‘We just want peace’: Kashmiri nomadic shepherds yearn for stability amid India-Pakistan tensions

A Kashmiri nomad leads his herd along the Garhi Dupatta road on the outskirts of Muzaffarabad, the capital of Pakistan-administered Azad Jammu and Kashmir. (AN)
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Updated 13 May 2025
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‘We just want peace’: Kashmiri nomadic shepherds yearn for stability amid India-Pakistan tensions

  • The lives of these nomads revolve around seasonal migrations, seeking grazing grounds for animals on different altitudes
  • But this season, a far greater uncertainty loomed in front of them in the form of India-Pakistan military incursions

MUZAFFARABAD: Muhammad Jahangir, 35, continuously walked for around four hours to finally find a green patch of land along the banks of Jhelum River, just outside the town of Garhi Dupatta in Azad Kashmir, where his goats could graze, and descended from the road to survey the riverside himself.

While the grass and tree leaves there were barely enough to feed his herd of around 250 goats and a few sheep, Jahangir let out a series of sharp, familiar whistles along with others in his group and the trained animals began moving down the slope to nibble at the patchy grass.

Jahangir hails from the Kashmiri Bakarwal community that comprises nomadic, pastoral people, who are known for raising sheep and goats, in both Pakistan and India-governed parts Kashmir, particularly in the Pir Panjal and Himalayan mountain ranges.

The lives of these Bakarwals revolve around seasonal migrations with their herds, seeking grazing grounds on different altitudes depending on the time of year, but this May a far greater uncertainty loomed ahead in the form of India-Pakistan military incursions.

“We’re coming from Kharian and our destination is Deosai,” Jahangir told Arab News, standing beside his flock a surprise truce between the two countries brokered by the United States (US).

“The situation ahead is said to be tense due to firing. Some of our Bakarwal groups are stuck near Panjkot Mali. We’ll decide whether to move ahead or not depending on the conditions.”

Jahangir and three of his fellows were en route to Deosai, a high-altitude plateau in Pakistan’s northern Gilgit-Baltistan region that is known for its lush-green meadows.

But they were forced to stop because of artillery, drone and missile strikes along the nearby Line of Control (LoC), the de facto border dividing Kashmir between Pakistan and India. Jahangir feared that if the situation continued to remain the same, they might not reach the highlands in time.

“We’ve heard that some people have lost their livestock, though we didn’t see it ourselves. Some families have already turned back from Neelum [valley in Azad Kashmir] and returned,” Jahangir said.

This particular group of nomads set out from Kharian over a week ago, traveling on the Grand Trunk Road and arriving in Muzaffarabad via Murree a resort town on the border of Pakistan’s eastern Punjab province. The four men managed the herd on foot, while their families had already moved ahead on horseback to set up makeshift camps along the way.

Devoid of modern gadgets like smartphones and GPS, these nomads rely on inherited knowledge to assess the direction of the wind, position of stars, and bends of rivers to navigate the challenging terrain, though some of them carry basic feature phones that often have no signals in the mountainous regions.

Once a celebrated lifestyle built on freedom and communion with nature, the nomadic way of living is now increasingly threatened by changing climate patterns, shrinking grazing grounds, and a lack of hospitality from settled communities along their traditional routes.

“People are so cruel [now], they don’t even let us stay near their lands,” said Farooq Ahmed, another nomad.

“If we find a little government land near the river, we rest our animals there, otherwise the locals stop us from going uphill. They say the grass and trees are theirs.”

For generations, these nomads’ migration to Deosai has been about survival — escaping the blistering summer heat of the lowlands and reaching the cool, high pastures where food is abundant and livestock can thrive.

But weeks of tensions between India and Pakistan over an attack in Indian-administered Kashmir, which killed 26 tourists on April 22, turned into a military conflict last week, leaving more than 60 people dead on both sides in four days of cross-border strikes and threatening the centuries-old nomadic way of life in the region.

Although the US-brokered ceasefire between India and Pakistan remains intact, sporadic violations have been reported by locals in Azad Kashmir.

For Ahmed, this truce offers little assurance.

“We just want peace,” he said. “It has become a problem for everyone, every human being is suffering now.”


