FRACTURES OF A NATION
Fractures of a nation
In the wake of the bloody atrocity at Pahalgam, Tanya Vatsa highlights the lessons that must be learned – and the perils of failing to do so
It was supposed to be an ordinary morning in Baisaran Valley – a picturesque canvas of serenity painted against the backdrop of the Pir Panjal mountain range. Tourists, lured by the promise of crisp Himalayan air and calm, were not expecting to run for their lives. Yet, on April 22nd, near the town of Pahalgam, the valley echoed not to the sound of laughter, but with gunshots and screams, as terrorists opened fire in one of the deadliest civilian attacks in Jammu & Kashmir in recent years.
The attackers came not from the shadows, but through them –undetected, unchecked. Afterwards, more than 25 lay dead. But as the blood dried on the sun-dappled grass, the question that must have been asked was: how did a democratic state that prides itself on its strategic intelligence once again falter in the face of predictable terror? The valley, periliously close to one of the most turbulent international borders in the world, was unguarded despite the presence of about 2000 tourists. Baisaran, only accessible on foot and horse-back, had no armed personnel deployed and the time it took for the emergency services to arrive was sufficient for the attackers to conveniently disappear.
Claimed by the Resistance Front, an offshoot of the banned militant outfit Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT), the attack at Pahalgam also stood out in terms of its modus operandi. LeT has had an established pattern of targeting government and military representatives. Yet for the first time in a long time, the targets were innocent tourists, oblivious of the diabolical motive of the group – to emphasise that the Indian government’s promise of an economically vibrant Kashmir will remain elusive as long as militancy and violence continue to ravage the valley.
A second objective was to cause nationwide inflammation of sentiments, stoking the religious rhetoric of the Hindu-Muslim distinction by specifically targeting Hindu tourists in a Hindu-majority country. The act was meant to wreak havoc across the country by blurring a collective national identity behind a religious veil.
This was not the first such lapse of vigilance, as the incident has echoes of Pulwama and Uri. In Pulwama, in 2019, the then governor of Kashmir, Satya Pal Malik, had revealed that there was intelligence about threats to the CRPF convoy, but those warnings remained unheeded. In Uri, in 2016, militants breached a supposedly secure Army camp, killing 19 soldiers. In each case, India responded with decisive military action – surgical strikes in Uri’s wake, and aerial bombings in Balakot, post-Pulwama.
How did a democratic state that prides itself on its strategic intelligence once again falter in the face of predictable terror?
The pattern now feels disturbingly cyclical: a terror attack, civilian or military bloodshed, media outcry, muscular rhetoric, and a counter-strike that feeds national morale but not national reform.
What were the lessons learned after Uri and Pulwama, if not to strengthen outposts, increase surveillance, and fortify access routes? Instead, we see gaping lapses cloaked in bureaucratic fog.
India’s diplomatic gears churned into motion swiftly. Prime Minister Modi cut short an overseas visit. The Cabinet Committee on Security met. G20 envoys were briefed. Diplomatic cables hummed with indignation. Meanwhile, Pakistan, in characteristic fashion, denied any involvement. Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif offered a ‘neutral and credible’ investigation – an echo from the past, as heard after Pulwama and Uri. In all three incidents, Islamabad chose to deflect while India escalated responses.
The incident has echoes of Pulwama and Uri
This time, though, India went further: suspending the Indus Waters Treaty, closing the Attari-Wagah border, and exploring wider economic and diplomatic measures. Amid visa cancellations and weaponisation of water, it is the ordinary citizen at both ends who is left asking: why does this keep happening?
The answer, it seems, lies in the religious faultline.
Towards the religious aspect, the reaction in India was swift – and divided. Some demanded justice, others demanded vengeance. But more worryingly, a third narrative arose: one that painted entire communities with the blood of a few.
Nationwide instances of Kashmiri students being harassed and the Muslim community living in fear of being humiliated or lynched by an angry mob is the real internal isuue the country needs to solve. Religion in India, since time immemorial, has been weaponised – not just by fringe groups, but by states, politicians, and foreign actors. Those responsible for the attack must be decisively punished, but no faith or community warrants collective punishment for this act of terror.
This weakness – India’s inability to separate faith from fury – is the faultline that enemies exploit. Terrorists, nurtured in the ideological furnaces across the border, know this well. Each bullet is aimed not just at bodies, but at harmony. Each attack is calculated not merely for casualties, but for chaos. It is our religious faultlines, not just our borders, that remain most porous.
As India grieves Pahalgam, it must ask itself whether military responses alone are enough. The enemy is not only across the border – it lurks within the country as every incident awakens an acute sense of religious identity which gives rise to hate-mongering responsible for tearing at the seams of the fabric which is India.
While the government needs to learn and revise its security policies, people must understand that the country will not survive the test of time if every difference becomes a death sentence.
Tanya Vatsa is currently the Geopolitical and Predictive Intelligence specialist at Inquest Advisories in India, as well as Editor at the Journal of Indo-Pacific Affairs, Dept of Defence, United States of America. She completed her Master’s in Legal Studies at the University of Edinburgh after obtaining a law degree from Lucknow’s National Law University, India