In April 2025, Kashmir's Pahalgam Valley of green peace was ravaged by an act of terrorism against tourists that was senseless—an action not only killing innocent people but also causing shockwaves in one of India's most emotionally and economically valued tourist spots. For decades renowned as "Paradise on Earth," Kashmir has for long hung dangerously in the balance between stunning beauty and political unrest. The Pahalgam attack reminded us of the reality that in war-torn areas, tourism is not a pastime—it is a war of perception, economy, and national identity.
As Bali has battled the competing forces of becoming sacred sanctuary and clickbait commodity on Instagram, Kashmir has battled the competing forces of being a war zone and paradise. As Bali battles the commodification of authenticity, Kashmir's tourism threat is one of terror. Hotel reservations plummeted by more than 60% following the Pahalgam attack, and big tour operators cancelled or diverted vacations to Himachal Pradesh and Uttarakhand.
Security issues are not theoretical. Tourists do not only dread a nuisance, but death—a harsh reality that no number of marketing hashtags can easily remove. As another travel tourist who is based in New Delhi furthered, "When leisure becomes a gamble with life, you stop planning holidays and start searching for safe escapes."
Tourism is not a indulgence for Kashmir—it's a survival. The industry injects more than 7% of the state's GDP and provides livelihood to more than 2 lakh individuals, ranging from hoteliers and taxi drivers to artisans and pony operators. In the aftermath of the attack, cottage industries and small businesses witnessed a series of cancellations, unpurchased handicrafts, and shutters down. Pahalgam's pony-wallahs, who used to carry tourists for a ride to Aru and Betaab Valley, now lie idle with debt on their heads and mouths to feed.
Kashmir doesn't have the digital-nomad cushion Bali does. There is no co-working parallel economy of foreign residents. When tourism in this region plateaus, the economy hemorrhages almost immediately.
In Kashmir, both the story reported and the story experienced are concerns. How the attack is framed by the media—whether as a one-time occurrence or an indicator of unsteadiness—is a determining influence on tourist perception. International travel advisories posted within less than 48 hours of the attack spurred an indiscriminate withdrawal of foreign interest, negating months of cautious promotion efforts by the J&K Tourism Board.
Unlike Bali’s “Bali tax” born from commercialization, Kashmir pays a conflict premium—where rebuilding trust requires not just deals and discounts, but a national narrative reset.
Security measures were promptly amplified: drone surveillance, CRPF convoys for tourist buses, and biometric monitoring. While these might reassure some, they also create a militarized ambiance that clashes with the peaceful escapism most travelers seek.
Tourism won't flourish where there are checkpoints—it will prosper on charm, cultural exchange, and self-esteem. Ironically enough, more security tends to add to the fear it aims to reduce.
But hope does exist. Community tourism, as the Bali case of Penglipuran village proves, can rescue Kashmir. Homestays in less-affected pockets such as Gurez or Kupwara, eco-treks organized by locals, and heritage conservation efforts can distribute income and ease crowd pressure. Even young Kashmiri entrepreneurs are already doing so on websites such as Airbnb and Instagram—transforming the valley's perception from war zone to cradle of culture.
"Kashmir does not have to balance security with tourism," says Srinagar tour operator Rameez Ahmed. "We need to redefine what that means, and who gets to tell its story."
Kashmir's tourism industry stands at a turning point. The attack on Pahalgam was not an attack on the industry—it was a referendum on how we address tourism and tensions. Bali wages the slow war of authenticity. Kashmir wages the war of survival. But both are a reminder that tourism is not about neutrality—it remakes landscapes, economies, and cultures.
For Kashmir, recovery demands more than policy tweaks. It demands resilience storytelling, inclusive governance, and a shared vision—where paradise is protected not just by soldiers, but by the very people whose futures depend on it.
Security issues are not theoretical. Tourists do not only dread a nuisance, but death—a harsh reality that no number of marketing hashtags can easily remove. As another travel tourist who is based in New Delhi furthered, "When leisure becomes a gamble with life, you stop planning holidays and start searching for safe escapes."
Tourism is not a indulgence for Kashmir—it's a survival. The industry injects more than 7% of the state's GDP and provides livelihood to more than 2 lakh individuals, ranging from hoteliers and taxi drivers to artisans and pony operators. In the aftermath of the attack, cottage industries and small businesses witnessed a series of cancellations, unpurchased handicrafts, and shutters down. Pahalgam's pony-wallahs, who used to carry tourists for a ride to Aru and Betaab Valley, now lie idle with debt on their heads and mouths to feed.
In Kashmir, both the story reported and the story experienced are concerns. How the attack is framed by the media—whether as a one-time occurrence or an indicator of unsteadiness—is a determining influence on tourist perception. International travel advisories posted within less than 48 hours of the attack spurred an indiscriminate withdrawal of foreign interest, negating months of cautious promotion efforts by the J&K Tourism Board.
Unlike Bali’s “Bali tax” born from commercialization, Kashmir pays a conflict premium—where rebuilding trust requires not just deals and discounts, but a national narrative reset.
Security measures were promptly amplified: drone surveillance, CRPF convoys for tourist buses, and biometric monitoring. While these might reassure some, they also create a militarized ambiance that clashes with the peaceful escapism most travelers seek.
Tourism won't flourish where there are checkpoints—it will prosper on charm, cultural exchange, and self-esteem. Ironically enough, more security tends to add to the fear it aims to reduce.
But hope does exist. Community tourism, as the Bali case of Penglipuran village proves, can rescue Kashmir. Homestays in less-affected pockets such as Gurez or Kupwara, eco-treks organized by locals, and heritage conservation efforts can distribute income and ease crowd pressure. Even young Kashmiri entrepreneurs are already doing so on websites such as Airbnb and Instagram—transforming the valley's perception from war zone to cradle of culture.
"Kashmir does not have to balance security with tourism," says Srinagar tour operator Rameez Ahmed. "We need to redefine what that means, and who gets to tell its story."
Kashmir's tourism industry stands at a turning point. The attack on Pahalgam was not an attack on the industry—it was a referendum on how we address tourism and tensions. Bali wages the slow war of authenticity. Kashmir wages the war of survival. But both are a reminder that tourism is not about neutrality—it remakes landscapes, economies, and cultures.