In the Meadow of Death: A Heartfelt Condemnation of the Kashmir Attack

On the afternoon of April 22, in what should have been a serene, sunlit spring day in the breathtaking Baisaran meadow near Pahalgam, an act of unspeakable violence tore through the calm. At least 28 people—most of them innocent tourists, including a young naval officer and foreign nationals—were gunned down in cold blood by militants. This was not just an attack on lives, but an attack on the very idea of life itself—on peace, on travel, on celebration, on hope.

As a literary community, as chroniclers of human experience, and most importantly, as fellow humans, we at Writers’ Kalam are deeply shaken and heartbroken by this horrific act of terror. We condemn it in the strongest possible terms, not only as professionals but as sons and daughters of a nation that has borne far too many such wounds on its soil. What happened in that meadow was not a mere “incident” or “act of terror” in the abstract. It was murder. Premeditated. Cruel. Indiscriminate in the sheer scale of its destruction, and yet disturbingly precise in its chilling intent.

We are used to covering words. This week, we are confronted with silence. The kind that follows gunfire. The kind that haunts the eyes of survivors. The kind that descends on families who expected a phone call and got a body instead. What can be said when a young man in uniform, newly married and brimming with life, is gunned down while on a honeymoon? What can we write when tourists, simply seeking peace and beauty in a troubled land, are turned into targets?

There is something particularly heartbreaking about the place of this attack. Pahalgam. Baisaran. Names we often associate with poetry and postcards, with pine trees and pony rides, with Sufi songs and snow. Places that, for generations, have drawn artists, lovers, and seekers. That such horror could bloom amidst such beauty is almost unbearable. It makes us ask, once again: What has Kashmir become? What have we allowed it to become?

We cannot look away. We must not look away.

As writers, we have long held that the pen is mightier than the sword. But when the sword comes for the pen, for the pilgrim, for the peace-seeker, we are reminded that words alone are not enough. They must also become witness. And so we write today not only to condemn but to remember. To mourn. To speak out in defense of the idea that no child should see their parent shot dead on a vacation, that no tourist should have to recite verses at gunpoint, and that no country should have to count its dead from what should have been a week of joy.

And we must ask hard questions—of systems, of governments, of ourselves. How did this happen? How did the intelligence lapse? How did four men with weapons walk into a meadow known for its foot-traffic and not be intercepted? How will justice be pursued—and how swiftly? Because while statements of condemnation are necessary, they are not justice. They are not closure. They are not prevention.

In moments like these, the cultural and literary community must not retreat. We must respond—not with rage, but with resolve. Not with fear, but with fierce compassion. The lives lost in Baisaran must not become just another number in an annual report on violence. Let them become a reason. A reason to write more honestly. A reason to amplify voices from the Valley—not just the headlines, but the humans. A reason to insist, again and again, that Kashmir is not just a conflict zone, but a place where people dream. Where poetry still exists. Where peace can still return.

Let us also hold space for Kashmiris, whose lives are once again interrupted by military crackdowns, whose fields are once again occupied by search parties and surveillance. Innocent locals are the first to suffer after every attack, caught between the barrels of insurgents and counterinsurgents alike. Let us remember that behind every tragedy, there are layers—and not all victims lie in graves.

In the coming days, the world will move on. News cycles will change. Politicians will pivot. But we at Writers’ Kalam will continue to carry this pain with us—not for spectacle, but for remembrance. Because what happened in Pahalgam must never be normalised. It must never be reduced to “the cost of conflict.” It must be known for what it is: a brutal disruption of the human story.

We urge the government to act with urgency and clarity. We urge civil society to demand accountability without descending into communal rhetoric. And we urge our fellow writers, editors, poets, and artists to respond with courage—not to glorify suffering, but to give it voice. To bring nuance where there is noise. To tell the stories of those who now cannot.

To the families who lost loved ones: we send you not just our condolences, but our commitment. Your loss will not be forgotten in the footnotes of our collective memory.

And to those who planned and carried out this attack—know this: violence may silence a life, but it cannot silence legacy. Each victim in Baisaran carried a world within them. And we, the writers of this land, will carry them forward. In stories. In verse. In history. In memory.

We end with a prayer—not only for the dead but for the living. May Kashmir know peace in our lifetime. May meadows know music again. May words be enough.

— Priya Mani, Content Head, Writers’ Kalam Literary Bulletin