'We only remember until the next outrage'— Attack on Ganderbal sisters shocks Kashmir

August 18, 2025 by News Desk

Rayees Shah

In the quiet village of Mirzapura, Sehpora, Ganderbal, a nightmare that no parent ever imagines unfolded at 10:15 a.m. A 14-year-old girl left home with her elder sister to gather vegetables, just 300 meters away. In those few steps, her childhood ended forever. A car pulled up, three men stepped out, and within moments the younger sister was gone, struck down so brutally that her body lay bleeding by the roadside, life stolen before anyone could even comprehend what had happened. Her elder sister, injured but alive, ran home screaming, her cries carrying the weight of a tragedy no words can contain.

The village has fallen silent, disbelief written on every face. “Last year, a guest came into our house and parked his bike outside the gate. Someone came and burnt it. We filed an FIR but nothing happened,” says her uncle, Ghulam Hassan, his voice trembling. “Now this? We are not used to such cruelty here.” Another relative recalls the unbearable scene: “She had injuries to her head. Looked like they used a sharp weapon. We tried to rush her to the hospital, but she was already gone.”

The parents, away in Srinagar for treatment, blame themselves for not being home. “The mother keeps repeating, ‘If I had been home, she would not have gone out. We should have never left,’” says a cousin. Guilt and grief now sit like a permanent shadow over a family that once lived an ordinary village life.

This is not just a crime. It is a mirror to the times we live in. Across Kashmir, violence against women has surged. This horror, rare in Mirzapura, is not rare in the valley. Jammu Kashmir recorded 3,069 such cases in 2019, rising to 3,405 in 2020, and soaring to 3,937 in 2021, a 15.6 percent rise in just one year. Among these were 315 rapes, 1,414 attempted rapes, 1,013 abductions, 1,851 assaults intended to outrage modesty, 501 cases of cruelty by husband or relatives, 14 dowry deaths, two acid attacks, and dozens of cybercrimes and trafficking cases that chill the spirit.

These are not distant statistics. They are mothers, sisters, daughters. And Mirzapura’s horror is but one drop in a swelling sea of pain. The question that hangs in every devastated heart across the valley is simple: if such cruelty can visit this village, when will it visit yours?

Advocate Ayesha Wani, who lives in a nearby village, shaken to her core, voices what many feel but few say aloud: “It could be any sister. If we cannot protect them, what society are we? And then there are men who dismiss this as a failed love affair, what a shame. What a tragedy we’ve become.”

“This is not the Kashmir I grew up in,” Ayesha said, her voice breaking as she spoke of the sisters from Ganderbal. “Why is this happening here? Why have we become so numb to such cruelty?” The attack, she felt, was not just another crime but a wound on the very fabric of Kashmiri society, a society where once the idea of such violence against women was unthinkable, but where today, tragedy after tragedy slips into silence.

This killing is more than an isolated act of brutality. It is a wake-up call, a question clawing at the conscience of a nation. If even our smallest villages are no longer safe, what remains of us?

A Shifting Valley: Kashmir’s Fragile Safety

In Mirzapura, grief lingers like a fog, thick, suffocating, impossible to escape. The simplest of acts, like stepping into the garden or walking to the neighbour’s orchard, are suddenly heavy with fear. A mother bends down to her daughter’s ear and whispers, “Do not go out alone anymore.” By the roadside, a man ties a scarf around a tree close to where the younger sister’s body was found. It is not a shrine, not even a proper memorial. It is a warning, fragile cloth flapping in the wind, telling every passerby that safety has been stolen.

Senior Superintendent of Police Khalil Poswal, facing a restless press, laid out the bare bones of the case. “We received the report of a minor girl’s death. Police teams rushed to the spot. Initial investigation suggests she was kidnapped and then killed. Her sister, who witnessed the incident, is deeply traumatized and under medical care.” He added that a Special Investigation Team has been constituted, forensic experts flown in from Srinagar, CCTV footage collected. “We are determined to identify and arrest the culprits. I urge people to remain calm. We are committed to justice.”

But calm feels like an insult in Mirzapura. “We raised our daughters to believe they could walk freely here,” says Parveen, a retired schoolteacher. “Now, even in daylight, we are terrified.” Near the main road, a shopkeeper speaks with shaking hands: “I saw them that morning, walking together, like they always did. Just two sisters. Who knew that would be the last time?”

The elder sister, who resisted fiercely despite injuries to her shoulder and chest, is under treatment at a nearby hospital. For the villagers, she has become a symbol of both resilience and heartbreak. “She screamed, she fought, she turned back for her sister. She did everything a human could do,” says a family friend. “But what chance does a young girl have against monsters?”

Villagers recall how, after escaping the attack, the elder sister flagged down the first passerby she saw. Together they rushed back to the spot, only to find silence and emptiness. They searched frantically, only to discover the younger girl’s lifeless body, discarded a few hundred meters away. The image has seared itself into the memory of the community.

The SSP’s visit and assurances offered some official presence, but little solace. For the family, promises without results feel hollow. “What if this is forgotten in a week?” asks Ghulam Hassan, an elder in the village. “Will we ever get answers, or will her name just become another headline?”

In response, young people of Mirzapura have begun organizing marches, carrying placards, candles, and prayers. A candlelight vigil lit up the village last night, hundreds walking together in silence, the glow of the flames reflecting both grief and defiance. Their message is uncompromising: this crime will not be buried under time, nor will silence bring peace. “We will not let this happen again,” says one marcher. “Not in Mirzapura. Not in Kashmir.”

Yesterday’s Scream Already Fading Into Silence

The murder in Mirzapura happened just yesterday. But already grief threatens to fade, washed away by news cycles and scrolling feeds. Advocate Ayesha Wani’s words echo with weary frustration: “Every case becomes social media fodder. A few days of outrage, some memes, then silence. Until it happens again.”

This is no exaggeration. Time and again, Kashmir’s collective memory fractures. Tragedies flash across phones, then vanish. Yesterday it was Mirzapura. Today, what will carry the weight of her death? Only weeks ago, in Safapora, Ganderbal, outrage poured into the streets when a young woman was found raped and murdered in her in-laws’ home. Shops shut down, protesters called for capital punishment, and police pledged zero tolerance.

Cases erupted with shock before dissolving into silence.

These are not isolated horrors. They form a thread of violence that Kashmir is becoming too accustomed to. Families break. Trust shatters. And still, many fear speaking too loudly, lest their grief too be forgotten.

Already, Mirzapura’s grief has sparked small tremors: a mother refusing to let her daughter walk alone, youth-led awareness marches, candlelight vigils. But the question remains. Will these tremors build into lasting demand for justice, or vanish before dawn?

Ayesha’s voice cuts through the uncertainty. “We become complicit in this violence when we fail to carry the grief forward. Each forgotten case makes the next one possible.”

Her warning lingers like a hollow echo. If we allow Mirzapura’s pain to slip into oblivion by afternoon, what does that say about our conscience? If yesterday’s grief dissolves so easily, how will tomorrow’s stories ever catch our attention?