Between bombs and bravery: A civilian’s diary from Poonch

They say history repeats itself. But when it does, it doesn’t echo from textbooks—it roars through the sky in the form of mortar shells, shakes homes in the dead of night, and etches trauma into the hearts of children who should be asleep in peace.

On May 7th, 2025, my hometown—Poonch, a border district in Jammu & Kashmir—was turned into a battlefield overnight. And I, like countless others, was not a soldier or a politician. I was simply someone trying to survive.

What we thought would be a routine drill became an unforgiving war zone. And in that war zone, I understood what fear really is—not the kind you feel watching a movie or reading a headline, but the kind that makes your heartbeat sound louder than the bombs outside.

But before I take you through those three days of fire, smoke, and prayer, it’s important to understand what brought us here in the first place. Because wars are never sudden. They’re the result of decades of wounds—some visible, most not.

• The Bleeding Border: A History of Indo-Pak Relations

India and Pakistan were born together in 1947, but their destinies diverged painfully. Since Partition, the two nations have fought four major wars—in 1947, 1965, 1971, and 1999 (Kargil)—each leaving a trail of blood, broken homes, and lost generations.

• 1947–48 War: Fought over Jammu & Kashmir, it was the first clash that birthed the unresolved Kashmir issue.
• 1965 War: Pakistan again attempted to infiltrate Kashmir. What followed was another bloody conflict with thousands of casualties.
• 1971 War: Triggered by the liberation of Bangladesh, this war ended with Pakistan’s surrender and the creation of a new nation.
• 1999 Kargil War: Pakistani soldiers, disguised as militants, occupied Indian peaks in Kargil. India fought bravely and reclaimed every inch, but not without loss.

Each of these wars changed maps, but not mindsets. In between battles, there were moments of hope—Lahore Bus Yatra in 1999, ceasefire agreements in the early 2000s, and high-level talks. But peace has always been fragile.

From cross-border terrorism to regular ceasefire violations, every step toward peace has been pulled back by provocations from the Pakistani side. And we, the people who live along the border, are the ones who bear the brunt. Our homes lie at the edge of diplomacy, where each shell writes a new chapter in a decades-old rivalry.

• When War Knocked on My Door – My Story from Poonch

It was just another night—May 6th. The air was calm. We had heard about a possible mock drill the next day. Nothing unusual. We were five in our house—my parents, my brother, my sister, and I. We slept without fear.

But fear doesn’t always knock before it enters.

At 3 AM on May 7th, we were shaken awake—not by alarm clocks but by the earth-shattering sound of mortar shells being fired by Pakistan across the border. My father rushed into the room and said words I never thought I’d hear in real life:

“Wake up. The war has begun.”

We all huddled into a single room, each of us frozen. The noise of the shells exploding was deafening—like the sky had cracked open. The explosions weren’t in our street yet, but they were close. Close enough to make your stomach churn with every boom. From 3 AM to 6 AM, we sat in silence, holding onto each other, praying. At 6, it paused. For a moment, we thought the worst was over. 

But it had just begun.

Soon after, shells began raining down on the main city of Poonch—a first in history. Usually, only the borders suffer. But now, my city, my home, was under attack. Mortar shells were flying over our heads—literally. Their sound before hitting was like something out of a nightmare—a shrieking whistle that felt like it was screaming death. Between 6 AM and 12 PM, the entire city trembled. News started coming in—children killed, houses destroyed, vehicles turned to ash.

People fled in droves. If there were 200 families in my neighborhood, barely 10 remained. We were one of them. Not by choice, but by circumstance. There was no safe place left. Even Jammu was hit by drones and missiles. Roads meant for escape became routes to death. And yet, in the face of it all, we did not flinch. The people of Poonch stood tall—not just as victims, but as pillars of resilience and bravery. Men, women, even children—each one played a role in supporting our nation, standing shoulder to shoulder with our armed forces. We were not just survivors; we were sentinels of spirit. This is a truth that must be remembered: when our country needed us, we stood not behind—but beside—our defenders. Poonch did not break. It braved.

