In Kashmir’s Border Villages, Women Bear the Brunt of a Ceasefire in Tatters

Baramulla, Kashmir — As the sun sets behind the Pir Panjal mountains, the shadow of war looms over Kashmir’s border villages. In Mohura, a small hamlet near the Line of Control in Uri, a border town roughly 150 kilometres from the summer capital of Jammu and Kashmir, the shrill cries of a young girl pierce the silence of a relief camp. Her mother, 40-year-old Nargis Begum, was killed two days ago when stray bullets struck their vehicle as the family tried to flee the village.

“We saw her die in front of us. Her only fault was trying to save us," said her husband, Jammel Khatana, 44, eyes clouded with shock and disbelief, as he held their young daughter close.

Nargis is one of many women caught in the crossfire along the Line of Control, where recent cross-border shelling has turned entire communities into war zones. The latest round of violence, triggered by India’s “Operation Sindoor” on May 7 — an unprecedented retaliation for a deadly April 22 attack on Hindu pilgrims in Pahalgam — has forced thousands to flee their homes, particularly in Rajouri, Poonch, Kupwara, and Baramulla.

At least 15 civlians have been killed and more than 58 injured in the last week alone, according to local reports. Women, often the anchors of rural households, have found themselves leading their families through the chaos, trauma, and an uncertain future.

Thirty kilometers from Uri, Shakeela Begum, a mother of five, huddled inside a state-run community college now functioning as a makeshift relief camp.

“We ran with our children in the dark. I didn’t even have time to put on my shoes," she recounted. "We left everything: our cows, our home, our grains. Now we sleep on the floor, unsure if we will ever return."

Across Kashmir’s border belt, women are often the ones who stay behind when the threat of war looms. As their husbands travel for work, women manage fields, children, livestock, and homes. This time, they are the ones who made split-second decisions to flee.

“We were all inside when the shell hit,” a woman named Bisma Shahzad, 28, told More to Her Story, standing outside what remained of her home. Bisma was supposed to get married on May 10. Now, instead of her wedding, she’s watching people dig through debris, trying to salvage what they can.

“In one moment, it was all over. My dress, the food, the decorations. ... Everything is under the rubble,” she said.

Her father, Nazir Ahmad Mir, had spent years doing daily labor such as cutting wood, carrying sand, and any other physical task that he could find to support Bisma’s marriage. “I had nothing fancy, just enough to give her a decent start. I can’t believe all of it is gone,” he said, staring blankly at the family’s broken roof and scattered bricks. “One shell ended it all.”

Local residents told More to Her Story that several houses were damaged in the shelling that came from across the border late Thursday evening, but the Mir family was among the worst hit.

“Everyone in the village knew about Bisma’s wedding,” said Abdul Majeed, the Mir family’s neighbor. “We were all going to be part of it. But instead of celebration, there’s silence today.”

In the early hours of the morning, neighbors came to help. Women picked up broken utensils and salvaged clothes. A few men helped clear parts of the collapsed wall.

“Bisma had dreamed of this day since she was a child,” said Shakeela, a relative. “Now she’s sitting on a charpoy outside a broken house, crying. It’s not fair.”

Nazir, who provides for the entire Mir family, added, “We are poor. But we had dreams. What else does a man have?”

For many residents of Kashmir, conflict is a constant backdrop to daily life, shaped by a decades-long history of tensions and violence. But the current wave of violence, intensified by the use of drones for the first time, has introduced new fears.

“We hear the buzzing sound of drones at night. It feels like death is hanging in the air," said Fatima, 29, from Tangdhar, a border village in Karnah tehsil of Kupwara district, 200 kilometers from summer capital Srinagar.

In a neighboring village, Sughra Jan, 24, described a night spent under a wooden cot with her toddler. "We couldn’t step out. The shelling didn’t stop for five hours. The walls shook, the windows shattered. All I could do was pray."

Their stories paint a picture of quiet resilience. Many of these women have lost children or husbands in earlier skirmishes. They have rebuilt homes destroyed by fire or mortar shells, only to abandon them again. With each cycle of violence, they carry the collective weight of trauma and renewal that rarely makes headlines.

In the makeshift displacement shelters of Uri and Rajouri, access to toilets, menstrual hygiene products, and basic healthcare is minimal. Pregnant women lie on thin mats with no access to gynecological care. Infants reportedly go days without clean water or warm clothing.

“We have received no sanitary pads, no privacy. There is one toilet for 50 people. Our daughters are scared to go out at night," a young woman sheltering in Baramulla told More to Her Story.

Meanwhile, aid has been slow to reach the region, with humanitarian efforts hampered by the vast scale of displacement and scattered coordination. On Saturday, India and Pakistan abruptly announced a cease-fire following four days of intense shelling and airstrikes. Within hours, however, both sides accused each other of breaking the truce.

For years, public health practitioners have warned of rising cases of PTSD in this region, especially among women who bear both emotional and logistical burdens during crises.

“My child cries every time he hears a loud sound. I can’t sleep. I keep imagining another shell hitting us," Salma, a widow from Poonch, told More to Her Story.

Despite everything, the women remain determined. Many called for the government to establish permanent bunkers in border villages, better alert systems to inform locals of when to move to safer ground, and compensation for lost homes and livelihoods. But above all, they want peace.

“We are tired. Tired of burying our children, tired of starting over, tired of being forgotten," said Zareefa, 52, from Rajouri. "We want peace. Not for politics, not for power. For our children."