There are places that don’t just exist on a map — they define who we are, and they live within us. For us, that place is Poonch. A place where we find our sense of belonging. It is more than just a border district on the map of Jammu and Kashmir along the Line of Control. It is a land known for its beauty — its rivers, valleys, and mountains — but more importantly, for its unity, diversity, and peaceful coexistence. In Poonch, people of different faiths have lived together for generations. Here, harmony is their way of life. But this land, often called the “Land of Saints,” has seen deep pain and separation.
Time and again, Poonch has been made to pay the price for its geography. From the horrors of Partition in 1947 and the brutal tribal raids — dividing its land and people — through decades marked by war, militancy, and now the echoes of shelling, this region has remained caught in the crossfire of history. And yet, it has always stood up again, quietly, with strength. Sadly, despite everything it has endured, Poonch is rarely mentioned in the headlines. It remains a forgotten chapter in India’s larger story.
For families like ours, the story is generational. Our ancestors had to leave their homeland, now in Pakistan-occupied Jammu and Kashmir, during the Partition of 1947. Some migrants never made it across the Dhumel Bridge. Those who did survive became refugees in their own land, carrying the trauma of loss in refugee camps in Jammu.
Prabh Kour, a granddaughter of refugee Kirpal Singh, who came to India from Hazira (Pakistan) in 1947, says, “In Jammu and other places, all we have are shelters; but in Poonch, we have our homes — our roots, our identity. We were uprooted once. How many more times must we endure this?”
Many came from Rawalakot, Muzaffarabad, Bagh, and Mirpur, carrying with them nothing but memories and trauma. We grew up hearing their stories — of pain, of separation, of rebuilding.
But we never imagined that our own generation would witness another May like that of 1947.
Caught in the Crossfire
In response to the Pahalgam terror attack, India launched Operation Sindoor and carried out strikes against terror camps in Bahawalpur and Muridke, Pakistan, on the night of May 7. Pakistan retaliated by targeting Poonch. Artillery rained down on the towns and hamlets of Poonch while people were asleep. Large sections of residential areas were devastated, displacing countless families and resulting in significant loss of life.
From May 7 to May 9, Pakistan’s artillery relentlessly targeted civilian areas across Poonch, Surankote, Sawjian, Mendhar, Uri, Rajouri, Kupwara, and Baila (Mandi). The shelling claimed the lives of over 20 innocent civilians and forced nearly 10,000 people to flee their homes. When the ceasefire was finally declared, those who returned were met with the heartbreaking sight of shattered homes and devastated neighbourhoods.
In 1947, while many left Poonch by boarding Dakota planes to safer areas in Jammu as the highway was cut off, Kanwal Singh, grandson of S. Anoop Singh, says many like his grandfather made the courageous decision to stay behind and fight alongside Brigadier Pritam Singh — often hailed as the Saviour of Poonch — to defend their people.
In 2025, we witnessed that same spirit alive in the people of Poonch — those who chose to stay, risked their lives, helped the injured, and became quiet heroes.
Throughout history, even in the face of adversity, the people of Poonch have never abandoned their homeland. Forged in the fires of displacement, they stood unyielding, like the mountains that embrace them. This is not just a story about the human cost of conflict. It’s a story about people — about loss, about memories, and about their sacrifice in upholding the territorial integrity of India.
The Long Walk Back to Broken Homes
Days after the ceasefire was announced, displaced families from Poonch gradually began returning. But what they’ve returned to is no longer home — only the shattered pieces of the lives they once lived. The walls stand torn, the roofs have vanished, and the memories that once filled these spaces lie in ruins.
Lecturer Manjeet Singh and his wife, a government school teacher, were resting in their living room when a shell struck the terrace of their house. They had a narrow escape. Forced to flee in the chaos, they left for a safer location. Days later, when Manjeet Singh returned, he found a section of his home reduced to rubble. A house he had built over years, brick-by-brick, was destroyed in seconds. Though Jammu and Kashmir Chief Minister Omar Abdullah has formed a committee to assess the damage to homes in the border villages, the process is expected to take months before any real help reaches the people.
Many women have now returned to what’s left of their homes — not to live, but to pick up the broken pieces. A haunting photograph by Nazim Ali Manhas (see below) captures this grief in silence: a woman sitting in the middle of her destroyed kitchen — a space that once served love and food, now stands hollow and blackened by fire.
Across Poonch, there are countless such stories — stories of families who went to sleep with shelter over their heads and woke up homeless. And yet, amid the destruction, they have returned — not just to reclaim space, but dignity. It will take generations to rebuild what’s lost. Sadly, people living far from the borders remain disconnected from the human cost of conflict, displacement, and loss. For them, it’s just another headline.