‘Look ahead or look up?’: Pakistan’s police face new challenge as militants take to drone warfare

Updated 14 January 2026
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‘Look ahead or look up?’: Pakistan’s police face new challenge as militants take to drone warfare

  • Officials say militants are using weapons and equipment left behind after allied forces withdrew from Afghanistan
  • Police in northwest Pakistan say electronic jammers have helped repel more than 300 drone attacks since mid-2025

BANNU, Pakistan: On a quiet morning last July, Constable Hazrat Ali had just finished his prayers at the Miryan police station in Pakistan’s volatile northwest when the shouting began.

His colleagues in Bannu district spotted a small speck in the sky. Before Ali could take cover, an explosion tore through the compound behind him. It was not a mortar or a suicide vest, but an improvised explosive dropped from a drone.

“Now should we look ahead or look up [to sky]?” said Ali, who was wounded again in a second drone strike during an operation against militants last month. He still carries shrapnel scars on his back, hand and foot, physical reminders of how the battlefield has shifted upward.

For police in the northwestern Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KP) province, the fight against militancy has become a three-dimensional conflict. Pakistani officials say armed groups, including the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), are increasingly deploying commercial drones modified to drop explosives, alongside other weapons they say were acquired after the US military withdrawal from neighboring Afghanistan.

Security analysts say the trend mirrors a wider global pattern, where low-cost, commercially available drones are being repurposed by non-state actors from the Middle East to Eastern Europe, challenging traditional policing and counterinsurgency tactics.

The escalation comes as militant violence has surged across Pakistan. Islamabad-based Pakistan Institute for Conflict and Security Studies (PICSS) reported a 73 percent rise in combat-related deaths in 2025, with fatalities climbing to 3,387 from 1,950 a year earlier. Militants have increasingly shifted operations from northern tribal belts to southern KP districts such as Bannu, Lakki Marwat and Dera Ismail Khan.

“Bannu is an important town of southern KP, and we are feeling the heat,” said Sajjad Khan, the region’s police chief. “There has been an enormous increase in the number of incidents of terrorism… It is a mix of local militants and Afghan militants.”

In 2025 alone, Bannu police recorded 134 attacks on stations, checkpoints and personnel. At least 27 police officers were killed, while authorities say 53 militants died in the clashes. Many assaults involved coordinated, multi-pronged attacks using heavy weapons.

Drones have also added a new layer of danger. What began as reconnaissance tools have been weaponized with improvised devices that rely on gravity rather than guidance systems.

“Earlier, they used to drop [explosives] in bottles. After that, they started cutting pipes for this purpose,” said Jamshed Khan, head of the regional bomb disposal unit. “Now we have encountered a new type: a pistol hand grenade.”

When dropped from above, he explained, a metal pin ignites the charge on impact.

Deputy Superintendent of Police Raza Khan, who narrowly survived a drone strike during construction at a checkpoint, described devices packed with nails, bullets and metal fragments.

“They attach a shuttlecock-like piece on top. When they drop it from a height, its direction remains straight toward the ground,” he said.

TARGETING CIVILIANS

Officials say militants’ rapid adoption of drone technology has been fueled by access to equipment on informal markets, while police procurement remains slower.

“It is easy for militants to get such things,” Sajjad Khan said. “And for us, I mean, we have to go through certain process and procedures as per rules.”

That imbalance began to shift in mid-2025, when authorities deployed electronic anti-drone systems in the region. Before that, officers relied on snipers or improvised nets strung over police compounds.

“Initially, when we did not have that anti-drone system, their strikes were effective,” the police chief said, adding that more than 300 attempted drone attacks have since been repelled or electronically disrupted. “That was a decisive moment.”

Police say militants have also targeted civilians, killing nine people in drone attacks this year, often in communities accused of cooperating with authorities. Several police stations suffered structural damage.

Bannu’s location as a gateway between Pakistan and Afghanistan has made it a security flashpoint since colonial times. But officials say the aerial dimension of the conflict has placed unprecedented strain on local forces.

For constables like Hazrat Ali, new technology offers some protection, but resolve remains central.

“Nowadays, they have ammunition and all kinds of the most modern weapons. They also have large drones,” he said. “When we fight them, we fight with our courage and determination.”