The Byseran attack came like a storm in clear skies—sudden, disorienting, and deeply personal. For those of us working in Kashmir’s tourism industry, it struck not just our businesses, but our hearts.
Like every year, we had spent weeks preparing for the season. May and June are traditionally the valley’s peak months. Hotels were ready, houseboats freshly painted, itineraries finalised, and hopes quietly rising after a few good years. Many of us had invested everything—not just savings, but borrowed money, often at high interest—in readiness for the influx of travellers. The attack shattered that optimism in a moment.
Within days, cancellations began pouring in. Not just a few, all of them. Our May and June bookings were wiped out. Friends in the industry, hoteliers, guides, houseboat owners, taxi operators, were stunned. Conversations turned to disbelief and fear. For Kashmir, where tourism is a lifeline for thousands, the loss felt existential.
And yet, even amid the shock, a quiet resilience stirred.
A few weeks after the attack, we received a hesitant enquiry from a couple in Mumbai. “Is it safe to come in June?” they asked. I paused. I wanted to say yes with certainty not just because I believed it, but because it felt essential. Essential for them, for us, for Kashmir. That message was followed by more. A handful of new bookings came in. Then a few more from Gujarat, from Bengaluru. As I write this, we’ve recovered around 10 per cent of our June business. It’s modest, but it’s something. In Kashmir, even a flicker of hope is worth holding onto.
What most people don’t see is that Kashmir isn’t just a place people visit. It’s a place they feel. Our valley has long been celebrated by poets, painters, and seekers for its beauty, yes, but also for its soul.
Over centuries, Kashmir became a crucible of cultures and spiritual traditions. Hinduism, Buddhism, and Islam, especially its mystical Sufi lineage, have all left deep imprints here. From the 8th-century philosopher Adi Shankara to the 14th-century poet-saint Lal Ded, to the teachings of Swami Lakshmanjoo in the 20th century, Kashmir has long been a sanctuary of spiritual inquiry and coexistence.
Even today, you can feel that quiet depth in the forests and shrines, in the songs of artisans who still carve walnut wood with the care of generations, or even in the glance of an elderly houseboat owner sweeping the deck, waiting for a guest who might return.
In the wake of the Byseran tragedy, there is understandable fear. But here’s what I know: the people of Kashmir are ready. Security has been significantly increased. The local administration is taking every precaution. Hotels, tour operators, and houseboat hosts are prepared and trained. But beyond the infrastructure, it’s the people, weavers, chefs, drivers, and guides who are waiting to welcome.
Because Kashmir doesn’t just offer beautiful views. It offers a rare kind of connection to culture, to stillness, to a way of life that values presence over pace.
You can spend your days walking through orchards in bloom or gliding silently across a hidden waterway. You can sit with artisans and learn the ancient patience of wood and wool. Or spend the night under the stars, listening to the hypnotic pull of live Sufi music drifting into the cold mountain air.
A friend recently asked me, “But should people really return now?”
And I say: yes with care, with awareness, and with intention.
Because when you return, you’re not just a tourist. You become part of a quiet resistance, a gesture of peace in a place that has known too much pain. You bring encouragement to people who refuse to give up. And you help preserve a culture, a hospitality, and a way of being that has so much to offer the world.
And yet, there’s one more thing I need to say something raw and heartbreaking. In an act of desperation, hotels and houseboats are now offering 50 per cent discounts, even though June is typically our busiest and most profitable time. Some properties are even offering complimentary familiarisation trips to tour operators, just to get people to return. It raises a painful question in my mind: is this really about pricing anymore? Or do we, collectively, have to do far more to rebuild trust to restore confidence in the soul and safety of the valley?
What we need now is not just bookings, but solidarity. A chorus of positive voices. We need the support of every stakeholder, tourism bodies, travel magazines, responsible influencers, and national news channels. Because while some media outlets have turned the Byseran tragedy into a business opportunity, amplifying fear for clicks and ratings, what we truly need is empathy, balance, and belief. The story of Kashmir cannot be reduced to headlines of violence. It must also include stories of resilience, of people still showing up with dignity and open arms. If there was ever a time to stand with Kashmir, it is now.
Kashmir will endure, as she always has. Her soul is intact, and her welcome is real.
So come back not just for the views, but for the people. Not just to relax, but to stand witness to resilience. Come back to be part of Kashmir’s story the part where hope begins again.