmarg and Four Points by Sheraton opened their doors, offering shelter and kindness with no conditions. It was as if the very soul of the Valley rebelled against this violence—not with more violence, but with love. I saw it on social media too—messages from ordinary Kashmiris, saying: “If you’re a tourist and scared, you have a brother in every Kashmiri tonight.” And I saw it on the streets. I saw Omar Abdullah’s sons, Zamir and Zahir Abdullah, walking alongside citizens in Lal Chowk. There were no party flags, just people. One protester’s words on camera stuck with me: “This is not a political protest. This is a public expression of pain. We will not allow this violence to define us.” And we haven’t.

On the second day after the attack, something beautiful and unexpected unfolded. Lal Chowk—once a symbol hijacked by separatists—was reclaimed by the people. Students, shopkeepers, and housewives marched holding up the Tiranga in a solemn procession. The square was awash in saffron, white, and green. I saw young Muslim boys and girls painting the tricolor on their cheeks. Placards read: “Kashmiris Stand With India” “Tourists, You Are Our Family.” That day, we sent a message loud and clear: The murderers who tried to spread fear do not speak for us. This is our India. And we will never be on the side of its enemies.

One of the most powerful moments came during a march led by the Chief Minister’s Advisor, Nasir Aslam Wani. As they walked, chants rang out—not of defiance, but of sorrow “Yeh tamasha nahin, yeh matam hai” — This is not a spectacle, this is mourning. Speaking directly to the tourists, Wani said: “We are sorry. We too have lost our loved ones. Your pain is ours.” These were not just words. They were Kashmir speaking as one heart.

What the world saw was not new. It was the reawakening of Kashmiriyat—our timeless ethos of harmony, hospitality, and humanity. My family has lived in Jammu and Kashmir for 90 years. Through generations, we’ve witnessed the valley’s most beautiful days and its darkest nights. And through it all, we’ve seen this tapestry of Hindu-Muslim brotherhood endure. This is the real Kashmir the headlines rarely show. Kashmir, where Sufi saints and Rishi sages are revered by all. Where a Muslim villager lights a candle at the shrine of a Hindu saint. Where a Kashmiri Pandit offers flowers at the tomb of a Sufi mystic. Our breads, our music, our very language—it’s all a fusion, passed down like shared folklore. This valley was never meant to be split. It belongs to all of us, together.

This is the Kashmir I fight for. This is the Kashmir Syed Hussain Shah died for. A valley where no one has to think of religion or politics when they embrace one another. Where the only conflict is who gets the last kawah (our spiced tea) in the pot. I know some will call me an idealist. After such a tragedy, how can I speak of tourism? Of inviting people back? But I ask you—how can I not? If we give into fear, if we let terrorists succeed in making people stay away, then we let them kill more than lives. We let them kill the spirit of Kashmir. Tourism isn’t just an industry here. It’s our identity. The dignity of our work, the pride in our hospitality, the dreams of our youth—our collective future depends on it. But more than that, our healing as a people depends on connection. Every vacationer who comes here and returns with a story of kindness becomes a thread mending the torn fabric between Kashmir and the rest of India. Every ski run down from Sunshine Peak, every shikara ride on Dal Lake, every trek through alpine meadows in Pahalgam, every visit to a Sufi shrine or ancient temple—these are bridges, not just moments.

Dear India, Kashmir is wounded right now. But not broken. Our spirit is unyielding. Give us strength by standing with us, not against us. Mourn with us. But also, believe in us. The next time you see a negative headline, remember this letter. Remember the horseman who gave his life for strangers. Remember the candles we lit for our Hindu brethren. Remember the Tiranga waving over Lal Chowk. When someone tells you to distrust Kashmiris, tell them what you now know: That we opened our homes and hearts. That we walked hand in hand. That we stood up for peace louder than the gunmen ever could. We are your own. No terrorist, no separatist, no propaganda can change that. Come back to Kashmir. Let us show you the valley we love—the one we’ve never stopped believing in.

Krishan Anand is the founder of Rebuild J&K Foundation