On the night of May 6, India went to bed. In the morning, we were at war.
When I woke up on Wednesday at about 4:30am to use the bathroom, the glow of my phone screen caught my bleary eye. Still half asleep, I picked it up – only to be jolted awake by headline after headline screaming the same unthinkable message: India had launched a series of strikes into Pakistan, targeting “terrorist strongholds“.
My husband was getting ready to catch a 7am flight from New Delhi to Jaipur. My phone beeped again. Some flight routes were being cancelled, and a few airports in northern India might be shut down. It was unclear whether this was a precautionary measure or in anticipation of possible Pakistani retaliation by air. We decided it was too risky. He would drive instead.
In the hour and a half before the world woke up to the news that had already upended my night, I was caught in a pendulum of emotions – waves of fear, anxiety, a deep sense of unease, and, most of all, helplessness. I kept refreshing the news, hoping for more clarity, – anything that might make things feel less surreal.
Of course, like every other Indian, I knew the catalyst for the offensive: the recent terrorist attack in Pahalgam – a truly horrific act in which 26 unarmed Indian tourists were killed. India had blamed the attack on Pakistan-based militants, a charge that Pakistan denied. In the days that followed, India responded with a series of strong measures: suspending the Indus Waters Treaty, expelling Pakistani nationals and cutting trade ties. Pakistan too expelled Indians, closed their airspace and suspended the Simla agreement.
At home, too, there were ramifications. As is often the case when tensions flare between India and Pakistan, Indian Muslims and Kashmiris bore the brunt. Some were relieved of their jobs, others of their accommodation. Some were assaulted, others branded “terrorists”. Amid the noise and fury, Himanshi Narwal – the widow of one of those killed in Pahalgam – made an admirable appeal for peace over hatred, urging people not to target Muslims or Kashmiris. Ironically, she was met with a flood of abuse and trolling.
In the days and weeks that followed, the Indian government continued to promise military retaliation. Still, many of us didn’t quite believe it. Both nations are nuclear armed, and India is hemmed in between Pakistan and its ally, China. Political posturing was to be expected, but surely, when it came down to it, de-escalation would be the preferred choice.
As the sun began to rise, the WhatsApp groups buzzed alive. It was a day of triumph, chest thumping, meme churning, and flag waving. One group hopefully debated the astrological likelihood of a full-fledged war while another quickly filled with gleeful Islamophobic rhetoric, comparing the air strikes to Diwali. Neither debated the human cost of war – or the terrifying possibility of a nuclear conflict.
The ongoing euphoria is disorienting. On our side, at least 15 civilians have lost their lives in cross-border artillery shelling that followed the air strikes. Countless others spent the night in terror, praying that they might live to see the sunrise. Yet, amid all the violence, the local populations of Kashmir remain invisible, once again trapped in the crossfire.
As the world around me appears to revel in this moment, I feel a quiet, persistent ache. Pain for the lives lost, pain for the division that’s growing wider, and pain for the values I grew up with, which now seem to be slipping further from our grasp. How shall I speak of peace when the very foundation of empathy feels threatened? How can the values of freedom, democracy and pluralism be protected when they are twisted into tools of division? And most of all, how can we hold on to our humanity in these troubled times?
How do we balance our love for our country with compassion for the innocents caught in the middle of this conflict?
At what point do we, as a society, allow humanity to transcend the politics of war and choose a different path?
While others celebrate, I can’t help but feel a profound disconnect. Almost like the emperor’s new clothes, the human tragedy remains invisible. Calls for peace and diplomacy have fallen silent, replaced by blistering war cries – leaving no room for ordinary citizens to express their sadness, anxiety, and uncertainty.
And if, amid all this cacophony, I feel so overwhelmed and isolated in my heartbreak, I wonder: surely, I can’t be the only one?
In the end, I can only mourn what is lost – both in lives and values.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
