The Line of Control is often described as a military line dividing the former princely state of Jammu and Kashmir into two parts—India and Pakistan. Stretching nearly 740 kilometres, it is not an internationally recognised border but a de facto line shaped by conflict. First known as the Ceasefire Line, it came to be called the Line of Control after the Shimla Agreement in 1972 .For those who live along it, however, the LoC is not defined by maps or agreements. It is defined by fear, uncertainty, and survival.
This line does not remain confined to borders and check posts. It enters homes, interrupts childhoods, and shapes everyday life. In places like Poonch, the border is not something people visit; it is something people live with.
Poonch, located in the Pir Panjal region of Indian-administered Jammu and Kashmir, lies close to the Line of Control, with Rawalpindi to its west. Known for its scenic beauty and often called Mini Kashmir, the district is home to nearly 178–179 villages. Many of these villages are surrounded by the LoC on three sides— ( north, northwest, and southwest) and share direct boundaries with Pakistan-administered Poonch . Villages such as Degwar, Mankote, Kosalian, and Shahpur exist in constant proximity to conflict. During Partition, dozens of villages from Tehsil Haveli and Tehsil Mendhar were separated, dividing families and turning neighbours into people living across an unreachable line.
Growing up near the LoC means growing up with fear as a routine. I was raised in a village less than one kilometre from the border. Hearing voices from military posts every evening was ordinary. Over time, this presence became normal, and fear settled quietly into daily life. It became so familiar that it stopped feeling temporary, as if our homes themselves had learned to live with danger.
After the 2003 ceasefire, Poonch experienced a period of relative calm. For years, there was no large-scale shelling, and people allowed themselves to believe that stability might last. That belief was shattered in 2017.
In July and August, repeated ceasefire violations were reported in areas like Kishangati, Mankote, and Shahpur. According to The Indian Express, eleven people, including nine soldiers, were killed, and seventeen were injured. That year witnessed a sharp rise in ceasefire violations, with hundreds of incidents reported by the Indian government.
On 2 October 2017, while much of India celebrated Gandhi Jayanti, people living near the LoC were hiding for their lives. Shelling began early in the morning and continued for over two hours. Two minors were killed, and twelve civilians were injured. Among those who lost their lives was one of my closest friends, killed during shelling in the Degwar sector.
While I am writing this , this memory returned to me unexpectedly. It is strange how everyday moments fade, yet some memories remain painfully clear. I was around eleven years old when she died. After that day, small things in my life began to change. I stopped drinking my favourite chai because I always had it with her. I stopped taking the same route home because it reminded me of her.
Later, I left my village for two or three years, hoping distance would soften the memory. Instead, as I grew older, it became sharper. Some memories do not fade with time; they stay and quietly shape who we become . On that day , I remember waking up to a loud explosion that shook the house. For a moment, everything felt frozen. In panic, we ran to seek shelter at my aunt’s home. On the way, I saw a child running barefoot as shells landed nearby, filling the air with smoke. By sheer chance, the shells failed to explode, and I reached safely .That experience left a permanent mark on my memory and forced me to leave my village for several years.
After the 2021 ceasefire, life once again appeared normal. That fragile sense of peace ended on the night of 7 May 2025, following the Pahalgam attack in which twenty-two civilians were killed. Firing began around one in the morning. Many residents later said they had been informed about a mock drill, not a real attack. Confusion quickly turned into chaos as families fled in the dark, unsure of where to go.
With transportation unavailable or unaffordable, many people walked out on feet with their belongings to nearby villages and open meadows locally called ” dhoks” but even they weren’t safe enough , leaving behind homes built over generations. By the next day, Poonch stood deserted. For several days, firing continued, killing more than thirty people and injuring many others. Houses were destroyed, and hospital, colleges, police line, and court, was also under attack . When the ceasefire returned, it brought silence rather than relief. Development was pushed back by years, and life remained suspended in fear and uncertainty.
Even today, televisions remain switched on at night—not out of curiosity, but out of fear. Silence feels unsafe. Sleep is light and easily broken.
Life near the Line of Control is marked not only by shelling but by constant disruption. Schools close repeatedly, leading to the loss of crucial years of education. Children who should be learning about technology, creativity, and opportunity grow up under mental pressure and trauma. War does not only interrupt education; it forces children to confront violence long before they can understand it.
Daily movement is tightly regulated. Visiting one’s own village often requires permission. Identity cards are checked, belongings scanned, and even inviting close relatives requires prior approval for limited days. Over time, surveillance becomes routine, and questioning these practices often results in silencing or harassment.
Despite being in constant danger, districts like Poonch continue to lack basic infrastructure, particularly in healthcare, education, transportation, and civilian security. During Operation Sindoor, serious gaps were exposed, especially in medical preparedness. The district’s only hospital struggled to manage the crisis. There is a growing demand for a Government Medical College in the Pir Panjal region and for functional bunkers in vulnerable villages.
The people of Poonch, especially its youth, are not asking for sympathy. They are asking for opportunity—to live with dignity, safety, and access to education, healthcare, and technology.
The Line of Control may be drawn on a map, but for those who live alongside it, it is a daily reality. It does not merely divide territory; it shapes lives, memories, and futures. Until policy and governance begin to acknowledge the human cost of borders, communities like Poonch will continue to bear the consequences quietly, far from national attention.
