‘We Hid Inside Shelves, Prayed for Morning’: Uri Resident on Pakistan Shelling

"All I heard was the first blast, and then another, and another. The ground shook. Glasses shattered. Panic spread."

“I live in Uri, a border village nestled in Baramulla district of Jammu and Kashmir, right along the volatile Line of Control (LoC). We are used to cross-border tension here.“

(Photo Courtesy: Nadeem Mir)

At around 2 am last night, I was jolted awake by a deafening blast.

I remember thinking that it sounded like a dozen thunderstorms striking all at once. The windowpanes shook violently. The air felt charged with fear. Outside, the sky glowed a fiery orange, lighting up the night like a nightmare. I pulled back the curtain, and my worst fears came true — several houses in my village were engulfed in flames.

It looked like war had come to our doorstep. I live in Uri, a border village nestled in Baramulla district of Jammu and Kashmir, right along the volatile Line of Control (LoC). We are used to cross-border tension here. 

We grew up with the sound of distant gunfire, the low thump of mortar shells from across the border, and the news of skirmishes between Indian and Pakistani forces. But what happened on the night of 7 May was unlike anything we have seen in years.

'We didn’t even have time to process the news. All we heard was the first blast, and then another, and another. The ground shook. Glasses shattered. Panic spread like wildfire.'

(Photo Courtesy: Nadeem Mir)

'House Trembled With Each Explosion'

Just minutes earlier, the Ministry of Defence had issued a statement, announcing the launch of Operation Sindoor: a targeted, retaliatory strike against nine suspected terror infrastructure sites across the LoC in Pakistan and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir. The operation was in response to the 22 April terrorist attack in Pahalgam, where 25 Indian nationals and one foreign tourist from Nepal were killed.

Within moments of the announcement, our side of the border came under heavy shelling from Pakistani forces. We didn’t even have time to process the news. All we heard was the first blast, and then another, and another. The ground shook. Glasses shattered. Panic spread like wildfire.

As the shelling intensified, I ran downstairs. I woke up my mother who was sleeping in the adjacent room. We huddled together in the kitchen, unsure of what to do.

The house trembled with each explosion. My phone kept ringing with calls from neighbours and friends reporting damages in nearby villages. Bazgaon had one house damaged. Salamabad had four houses hit. Gingal, a little farther away, also reported shell damage. Everyone was terrified.

'Living in a conflict zone for decades, has meant frequently getting caught in the crossfire'

(Photo Courtesy: Nadeem Mir)

'Ran for Shelter, Prayed for Survival'

The night echoed with cries of fear — women wailing, children sobbing, elders shouting for help. People were fleeing their homes barefoot, clutching whatever they could. It was utter chaos. Nobody slept till 6 am. All we could do was hope and pray that our homes would survive the night.

We have no reinforced shelters here. No community safe rooms. Many of my friends, neighbours, and relatives spent the night crammed into tiny storage alcoves built into the ground floors of their homes. These small spaces, meant to store firewood, snow shovels, or animal feed during winter, became our only hope for survival.

I crouched with my mother in one of these alcoves. It was claustrophobic. The air was thick with fear. But it felt safer than being near a window or a wall that might collapse if a shell hit nearby. We were hiding in those shelves, because it was the only place we could think of that might keep us safe.

It is deeply unfortunate. Even in previous shelling incidents over the years, people had no choice but to hide behind mud walls or run toward the forested hills and rocky mountains. Despite living in a conflict zone for decades, there is very little protection here.

Why are we always forgotten? Why, even in 2025, do people living on the LoC still have no place to hide during cross-border firing?

Mock drills and emergency preparedness exercises happen across the country, especially after natural disasters or terror threats. But what about us? Why aren’t border residents included in these drills? Why aren’t we trained in what to do during shelling? We are the ones most exposed to these threats, yet, we are the least prepared.

I urge the government to include LoC villagers in these national safety programmes. At least conduct mock drills once a month. Train us. Teach us how to react, where to run, how to help each other. Right now, we are on our own.

Many well-to-do families have already started relocating to safer areas like Baramulla town or Srinagar. I don’t blame them. Who wants to live under constant threat of losing their home — or worse, their life? But what about people like us? What about the poor?

'It is deeply unfortunate. Even in previous shelling incidents over the years, people had no choice but to hide behind mud walls or run toward the forested hills and rocky mountains.'

(Photo Courtesy: Nadeem Mir)

'If There's War, We Want Dignity to Survive it'

Most of us here are entirely dependent on cattle rearing. It’s not like we can pack up our animals and move to the city. We have no businesses, no savings, no second homes. Even if we somehow relocate, we won’t survive. There are no jobs waiting for us in Srinagar. No land to graze our animals. We will be reduced to nothing. This village, this land, and these animals are all we have.

I’m tired of being resilient. I’m tired of being told to be brave. We need more than just praise for our strength. We need protection. Real, tangible protection. Bunkers. Training. Compensation for damaged homes. Psychological help for traumatised children. Livelihood support for displaced families. Is that too much to ask?

It’s not just about survival during one night of shelling. It’s about how we rebuild after that. Who helps us fix shattered windows? Who helps the families whose cattle are killed or whose homes are burnt? There is no system. No outreach. Once the headlines fade, we are left alone with our grief.

On 7 May, we saw hell. And yet, within hours, life had to resume. People had to fetch water, graze animals, milk cows. The trauma doesn’t go away, but the world doesn’t wait. Children who didn’t sleep all night still had to help their mothers clean up broken glass in the morning.

I hope someone in power listens to our voices. I hope they understand that protecting our borders means protecting the people who live on those borders. We don’t want war. We want peace. But if war comes to our doorstep, we at least want the dignity to survive it.

Until then, every loud sound will make our hearts race. Every night will bring a quiet fear. And every family will continue living in the shadow of fire, without a bunker to hide in.

(All 'My Report' branded stories are submitted by citizen journalists to The Quint. Though The Quint inquires into the claims/allegations from all parties before publishing, the report and the views expressed above are the citizen journalist's own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)