On the night of May 7th, we took shelter in my nani’s house—only 150 steps away from ours. Her home has three floors. We stayed on the middle one, thinking maybe it was the least dangerous. That night, at 11 PM, it all started again. Shelling, this time worse than before. From 11 at night till 7:30 in the morning of May 8th, we stayed awake, shaking, holding our breath. At one point, I stopped hoping to survive. I just waited for the end, praying it would be painless.

The sounds were unbearable. The house shivered with every blast. Our ears hurt, our minds went numb. Even in daylight, we couldn’t sleep peacefully. We knew the night would come again—and so would the bombs. On May 9th, in the afternoon, the war escalated further. We saw tanks, heard the rumors that tonight would be the final blow. We were convinced we’d die. 

Then, around 5 PM, a tweet came from US President Donald Trump: A ceasefire had been declared.

 We couldn’t believe it. We cried—not just out of relief, but for those who never got to read that tweet. For those who died on the roads, who never made it to safety, whose families would never see them again. Even after the ceasefire, fear lingered. Shells don’t just destroy walls. They destroy your sense of safety. For days, we lived in shadows, afraid to unpack, afraid to sleep properly. My city—once alive—had become a ghost town. And then, slowly, people returned. Life hesitantly resumed. But none of us were the same.

I used to hear about war in stories. I saw it on screens. But now I’ve heard its scream. I’ve smelled its smoke. I’ve lived its terror.

• What We Truly Need: A Future Without Shells

When the shelling stops, silence doesn’t mean peace—it means shock. It means the ears are still ringing, the heart is still pounding, and the mind is still trying to convince the body that it’s safe. But we, the people who have lived through war—not from the pages of history books, but from our rooftops and basements—we know the truth: no one really wins a war.

What we truly need is not just another ceasefire that will break again in a week or a month. We don’t need more treaties signed in distant capitals that never reach the dust-filled courtyards of border villages. We need something more honest, more courageous, more lasting: human-centered peace.

We need to stop glorifying violence as power. It takes no strength to launch a mortar; it takes strength to sit across a table, look your enemy in the eye, and say, “Let’s talk before another child dies.” Every bullet fired, every drone launched, every bomb dropped is a failure of dialogue. It’s the sound of humanity forgetting itself.

For decades, India has shown restraint. We have watched provocations, endured attacks, and still called for peace. That is not weakness. That is wisdom. That is civilization. Our soldiers don’t fight to destroy—they fight to protect. They don’t celebrate war—they survive it. Just like we do.

We, the people of Poonch, Rajouri, Kupwara, Uri—we don’t want to be remembered as buffer zones or line-of-control settlements. We want to be remembered as places of culture, resilience, peace, and life. The only sounds that should echo in our hills are those of laughter, school bells, azaan, temple bells, and the rustling of leaves in the wind—not the sound of gunfire or the thud of bombs.

Let the borders be lines of protection, not division. Let diplomacy be more than just a performance for the media. Let political will rise above ego. Let us demand from our leaders—not weapons, not revenge, but vision, courage, and humanity.

Peace is not a dream. It is a choice. 

And today, from the dust of my war-torn street, I say: let us choose it—boldly, urgently, permanently.

• May We Never Live This Again

I survived the May 2025 war, but I left a part of myself behind in that three-day nightmare. A part that still jolts awake at loud noises. A part that still wonders how close death came. A part that prays, above all, that no one else has to go through what we did.

War doesn’t solve. It only scars.

Let this be the last time children fall asleep to the sound of sirens. Let this be the last time families flee with nothing but fear. Let this be the beginning—not of another ceasefire, but of a permanent, human peace.

• The writer himself is a resident of Poonch district of J&K and is an eye witness and survivor of the war and has shared his personal experience. He can be contacted at shahidhakla360@gmail.com