How the closure of 50 tourist destinations after the Pahalgham attack silenced Kashmir’s mountains — and starved its people
On the afternoon of April 22, 2025, the meadows of Baisaran — a sun-drenched bowl of green grass above Pahalgam, reachable only by foot or horseback — turned from a tourist picnic ground into a scene that would haunt an entire people. Armed militants emerged from the dense forests, opened fire on holidaymakers, and killed 26 civilians. Within hours, the valley’s long-rebuilt dream of peace lay shattered on those bloodied grounds.
For Kashmiris, the horror came twice. First was the shock and grief of witnessing such barbarity in their own home. Second was the terrifying certainty of what would follow. They had seen it before. Tourism would collapse. The world would look at them with suspicion. And their livelihoods — the only thread keeping thousands of families afloat through the brutal winter months — would snap like a dry branch.
They were right.
THE GATES CAME DOWN
Within days of the attack, the government of Jammu and Kashmir shut 48 of its 87 tourist destinations across the Valley as a precautionary security measure. Trekking permits were suspended. Forest access was restricted. High-altitude zones — the very soul of Kashmiri adventure — were sealed without notice. The mountains did not go anywhere. Tarsar still shimmered. Gangabal still reflected the sky. The great Harmukh still stood above the clouds. But the gates were locked, the trails were emptied, and the people of Kashmir were cut off from their own wilderness.
The closures read like a list torn from the heart of Kashmiri identity: Doodhpathri, Kokernag, Gurez Valley, Bangus Valley, Tosa Maidan, Sinthan Top, Acchabal, Aharbal, Yusmarg, Kounsernag, Margan Top — meadows, waterfalls, high-altitude lakes, and forests that generations of Kashmiris have called home. Gone. Locked. Restricted.
And beyond the tourist sites, every major trekking route was halted. The Kashmir Great Lakes Trek — a legendary journey through Vishansar, Kishansar, Gadsar, Satsar, and Gangabal lakes — was suspended. The Tarsar Marsar Trek, whose twin alpine sister lakes have been immortalized in Kashmiri Sufi poetry since the 16th century, was shut. Tulian Lake, Kolahoi Glacier, Kounsernag — all off limits. Trek operators across India were advising customers as late as 2026 not to book return flights and to purchase only refundable tickets, because no one could promise the mountains would be open.
THE NUMBERS TELL THE PAIN
The financial ruin is staggering. Tourism contributes approximately 5 percent to Jammu and Kashmir’s Gross State Domestic Product — roughly Rs 10,000 crore a year when all multiplier effects are counted. The hotel industry alone contributes around Rs 2,700 crore annually. Before the attack, 2025 was poised to be a historic year. In 2024, a record 2.36 crore visitors had come to the region, and the season of 2025 had started with real promise. Bookings were strong. Hotels were filling up. The valley was breathing again.
Then came April 22.
In the first six months of 2025, Kashmir received only 7.53 lakh tourists — a drop of nearly 52 percent compared to the same period the previous year. Over 15,000 flights to Srinagar were cancelled in the immediate aftermath. Approximately 13 lakh bookings scheduled for August alone were withdrawn. In Pahalgam itself, nearly 90 percent of all hotel reservations vanished. The full-year tourist count fell from the record 2.36 crore in 2024 to approximately 1.78 crore in 2025. Hotels on the banks of Dal Lake that once charged Rs 8,000 a night were offering rooms for Rs 1,500 just to keep staff employed. A four-star property with over 30 rooms reported zero occupancy for weeks on end.
Pony handlers, shikara operators, local guides, porters, handicraft sellers, cooks, and small shopkeepers all reported income losses of up to 80 percent. Many hotels were forced to cut staff or shut entirely. A veteran Pahalgami chef who had worked in the valley’s kitchens for three decades said: “I have never seen anything like this. My entire livelihood depends on tourists. This season had just picked up, and hotels were full. And then it was all gone overnight.”
