As India and Pakistan halt hostilities, Kashmiris living along the volatile border express fear, exhaustion, and deep scepticism after days of shelling, drone attacks, and military escalation

At dawn in Srinagar’s Fateh Kadal neighbourhood, Hajira, 62, adjusted her paisley scarf and waited anxiously at a government grains store. “Can you make it quick?” she urged the clerk, her knees aching as she stood in line. It wasn’t just discomfort—she feared war was imminent.

Just hours earlier, drones buzzed overhead, explosions echoed across the region, and panic gripped Indian-administered Kashmir as tensions between India and Pakistan soared. Airports shut down. People fled villages near the Line of Control. Fear blanketed the valley.

But by Saturday evening, a surprising announcement cut through the dread: US President Donald Trump claimed he had successfully mediated a ceasefire. Hajira’s eyes welled with relief. “I thank Allah,” she said softly. “I couldn’t have survived the hardship of war.”

Trump’s announcement sparked cautious hope—but also raised eyebrows. The US president added that he would attempt to broker a broader solution to the Kashmir dispute, a long-standing territorial conflict between nuclear-armed India and Pakistan. Indian officials were reportedly displeased, viewing foreign intervention as unwelcome.

“Kashmir remains the core issue,” said Zafar Choudhary, a political analyst in Jammu. “Trump’s offer shows the world still sees Kashmir as central to the India-Pakistan conflict.”

In the border towns and remote villages of Kashmir, that conflict is anything but abstract. As missiles and drones flew, residents in districts like Uri endured nights of shelling, hiding in basements or fleeing to safer ground. Entire families abandoned their homes as the cross-border fire intensified to levels unseen in decades.

“I’ve never been more frightened,” said Hasnain Shabir, a 24-year-old business graduate in Srinagar. “If this was just a warning, I don’t want to imagine what real war looks like.”

The violence erupted after gunmen attacked tourists in Pahalgam on April 22, killing 26 civilians. The attack reignited military tensions, and New Delhi launched raids across Indian-administered Kashmir. Thousands were detained. Homes of suspected rebels were bulldozed. At least 90 individuals were booked under the draconian Public Safety Act, and journalists faced pressure too—one was even arrested for allegedly promoting separatism.

Then came the ceasefire—but it hardly brought peace. On Saturday night, as news of the truce broke, the skies above Srinagar lit up once more. Swarms of Pakistani kamikaze drones breached Indian airspace, prompting anti-air systems to fire interceptors. Trails of red lights shot through the night, followed by explosions. Videos flooded social media. Electricity was cut. Sirens wailed. Terrified residents ran for cover.

In Uri, a tranquil town of pear orchards and walnut groves near the de facto border, devastation followed. Shelling demolished homes, wounded livestock, and displaced dozens. Villagers gathered in silence at dawn, scanning the skies, fearing another round.

The ceasefire remains fragile. Accusations of violations continue. And despite Trump’s diplomatic efforts, few in Kashmir believe a lasting solution is close.

For many, including Hajira, hope and fear walk side by side. “We’re used to being caught in the middle,” she said. “But each time, it feels worse.”

As the dust settles—for now—Kashmir limps forward, again bracing for what might come next.