In the summer of 2025, I returned to my ancestral home in Achabal, Kashmir, for a family gathering, my first visit since 2022. The contrast between then and now is stark. Three years ago, Achabal Mughal Garden was a vibrant tapestry of life. Tourists from across India thronged its manicured lawns, their cameras clicking against the backdrop of cascading fountains. The 2-kilometer road leading to the garden was a chaotic parking lot, with buses and cars vying for space amid honks and laughter. Local shopkeepers, their stalls brimming with saffron, shawls, and dry fruits, wore smiles of quiet optimism. I recall asking Manzoor Ahmad, a vendor near the garden, about his business. “Sab upar walay ki mehrbani,” he replied, his half-smile crediting divine grace. “In do saal mein saari udhaar chuka di.” The tourism boom of 2022, which saw 1.88 million visitors to Kashmir according to the Jammu and Kashmir Tourism Department, had transformed lives. For the first time in decades, peace seemed to be delivering tangible dividends, fueling hopes of prosperity in a region scarred by conflict.
That hope now feels like a distant dream. On May 22, a barbaric attack in Pahalgam shattered the fragile calm. Twenty-six tourists were gunned down after being asked their religion, an act of terror that sent shockwaves through Kashmir. The outrage was unanimous—locals, cutting across religious and regional lines, took to the streets, condemning the attackers and their sponsors.
Suffocating Silence After Attack
The aftermath of the Pahalgam attack has brought a suffocating silence. Iconic tourist destinations—Achabal, Kokernag, Pahalgam—have been sealed shut, their gates locked with signs reading “Closed for Security Reasons.”
The Indian Air Force’s Operation Sindoor followed, targeting militant hideouts across the Line of Control (LoC). The strikes, meant to restore security, came at a devastating cost for some families. 30 civilians, including 12-year-old Zoya and her brother in Poonch, were killed in retaliatory shelling, as confirmed by local authorities. A ceasefire was brokered in early 2024, but the gates of Kashmir’s gardens remained locked, as if someone had hit pause on the region’s recovery and forgotten to press play.
This summer, as temperatures soared across India’s plains, my elder son, studying at a boarding school in Amritsar, called with a spark of excitement. “Abba, let’s go to Kokernag. It’s the perfect time,” he said. His words stirred memories of Kashmir’s lush valleys, and I agreed, eager to share the paradise I once knew. But Kokernag greeted us with desolation. The garden’s iron gates stood firm, its pathways eerily silent—no laughter, no gushing streams, no footsteps. The once-vibrant oasis, known for its healing springs, felt like a relic of a forgotten era. Hoping for better, we drove to Pahalgam, but the story repeated. The Baisaran Valley market, once alive with ponywallas and vendors hawking souvenirs, resembled a ghost town. Dusty signboards and half-open shutters hung like symbols of grief. A local shopkeeper, requesting anonymity, whispered, “No tourists, no business. How do we survive?” The numbers tell the story: tourist arrivals plummeted to 472,000 in 2024, a 75% drop from 2022, according to official tourism data.
Prolonged Closure Is Leading To Stress
The prolonged closure of these sites, even after the ceasefire, raises troubling questions. Tourism is the lifeblood of Kashmir’s economy, contributing 7.3% to the region’s GDP in 2022, per an economic survey. For locals like Manzoor, the shuttered gardens mean more than lost income—they signal a betrayal of hope. “We don’t ask for much,” said another vendor in Pahalgam, his voice heavy. “Just a chance to earn, to live with dignity.” Yet, the Jammu and Kashmir administration cites ongoing “security concerns” with no clear timeline for reopening. The policy feels like neglect, a bureaucratic inertia that overlooks the human cost. Each locked gate is a barrier not just to tourists but to livelihoods, healing, and the chance to rebuild a region yearning for normalcy.
Standing before Kokernag’s sealed entrance, holding my son’s hand, I struggled to explain why this paradise remains out of reach. The silence of these gardens speaks louder than any government statement. It tells of a system that, in its caution, has sidelined the aspirations of its people. Kashmir’s recovery hinges on trust—trust that peace can endure, that prosperity is possible. The government’s inaction risks eroding that trust, leaving vendors, ponywallas, and families in limbo. Those in power, drafting orders from distant offices, may never know the weight of standing before a locked gate, unable to show a child the beauty of their homeland. Kashmir deserves better—a chance to heal, to thrive, to open its gates once more.
