I was visiting Rajouri and Poonch when the firing resumed, this time from across the border. Bombs fell without questions. No one asked who you prayed to before blowing off your roof.
I wasn't there in Pahalgam. But I read several reports - stories that felt like a heavy burden I couldn't shake off. The victims' relatives said the terrorists asked names and religion before pulling the trigger. Those who weren't Muslims were shot.
It wasn't just violence, it was a question of identity. And suddenly, a new wave of rhetoric began to rise, drawing sharp lines across religion and repeating an old tale of division.
I was visiting Rajouri and Poonch when the firing resumed, this time from across the border. Bombs fell without questions. No one asked who you prayed to before blowing off your roof. At Poonch Bazaar, I was outside Mohammad Hafiz's house. Seventeen people lived under one roof, before it stopped existing.
"They did not spare the temple or the mosque or the gurdwara," he told me. He wasn't angry, but tired. "They don't target religion, they target India."
The firing continued all night. It roared through the mountains like a monster without a face. And in the morning, they targeted our city, Poonch - not once, but relentlessly. Thirteen of our people died. Fifty people were wounded.
0 Comments