On May 20, 2025, India and Pakistan announced a renewed commitment to the 2021 ceasefire agreement along the Line of Control — their second such declaration in four years. Framed as a diplomatic gesture aimed at “stabilising the region,” the move arrived in the shadow of bloodshed. On the morning of 22 April 2025, a convoy of buses winding through the hills of Pahalgam was ambushed by armed militants. The vehicles were carrying Hindu pilgrims, many travelling from Gujarat and Maharashtra, toward the sacred Amarnath site. The attackers opened fire with military precision. By the time it ended, 27 people were dead, dozens wounded, and Kashmir's already uneasy calm had cracked again. Among the survivors was nine-year-old Naksh from Surat, found clutching his brother’s bloodied shirt. Witnesses said the attackers separated passengers by religion before shooting. The brutality of the assault — its timing, its political undertones — raises deeper questions about the promises of peace in Kashmir and the realities on the ground, especially under the framework of what both India and Pakistan still describe as an active ceasefire. But what, exactly, is being held at bay? A History of Ceasefire, Interrupted Kashmir, a region claimed by both India and Pakistan since the Partition in 1947, has endured multiple wars, two full-scale insurgencies, and decades of militarisation. In 1949, the United Nations facilitated the first formal ceasefire between the two countries, freezing control along what came to be known as the Line of Control (LoC). That agreement was never meant to be permanent, and it wasn’t. After the 1999 Kargil War, ceasefire violations peaked in 2002, with over 5,000 reported incidents. In 2003, a renewed agreement between New Delhi and Islamabad was announced, and for a few years, it seemed to hold. The number of violations plummeted to fewer than 100 by 2005. Cross-border travel was reintroduced. Civil society groups began cautious dialogues. Kashmiris, many for the first time in years, began to believe in a kind of fragile normalcy. That changed over the next decade. Tensions escalated again following the 2016 killing of militant commander Burhan Wani and even more sharply after the revocation of Jammu and Kashmir’s special status under Article 370 in August 2019. The region saw lockdowns, communication blackouts, and mass detentions. Between 2019 and 2020 alone, India reported over 5,000 ceasefire violations along the LoC. Yet in February 2021, the two countries surprised many by issuing a joint statement: they would “observe all agreements on ceasefire along the LoC and all other sectors.” Diplomats hailed the announcement as a significant thaw. It was informal, not part of any treaty, but carried the weight of official intent. It was widely referred to in Indian media as “Operation Ceasefire.” Operation Ceasefire: A Pause Without a Framework Despite the name, Operation Ceasefire was not an operation in the military sense — it was a diplomatic reaffirmation. There were no new protocols, third-party monitors, or cross-border verification mechanisms. What existed instead was mutual fatigue and perhaps mutual interest: both countries faced economic pressures and, in Pakistan’s case, growing internal instability. For a time, violations along the LoC sharply declined. According to official data, ceasefire violations dropped by over 90 per cent in 2021 and 2022. For the border towns of Uri, Poonch, and Tangdhar, the lull meant children returned to school, weddings were held in daylight, and life resembled something closer to ordinary. But for many in Kashmir, especially those far from Delhi’s policy circles or Islamabad’s diplomatic corridors, the word “ceasefire” never meant protection. It meant pause - silence is not guaranteed but expected to break. After the Pahalgam attack, that silence shattered. Eighteen days following the assault, 83 new violations were recorded along the LoC. Shelling resumed. Drone activity spiked. Inhabitants of border villages began sleeping in basements again. “We never stopped packing our emergency bags,” said Rina Begum, a mother of three in Uri. “You can’t afford to believe in peace here. You just live in between the bombs.” The Civilian Cost of Fragile Promises In the highlands of north Kashmir, the idea of peace is rarely tied to ceasefires. The lines on the map may freeze and unfreeze with official declarations, but the lived reality is one of constant vigilance. Homes have backup escape plans. Schools run modified curriculums for when children cannot attend. Shops stay stocked with dry rations in case roads are sealed without warning. Nazakat Ahmad Ali Shah, a trekking guide who helped rescue several survivors during the April attack, described it plainly: “It’s not a ceasefire if we’re still burying people. It’s a ceasefire if we feel safe. And we don’t.” The international community often treats these surges of violence as isolated ruptures — regrettable but exceptional. But for Kashmiris, especially those along the LoC, these moments are neither new nor surprising. They are cyclical. A massacre, a speech, a reaffirmation. Then, another pause and another promise that cannot shield them from the next round. And in the middle of it all is Naksh — a boy who speaks less now, eats less, and flinches at thunder. When asked what peace means to him, he said: “Just quiet. But not the scary kind. The kind where no one is hiding.” A Ceasefire or a Countdown? Ceasefires, as currently structured, are not rooted in reconciliation or accountability. There is no truth-telling, no demilitarisation, no reparative justice. What exists instead is an agreement to hold fire temporarily — sometimes upheld, often broken — without addressing the deeper political fractures underneath. In Kashmir, the difference between silence and gunfire is rarely peace. It’s only space. And as long as ceasefires remain tactical rather than transformative, Kashmir will continue to experience what it knows too well: the noise of violence, followed by the quieter but no less terrifying wait for it to return. If this is what we call a ceasefire, what would actual peace look like?
25 May 2025
Aashriti Jha
