Muhammad Tariq published 1 year ago
My phone buzzed at midnight, the 7th of May 2025, shattering the quiet. My sister’s voice, trembling from across the ocean in the UK. “Missiles, raining down on multiple cities,” she said, her words tinged with panic. “The war’s started. We’re terrified for you.” I was lying on my bed, lost in Orhan Pamuk’s “My Name Is Red”, mulling over who could’ve killed the master miniaturist in its pages. The book slipped from my hands, landing with a thud. I grabbed my phone and scrolled frantically. Headlines screamed confirmation: our soil was under attack.
In the other room, my parents were lost in sleep. My heart raced, do I wake them? I crept into their room, shaking them gently. “There’s been an attack,” I said, my voice low but urgent. They stirred, groggy, their immediate reaction pure denial. “No, it can’t be,” my father mumbled “How could this have happened?” Disbelief hung heavy in the air.
Strange as it sounds, a quiet joy flickered inside me. Not because of the war, not the chaos or the lives at stake, no, I was grateful to be here, with my parents, in this fragile moment. It’s the wrong time but the right place. I wasn’t about to let anyone misread that.
Curiosity tugged at me. “I’m going to the roof,” I said, grabbing my pack of cigarettes, tucked away from my parents’ prying eyes. The stairs, weathered and winding behind the kitchen wall, creaked under my hurried steps. From the rooftop, I scanned the hills beyond Dadyal’s city lights. The valley was deceptively calm, cars and bikes hummed in the distance, oblivious. I perched on my usual spot, the brick water tank that fed our showers and sinks, lit a cigarette, and searched the horizon like a hawk.
Minutes ticked by in silence. Then, a distant boom. Another. The air tightened. This was it – the war between India and Pakistan had ignited, and Kashmir, our bruised and contested land, was the battleground. A place caught in a 75 year tug-of-war for its soul, now a stage for two nuclear giants and their shadowy global backers.
I rushed downstairs to tell my parents. They were awake now, glued to the TV in the air-conditioned room. Before I could speak, the news blared: India had struck not just the Line of Control but Pakistani cities, breaching international borders. My father’s voice was grim. “This isn’t just a skirmish. This is war.” I nodded; the weight of it sinking in. We couldn’t even flee; this was our reality now. I needed to pull their focus from the screen. “We have to plan,” I said. “What do we do to stay safe?”
Before we could think, the lights flickered out, and the AC groaned to a stop. Load-shedding, we called it in Kashmir, a term foreign to my friends in the West. Normally, we’d curse the outage, but tonight, it felt different. We were at war, and sweating through the muggy heat and mosquito bites was our small sacrifice, so be it.
We dragged our khats (light, rope-woven beds) into the courtyard, the wooden frames creaking as we settled under the open sky. My mother, restless, announced she was heading to the roof. “I need to see what’s happening,” she said, already moving. I followed, my phone’s torch cutting through the dark, guiding her steps.
We stood in silence, peering into the night. The mountains hid the fighting, but faint blasts echoed across the valley. My mother’s voice broke the quiet, soft and heavy. “Ya Allah, protect the innocent.” I touched her arm. “Come down. It’s not safe up here, and you need to sleep.” She nodded, and we descended, her steps slow and weary.
Back in the courtyard, we sat on our khats, facing each other in the dark. My mother’s voice cut through the stillness. “Go back to England. Book a flight tomorrow and leave. We’ll be fine.” Her words carried a mother’s fear, the kind that puts her child’s safety above all else. I could sense her imagining death and ruin, wanting me far from it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said firmly, my tone leaving no room for argument. “And I won’t repeat myself.” I didn’t tell her how blessed I felt to be here, with them, instead of agonising from afar. If I were in the UK, I’d be unravelled with worry. They didn’t push back, they understood.
I arrived in Kashmir two weeks ago from London. I moved to the UK at the age of 20 and spent nearly as many years there , splitting my life equally between two worlds. Visits to Kashmir were precious but sporadic, dictated by finances and work. This trip, my first in two years, was a reprieve from the NHS’s working grind. I’d come to meet my parents and tend our family’s fruit and vegetable gardens, maybe start a small building project, to carve out a green haven.
That first week was bliss. My mother’s cooking worked its magic, lifting my spirits. Ripe papayas and loquats hung heavy on the trees, and the courtyard hummed with birdsong. I could taste happiness in the air. Then came the news from Pehalgam, across the border in Indian-occupied Kashmir: 26 Hindu tourists were slaughtered in a terrorist attack. The brutality sickened me killing innocents, no matter their faith, is monstrous. But when India pointed the finger at Pakistan after a few hours, without evidence, my stomach churned. No arrests, no proof, and yet already stoking the flames?
Soon, India’s Prime Minister Modi was on the airwaves, vowing revenge, threatening to choke Pakistan’s water supply by scrapping the Nelum-Jhelum water treaty. Water, this being 80% of Pakistan’s lifeline, Pakistan’s military called it an act of war, promising swift retaliation. And we, the people of Kashmir, were caught in the crosshairs. No one seemed to care about our fate; a war here would gut our fragile infrastructure, erase lives, and hurl us back centuries.
That night, sleep evaded. Mosquitoes buzzed, but it was fear that kept me awake. What if food ran out? What if bombs fell? We had no bunkers, no stockpile of medicine. Mentally, I began listing what we’d need to survive. Dawn crept in with the Prayer call from the village mosque, light spilling over the valley. My parents rose for prayers. Hunger gnawed at me. “Mother, can you make breakfast?” I asked, beginning the tea. We ate earlier than usual, and soon after, I crashed, sleeping fitfully as the power flickered back on.
By midday, I was up, eyes locked on the TV. Pakistan claimed it had downed six Indian jets; India boasted of surgical strikes in “enemy territory.” Both sides spun tales of triumph, but I trusted neither. Mainstream media in these parts often peddled half-truths. I turned to X, hoping for clearer voices. The day was scorching, and the fighting was silent to us at least for now. The war had shifted to a battle of narratives, each side rallying its people with propaganda. Online, Indians and Pakistanis cheered for blood, but Kashmiris on both sides of the divide were quiet. We knew we’d bear the brunt.
At dinner, a distant bang stopped me mid-bite. I bolted to the roof, my food abandoned. The artillery was back, fiercer than before, blasts punctuating the night like a grim metronome. I didn’t linger as my meal was cooling. I returned to the water tank afterwards, cigarette in hand, and let my thoughts drift. What’s next? If I don’t survive, what will my life have meant? The war faded as philosophy took hold. I’d always assumed chaos in Palestine or Sudan couldn’t touch me. Now, here it was, and for some reason, I was grateful for the wake-up call.
In that moment, a quiet, undeniable truth settled over me like a thin veil: I’m alone. I entered this world alone, and one day, I’ll leave it the same way. As I looked down at my family, my parents seated below, their familiar faces tinged with concern or pride. I realised their souls were not extensions of mine, but separate constellations, shining in their skies. The bond was there, strong and real, yet there was a space between us that couldn’t be bridged by blood or love. The world around me, once so vivid and immediate, felt suddenly distant, like I was watching it all unfold through a sheet of glass.
I was floating apart from this world, tethered only by the cigarette’s glow and the distant rumble of war.