In early 2020, I watched my father die. I watched as life slipped out of someone I thought was untouchable. I didn’t just grieve—I boiled. At fate, at God, even at him. What gave him the right to leave me behind like that? I was angry, guilty, crushed. And I learned the hard way that grief is not something you get over—it’s something you get used to.
When a close friend lost his father last week, it all came flooding back. The hospital air, the silence, the helplessness. I didn’t need to say much. “I understand” was enough—because I did. You don’t truly understand loss until you’ve lived through it. That’s a brutal truth.
But I didn’t expect how this grief would connect to something much larger. Much darker.
Pahalgam.
Twenty-five tourists. Gunned down. Not for who they were or what they did—just because they were there. Innocents, killed on a vacation. That’s not just loss. That’s an execution. That’s contempt. That’s a statement: You don’t matter.
This time, the response wasn’t a script. The outrage felt real. Politicians didn’t play safe. Army officials didn’t mince words. Newsrooms echoed with fury, not just noise. For once, it wasn’t just optics. It was pain.
And yet—it still wasn’t enough.
Not because the reactions weren't fake but because the crime was deeper than murder. What happened in Pahalgam wasn’t just an attack on people. It was an attack on dignity. It was a punch in the face of every belief we’ve been raised with.
We were disrespected. As a people. As a nation.
Disrespect doesn’t bleed like death but leaves a deeper scar. Those who died weren’t just killed—they were humiliated. They weren’t just killed. They were mocked. One of the terrorists, when a desperate wife begged for mercy, told her, “Go ask Modi for help.” That wasn’t just a bullet—it was a message. A taunt. It turned the personal into the political. It turned every citizen’s belief in state protection into a sick joke. This wasn’t just a failure of security—it was humiliation. Not just of 25 people, but of 1.4 billion. Of the idea that our government, our leaders, our system would stand between us and a bullet. In that moment, it didn’t.
Betrayed by the belief that peace is possible. That faith in humanity, secularism, and tolerance was what died in that meadow.
And betrayal? It’s not a clean wound. It festers.
I remember, in 9th grade, giving a speech on Unity in Diversity. I said everything about secularism and tolerance and won second prize. But today, I remember that speech and feel nothing but anger. At the lie, I was taught to believe. At the pride, I was told to carry. What tolerance? What unity? Pahalgam has mocked every schoolbook chapter and Republic Day slogan we’ve ever clung to.
And here’s the part that stings the most: I don’t want to be tolerant anymore. Not if it means accepting this. Not if it means burying our people and lighting candles while the perpetrators vanish into the mountains.
I’m not calling for hate. I’m calling for truth. For honesty. For clarity. For the courage to say: this isn’t okay—and it never will be.
The 25 killed weren’t just victims. They were symbols of our trust. And that trust was spat on. They believed they were safe. They thought they were welcome. Instead, they were hunted. That’s not just violence—that’s contempt. That’s what every Indian should be raging about.
We’ve all felt betrayal—an abandonment, a lie, a promise broken. Pahalgam takes that private betrayal and makes it public. It makes it violent. It makes it national. And it reminds us: no, we’re not beyond this. We’re not immune. We’re exposed.
And what do we do in return? We process it like we process every tragedy. With shock. With hashtags. With shallow talk of resilience. But this isn’t resilience. This is numbness. This is defeat in slow motion.
I want more than justice. I want retribution. I want the message to be clear: this country is not soft. Not blind. And not willing to tolerate another inch of this cruelty disguised as ideology.
Because here’s the truth—when people are gunned down with that kind of arrogance, they’re not the only ones being targeted. Our silence is, too. Our dignity. Our flag. Our sense of who we are. This was not just an act of terror—it was a slap across the face of our national identity.
And we should be furious.
Not just once. Not just for a week. We should stay furious until the betrayal is answered. Until the disrespect is avenged. Until justice isn’t just an ideal but an act.
Because if we let this pass like the others, we are complicit. We are, in effect, saying we can be broken. We can be silenced. We can be disrespected—without consequence.
They mocked our faith in this country. They turned our trust into a punchline. “Go ask Modi for help,” they said—like our democracy was a joke, our government a ghost, our promises a scam. If that doesn’t light a fire under us, what will?
This wasn’t just murder. It was humiliation. And if that doesn’t enrage us into action, maybe we’ve already surrendered.
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