Where Children Were the First Casualty
Soon, the world will move on — as it always does. But before that happens, we urge you to pause and hold on to these stories a moment longer. Remember the children who never got to grow up, and the mothers who returned to empty courtyards.
In Poonch, a mother’s world was shattered when both her twins, Zain and Zoya, were killed in the shelling. Their father, devastated by the blast, slipped into a state of shock. When he regained consciousness in a hospital in Jammu, the first thing he did was look for his little ones — unaware they were gone forever.
His wife didn’t tell him for eleven days. She carried the truth like a wound she couldn’t speak of. She feared that if she told him, he wouldn’t survive the news.
During those harrowing eleven days, Rameez — their father — would ask everyone if his children were safe. The entire community of Poonch shared his silent agony — no one could find rest, haunted by the image of a father unknowingly waiting to see his children again.
But the unbearable truth finally shattered that fragile hope on 17 May. His voice trembling, Rameez recalled how Zain and Zoya used to say, “We will celebrate our birthday this year.” And he had gently replied, “Next year, we’ll do it.” Now, through broken words and tears, he whispered, “There will be no next year.”
As he wept, someone tenderly tried to console him, whispering, “Bhai jaan, they will be the ones holding your hands when you enter the gates of Jannat.” Those words hung heavy in the air — a promise of reunion, but one that no parent should ever have to wait for.
In the village of Qazi Mohra, the sudden shelling claimed the life of Javid Iqbal’s daughter, Maryam Khatoon, a UKG student, as a shell struck her directly. Her family’s desperate cries for help echoed through the chaos. Her elder sister, Iram Naz, was also injured, a shell having directly hit her head.
Intense shelling made rescue efforts nearly impossible.
Authorities, along with some civilians and ambulances, arrived three times, but heavy bombardment prevented even the safe retrieval of bodies. Maryam’s body was left as such for three hours.
Twelve-year-old Vihaan Bhargav was traveling with his parents, Rashmi and Sanjeev Kumar, to Jammu, hoping to escape the constant bombardment. But as they reached Poonch Bridge, heavy shelling began from the Pakistani side. The family was unaware of the tragedy about to unfold. A bomb fell directly on their car, hitting Vihaan’s head and killing him instantly. He was their only child — their entire world, gone in a moment.
At the cremation ground, Rashmi laid over his lifeless body, her cries piercing the silence. "He was scared of the shelling… how will he go alone?" she sobbed, holding him close as if to shield him from further harm.
A similar tragedy struck Vihaan’s 12-year-old cousin, Radvansh Singh, son of Gurmeet Singh. He was travelling in the same car and suffered severe injuries to his right arm and leg. Both he and his father, who was also seriously injured, have been referred to another hospital.
The children of Poonch became the first victims of a war they never chose. Their loss is a stark reminder that behind every statistic lies a shattered family. Some children who survived the shelling lost either parent. Until yesterday, they didn’t even know what conflict or shelling was. Overnight, their childhood ended — not with time, but with tragedy.
Unseen Loss
Along the Line of Control, herders like Seema and Rajkumar from Degwar Maldayalan chose to stay behind, risking their lives amid cross-border shelling to protect their cattle — animals they consider family and lifelines. Many others, however, were forced to flee, leaving their livestock behind. These silent losses remain unseen and uncompensated. Their story is a reminder that recovery isn’t just about rebuilding homes, but also about recognising the emotional and economic scars that don’t make headlines. It’s time the government acknowledged these overlooked tragedies and provided the support these communities desperately need to heal.
The recent shelling in Poonch has brutally exposed the neglect that border communities in Jammu and Kashmir have long endured. Despite promises, essential infrastructure like fully equipped hospitals remains inadequate. Over 15,000 bunkers sanctioned by the central government in 2018 were never constructed.
All these lives could have been saved if the administration had timely warned the people. But on the day of the shelling, the administration was missing, and people were left on their own. Sadly, we — the people of the border areas of J&K — have always been invisible to the world; forgotten by the nation, ignored by policymakers, and reduced to mere collateral damage. From 1947 to 2025, we have only been confined to the footnotes of history. Our stories remain untold, our voices unheard. When will our sacrifices be recognised? These are not numbers. They are citizens of this country. And their pain must matter.
(Kanwal Singh is a policy analyst and writer from Jammu and Kashmir. Prabh Simran Kour is a scholar and resident of Poonch. This is an opinion piece and the views expressed are the authors' own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)