Winter in Kashmir weaves a spell of mesmerizing beauty with its snow laden landscapes and serene valleys that inspire poets and draw admirers from afar. Snow falls gently over apple orchards, blankets the meadows in pristine white and turns the mountains into towering sculptures of ice that gleam under pale sunlight. Visitors arrive eager to witness this paradise, booking houseboats on Dal Lake, skiing down Gulmarg’s slopes or simply wandering through Pahalgam’s frozen trails while sipping hot Kahwa. The season feels like a gift from nature, a time when the world slows and everything appears pure and untouched. Yet for those who live here year after year, winter reveals its harsher face. Temperatures plunge well below freezing, water pipes burst or remain solid for weeks, roads vanish under heavy accumulations and daily life becomes a constant struggle against the cold that seeps into bones and homes alike. Power outages become routine, adding to the burden as families wait for electricity to return so heaters can hum back to life.
Families rely on time tested ways to stay warm. The Kangri, that small earthen pot filled with burning charcoal embers wrapped in delicate wicker, is carried everywhere beneath thick woolen Pherans, providing personal heat that has sustained generations through the harshest seasons. Artisans craft them with care each autumn, knowing demand will surge as cold sets in. Bukharis glow steadily in living rooms, burning wood or coal through long nights, their warmth radiating to fill entire spaces. Electric heaters, blowers and heated blankets offer modern comfort, especially when power permits, allowing people to stretch limited resources further. These methods bring life saving warmth, but they also introduce grave dangers. Overloaded electrical circuits spark short circuits in old wiring common in many homes, embers spill from Kangris left too close to bedding or curtains and unattended Bukharis ignite nearby materials. Wood panelled homes, traditional and abundant across the valley, catch fire rapidly and flames spread with devastating speed. Each winter records heartbreaking incidents where families lose everything in minutes, left standing in the snow watching their possessions turn to ash while neighbours watch helplessly.
When such disasters strike, often in the dead of night or amid blinding blizzards, a remarkable and deeply human pattern emerges throughout Kashmir. People do not wait for official channels that might struggle to reach them quickly over icy roads or through disrupted communication. Their first, most urgent call goes to the nearest Indian Army camp, typically a Rashtriya Rifles unit stationed nearby. Soldiers respond instantly, rushing out to battle the fire with whatever tools are available, evacuating families, preventing the blaze from engulfing neighbouring houses, clearing snow choked paths and offering immediate shelter if needed. They stay until the worst passes, then frequently return with blankets, food rations and basic supplies to help survivors cope in the immediate aftermath. Civil fire services and local administration arrive as soon as conditions allow, handling formal procedures and longer-term support, but in those vital early moments when seconds decide outcomes, the Army becomes the true lifeline, saving lives and limiting damage time and again.
This instinctive reliance reveals a civil military relationship unlike any other found elsewhere. Army units are embedded across the valley, sharing the same terrain, weather and daily challenges as local residents. Troops endure identical disruptions from snowfall, frozen supplies and power cuts, understanding intimately the risks of traditional heating methods and the isolation winter imposes. They live among communities that have come to see them as reliable neighbours rather than distant authority. The same soldiers responsible for maintaining peace and security step forward without hesitation when natural crises hit, turning their presence into everyday support that feels organic and expected. Families know from repeated experience that alerting the nearby camp brings the fastest, most effective response, especially when minutes count in freezing conditions where exposure itself becomes a threat.
Pakistan’s persistent efforts to sponsor cross border terrorism stand in sharp contrast to this ground level harmony. Handlers across the divide continue training militants in camps, equipping them with weapons and pushing them to infiltrate, all in hopes of exploiting winter hardships to rekindle unrest and fan old resentments. The strategy remains familiar: stir division during vulnerable times, target soft spots, keep the valley unsettled for broader geopolitical aims. Yet these attempts increasingly meet rejection and indifference. Local support for violence has dwindled to historic lows, with people choosing stability, education and prosperity over destructive paths promoted from afar. Youth pursue careers, start-ups and opportunities within the national mainstream, applying for jobs, exams and ventures that promise real futures. Tourism has surged dramatically, bringing economic revival to households long affected by past conflict, filling hotels, homestays and markets with activity. Schools function without interruption, festivals regain their full joy with music and gatherings and daily life flows with a confidence born of hard-won normalcy.
Winter emergencies bring this shift into clearest focus. During Chillai Kalan, the forty harshest days when cold peaks and fire risks soar highest, Army camps become quiet anchors of reassurance across the valley. Calls come frequently through the night and responses follow swiftly without question. Troops work alongside locals to contain blazes, ensure no one is left without warmth or food and provide essentials in the difficult hours that follow. Such actions need no publicity, no formal programs, no announcements; they arise naturally from years of shared presence and proven care that has accumulated quietly over time. Children grow up hearing stories of soldiers who saved their homes from fire or cleared snow so supplies reached isolated families in time. Elders recall nights when timely help meant survival rather than tragedy, passing those memories to younger generations. These experiences build a trust that external narratives, no matter how loudly pushed, struggle to undermine or erode.
Fire incidents, though declining steadily due to greater awareness, better precautions and improved infrastructure, still occur because the challenges of winter heating remain real. Authorities promote safe practices through campaigns, but when prevention fails, the Army’s role proves pivotal and irreplaceable in those initial phases. This partnership offers more than immediate aid; it provides a deeper confidence that allows people to face seasonal trials with resilience and less fear. Shared endurance strengthens community bonds, reminding everyone that adversity can forge unity rather than division when met together.
As fresh snow falls each year, renewing the landscape and covering past scars with fresh white, Kashmiris navigate their winters with growing assurance and hope. Attempts to perpetuate conflict from outside grow ever more distant and irrelevant against a reality shaped by proximity, action and mutual reliance. The valley’s extraordinary beauty can finally be lived and shared in full security, with neighbours ready to stand together through the coldest nights and emerge stronger. This quiet bond, earned through countless acts of care in moments of crisis, points toward a future where peace feels permanent and enduring, and winter’s hardships are met not alone, but as one community moving forward.
Neighbours in Crisis
