ANANTNAG: Farooq Ahmad, 25, stands beside his tired flock in the outskirts of Turka-Tachloo, a remote village in Anantnag district.
A nomadic Gujjar from Kot Bhalwal in Jammu, Farooq arrived here with his parents, wife, two small children, and nearly 500 sheep and goat while on his way to his summer abode in Zajimarg meadows in Kulgam district as part of his bi-annual journey.
The Gujjars and Bakerwals of Jammu and Kashmir, who still adhere to a nomadic lifestyle move from the warmer areas in the foothills of the Pir Panjal and the plains beyond to the cooler Himalayan mountains in Chenab Valley, Kashmir and Ladakh, every summer. They go back the same route at the onset of every winter.
This year, however, he and his family are stuck as security restrictions on the movement to some of the upper reaches have been imposed after the Pahalgam attack, leaving his family stranded in a congested space.
“We have walked for days across forests and hills, hoping to reach the highland pastures. But here we are—waiting under the open sky with no answers,” Farooq says.
His flock grazes listlessly on sparse grass. “These animals cannot survive long without fresh grazing land. Every day we wait, we lose something—health, money, peace.”
Stranded Amid Uncertainty
In the aftermath of the deadly attack in Pahalgam, nomadic families find themselves trapped in a wave of fear and uncertainty. Belonging mostly to the Gujjar and Bakerwal communities, these seasonal herders are facing new restrictions on the very lands they have traversed for generations.
Security forces, in response to the heightened threat perception, are limiting access to forests and alpine meadows—grazing grounds that form the backbone of the nomads’ pastoral life. With no clear communication from the authorities and no viable alternative for shelter or livelihood, hundreds of families are now stranded mid-migration.
Farooq’s mother tends to the sheep, his wife tries to cook with limited supplies, and the children play with twigs in the mud, unaware of the growing crisis. “We don’t ask for much,” Farooq says, pointing to a crumpled permission slip he was told to wait with.
“Just let us pass. Let us live the way we know.”
“No one tells us whether we’ll be allowed to move forward. We are not criminals—we are herders,” he says. “Our life is with our animals. If they die, we die with them.”
He arrived here on April 27, five days after Pahalgam, not realising what was in store for him. He’s been waiting for a month.
Not far from where Farooq Ahmad waits with his livestock, another story of disruption and uncertainty unfolds.
On the fringes of Daksum village, Naseema Begum, a 42-year-old woman from the Bakerwal community, sits quietly under a makeshift tarpaulin shelter, her eyes scanning the hills in the distance. Her family, along with many others, was en route to their traditional highland grazing pastures when the attack in Pahalgam brought their migration to an abrupt standstill.
“We’ve been stuck here for nearly three weeks,” she says, pointing to the line of ponies and goats tethered under pine trees. “This was supposed to be a short stop. Now we don’t know if or when we’ll be allowed to continue.”
Naseema’s extended family—more than 20 people including her husband, sons, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren—has been halted in a location not meant for long-term settlement.
Their temporary encampment lies on the outskirts of the village, without adequate space, supplies, or shelter for their needs. Unlike the alpine pastures where they normally spend the summer—spaces where they have established grazing routes, water sources, and seasonal shelters—this location is unfamiliar, crowded, and restrictive.
“The forest department tells us we can’t go ahead. The police say it’s because of the security threat after the Pahalgam incident,” she says. “But nobody tells us how long this will last.”
An Existential Threat
The seasonal migration for Gujjars and Bakerwals is a deeply established way of life, where livestock health, timing, and environment are closely interlinked.
“These goats and sheep can’t survive here much longer,” Naseema says. “The grass is insufficient, the animals are stressed. We’ve already lost a few. If this continues, more will die—and that’s the end of our income for the year.”
Despite carrying valid migration permits issued before their departure, Naseema’s family and many others have been barred from crossing into forest zones. “They told us the documents don’t apply anymore,” says her husband, Mohammad Shafi.