LOCKED OUT OF THEIR OWN HEAVEN
But there is a wound that goes beyond money — one that is harder to measure but cuts deeper into the Kashmiri soul. When trekking permits were suspended and forest access was restricted, it was not just foreign tourists or visitors from Mumbai who were turned away. It was the young man from Rainawari who had saved all year to hike up to Gangabal. It was the schoolteacher from Sopore who had promised his children a camping trip to Tarsar. It was the adventure guide from Anantnag who had spent a decade learning every pass and ridge of these mountains, whose entire identity was built around leading people into this wilderness.
The alpine lakes of Kashmir are not merely geographical features. Tarsar and Marsar — the twin sister glacier lakes above Aru Valley — sit at 4,000 metres and have been described in Kashmiri literature for centuries. Gangabal, cradled beneath the great Harmukh peak, is a place of spiritual significance for the valley’s Hindu and Muslim communities alike. Vishansar and Kishansar, the mirrored lakes of the Great Lakes trail, are what Kashmiri children grow up dreaming of reaching. These are not tourist attractions. They are the inheritance of a people.
Imagine being born in the shadow of mountains so magnificent that Mughal emperors left their thrones to come here, and then being told — because of a crime you did not commit, because of violence you did not author — that you cannot walk up to your own lake this summer. That the meadow where your grandfather grazed sheep is now a security zone. That the trail you know better than your own street is, for now, closed to you by order of the state.
This is what Kashmiri people lived through.
“WE ARE CONDEMNED”
The cruelty of the situation is that the people of Kashmir were among the loudest voices condemning the attack. Kashmiri traders held candlelight vigils in Srinagar. Local residents in Pahalgam assisted survivors. Business owners wept publicly — not just for their own losses but for the tourists who had come to their valley as guests and been killed. The local pony rider Adil Hussain Shah, who died trying to protect tourists, was mourned by the entire valley.
And yet it is Kashmiri people who continue to pay the steepest price.
A taxi driver in Pahalgam, speaking to Al Jazeera in May 2025, put it plainly: “Since that day, the number of tourists has dropped so badly that I have spent these days without a single ride. I sit idle, waiting near taxi stands or at home, hoping someone might call me — but the phone just does not ring anymore. I don’t have savings to fall back on. I have a family to support, children to educate, and loans to repay.”
An architect and tourism planner focused on adventure tourism in Kashmir described the professional devastation: “The government’s decision to suspend all trekking activities and close 48 tourist destinations has directly impacted my work. The months of planning, coordination with local partners, and scheduled expeditions were brought to an abrupt halt. My years of work to brand Kashmir as a safe, adventure-friendly destination have been lost abruptly.”
National Conference president Dr. Farooq Abdullah summarized the existential weight of it all when he said that tourism has “suffered a severe setback” and that Kashmiris “depend on it for survival.” In a region where winters are long, where agricultural land is limited, and where government employment reaches only a fraction of the population, the summer tourist season is not a convenience — it is the lifeline. Close it for one season and the math is devastating. Let the fear linger across multiple seasons, and the losses compound like interest on a debt that was never theirs to carry.
THE SLOW, UNCERTAIN ROAD BACK
By February 2026, the administration had begun reopening destinations — 14 sites initially, after security reviews. The Lieutenant Governor ordered the gradual resumption of tourism with new safety measures in place. Over 7,000 registered workers, including pony handlers and vendors, were equipped with QR codes that tourists could scan to verify identities. Drone surveillance was deployed across key corridors. Checkpoints were multiplied. The infrastructure of trust was being rebuilt.
But the high-altitude trekking routes — the Kashmir Great Lakes, Tarsar Marsar, and other alpine circuits — remained restricted or under assessment well into 2026. The trekking companies advising their customers to remain cautious are not being alarmist. They are being honest. And for the Kashmiri guides, porters, and adventure professionals whose livelihoods are anchored to these trails, every delayed reopening is another season of income gone, another child’s school fees unpaid, another loan extended.
The tourist numbers, while slowly recovering, have not returned to pre-attack levels. The confidence of the traveller, once shaken, does not heal with a single press release. And the mountains — those spectacular, indifferent, eternal mountains — continue to stand above the clouds, waiting for the day when the people who love them most are finally allowed to go home to them.
