I. Ahmed Wani
The crisp winter air in the Kashmir Valley carried echoes of fury today as thousands poured into the streets, waving placards and chanting slogans that would have been unthinkable just a few years ago. From the narrow lanes of Bandipora to the bustling squares of Sumbal, ordinary folks – shopkeepers, students, farmers – gathered in spontaneous rallies to blast the Pakistani government for its role in the endless cycle of violence against Shias. This outpouring came hot on the heels of yesterday’s brutal suicide bombing at the Qasr-e-Khadijatul Kubra Imambargah in Islamabad, where at least 31 worshippers lost their lives during Friday prayers, and over 169 were left wounded in a haze of blood and debris.
I watched as the crowds swelled in Inderkoot, a quiet corner of Bandipora district, where evening protests turned the dusk into a sea of flickering candles and raised fists. “Pakistan murdabad! Shia genocide band karo!” they shouted, their voices raw and unbroken. One young man, a college kid named Bilal from Sumbal, grabbed my arm and said, “We’ve had enough of their games. They kill our brothers across the border and expect us to stay silent? No more.” His eyes were fierce, the kind of look you see when someone’s finally shaken off years of fear. This wasn’t some organized march; it was raw, real anger spilling out after years of bottled-up frustration.
This marks the second time in less than a year that the Valley has risen up like this. The first wave hit back in April 2025, right after the Pahalgam massacre where 26 tourists were gunned down in a brazen terrorist strike blamed squarely on Pakistan-backed militants. That attack, carried out by Jaish-e-Mohammad offshoots, sparked nationwide outrage, but here in Kashmir, it was a turning point. For the first time in over three decades, locals hit the streets not just to mourn, but to point fingers directly at Islamabad. Candle vigils turned into chants against “Pakistan-sponsored terror,” and even the Mirwaiz at Jamia Masjid in Srinagar condemned the bloodshed from his Friday pulpit – a spot that once echoed with pro-Pakistan sentiments. Back then, it felt like a crack in the old armor; today, it’s starting to look like the whole thing’s coming apart.
What’s shifted? Talk to anyone on the ground, and they’ll tell you the fear’s fading. Not long ago, saying anything harsh about Pakistan out loud could get you a bullet from some shadowy gunman. Remember the dark days of the early 2010s, when stone-pelters ruled the roads and anyone whispering against the “azadi” narrative backed by across-the-border handlers ended up in a shallow grave? Or the 1990s, when militants enforced silence with Kalashnikovs? Those who dared speak up – journalists, politicians, even everyday folks – paid with their lives. But now? The terrorism that once gripped the Valley like a vice is loosening its hold. Security operations have hammered the militant networks, and people are breathing easier, speaking freer.
I caught up with a senior police officer in Srinagar’s bustling old city, sipping kahwa in a cramped office overlooking the Jhelum. He didn’t want his name out there – “still some risks,” he muttered – but his words were clear as day. “This is a new dawn, bhai. Once, people were too scared to even mention Pakistan without looking over their shoulder. Now, they’re out there in the open, calling it what it is. The wind has changed – it’s blowing against the ones who sowed this chaos.” He leaned back, pointing to a map on the wall dotted with red pins marking old hotspots. “Terror incidents are down, and public trust is up. These protests? They’re proof the tide’s turning.”
He’s not alone in that view. Down in Sumbal, I chatted with Aisha, a schoolteacher in her 40s who’s seen too many winters of unrest. She was part of the crowd, her dupatta wrapped tight against the chill, holding a sign that read “Stop Shia Killings – Pakistan Shame.” “My uncle was Shia, lived in Quetta for years before fleeing the bombings there,” she told me, her voice steady but edged with pain. “We’ve watched Pakistan tear itself apart with this hate – LeJ, TTP, all those groups they let run wild. Now it’s hit their capital, and we’re saying enough. Here in the Valley, we know what sponsored violence looks like. It’s time they face the mirror.” Aisha’s story isn’t unique; many Kashmiri Shias have family ties across the border, making these attacks hit close to home.
Then there’s Rafiq, a fruit vendor from Bandipora who joined the late-night rally in Inderkoot. He’s no activist, just a guy trying to make ends meet, but the Islamabad blast pushed him over the edge. “I lost a cousin in the 2019 Pulwama bombing – Pakistani handiwork, everyone knows it,” he said, stacking crates as the crowd dispersed. “Back then, we grieved quietly. Today? We’re shouting it from the rooftops. No more fear. If they can kill innocents in their own mosques, what hope for peace? Pakistan’s atrocities have to stop.” His words echoed what I heard from a group of young protesters nearby, who mixed anti-Pakistan jabs with pro-India cheers – a mix that’s becoming more common these days.
This shift didn’t happen overnight. Post-2019, when Article 370 got scrapped, the Valley went through a rough patch – lockdowns, internet blackouts, a sense of upheaval. But as things settled, the focus turned to development: new roads snaking through the hills, tourism booming again, jobs trickling in. Militant recruitment has plummeted, with locals turning away from the gun. The Pahalgam attack last year was a jolt, but instead of fueling more unrest, it backfired. Protests then were the first real sign that the narrative’s flipping – no longer about “azadi” from India, but freedom from Pakistan’s meddling.
Today’s rallies build on that. In Bandipora alone, estimates put the turnout at over 2,000, with similar scenes reported in Anantnag and Baramulla. Social media’s buzzing with videos of chants, shared by locals who’ve had it with the cross-border nonsense. It’s not just Shias protesting; Sunnis, Pandits, everyone’s joining in, united against the common scourge of extremism. One activist I spoke to, Farooq from a local NGO, put it bluntly: “Pakistan’s been playing with fire for years – funding terror here, ignoring it at home. Now it’s burning them, and we’re not staying quiet. This is our Valley; we decide its future.”
Of course, not everyone’s on board. Some old separatist voices grumble in the shadows, calling the protests “staged.” But on the streets, the mood’s electric, a far cry from the intimidated silence of yesteryears. As the sun set over the snow-capped peaks, I couldn’t help but feel the officer was right – the wind has changed. Whether it blows toward lasting peace or more storms, only time will tell. But for now, Kashmir’s speaking up, and the world should listen.