“But what are we supposed to do? Wait indefinitely?”
In previous years, they coordinated with forest guards and local officials to move across designated routes. “Even if there were delays, we knew the process. This year, no one is saying anything clearly,” Shafi adds. “We are neither allowed to move forward nor given support to stay here.”
Local villagers have tried to help with small contributions—some food, a little fodder—but resources are limited. “They’ve shown compassion, and we’re grateful,” Naseema says. “But they can’t support us forever. We don’t belong here. Our homes are in motion, up there in the mountains.”
Dozens of nomadic families remain suspended in unfamiliar terrain, caught between tightened security protocols and a vanishing grazing season. And with every day they are kept away from the highlands, their livelihood weakens a little more.
‘Govt Silence is Killing’
Their grievance is the silence from the authorities. “If they want to stop us, fine—tell us how long. Tell us where to go. Give us something—fodder, shelter, help,” Shafi says. “But this silence, this waiting—it is killing us slowly.”
The irony, Naseema says, is that the very system that once gave them official migration routes has now shut every door. “They talk about tourism, development, and protection. But we are the people of these mountains. We protect this land too—with our footsteps, with our flocks. And now we’re being locked out of it.”
“We don’t want favours,” Naseema says finally, as the sky darkens above the hills. “We want justice. We want clarity. We want to move. Because if we don’t, we will lose everything—our animals, our income, our dignity.”
For Abdul Rashid, a 50-year-old shepherd from Rajouri, this year’s migration feels more punishing than ever before. “We are used to walking for weeks, battling rain, landslides, even wild animals,” he says, resting under a pine tree in the outskirts of Kokernag.
“But now, we walk with fear. At every bend, we’re stopped, questioned, and told to move along—even when our children are hungry and the animals need rest.”
The anxiety among nomadic families like Rashid’s has surged in the wake of the April 22 attack in Pahalgam, where gunmen opened fire on a group of tourists, killing 26 people.
The incident triggered a sweeping security response across Jammu and Kashmir. Forest paths, alpine meadows, and even roadside clearings that once served as crucial stopovers for migratory herders have been declared sensitive zones.
The administration has tightened access across large stretches of forested terrain. Mobile checkpoints now dot the migration routes, forest patrols scan campsites, and permits that once allowed smooth passage have become meaningless. “Even cooking a meal has become a problem,” Rashid says. “We’re treated like we don’t belong here.”
Nomadic groups—mostly Gujjar and Bakarwal—rely on traditional knowledge passed down over generations to navigate the hills during the summer migration. But this year, many report being rerouted or denied access without explanation.
“We used to rest in these spots for a day or two. Now the soldiers say it's a red zone. Red zone for whom?” Rashid asks, shaking his head.
Shabnam Khatoon, a mother journeying with her young son, voiced her deep frustration over the changed circumstances. “We used to rest peacefully under the pine trees, cook simple meals over open fires, and move on the next morning,” she said. “Now, we’re not even allowed to light a fire for food. It’s as if we’ve become outsiders in the land we’ve always called home.”
For centuries, this seasonal migration has been central not only to the livelihoods of nomadic families but also to the ecological rhythm of Jammu and Kashmir’s fragile mountain landscapes. But this year, those who once moved freely along these ancestral routes are finding their passage blocked—halted by restrictions that seem to disregard both tradition and necessity.
Officials who spoke to 'Kashmir Times' on the condition of anonymity, said the restrictions are part of heightened security measures following the April 22 Pahalgam attack.
“We cannot ignore the current threat perception. After what happened in Pahalgam, every movement through forested and sensitive areas is being closely monitored,” the official said.
“We do understand that the nomadic communities are facing difficulties, but our priority right now is ensuring safety for all. Efforts are underway to create secure corridors for their migration, and coordination between district administrations is being improved to minimise disruption as much as possible,” he said.
But no one knows how long this will take.
(The identity of the reporter of this story has been withheld due to fear of potential reprisal.)
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