Visitors breathe new life into Kashmir’s battered border villages

A major transformation is underway in the riverside village of Keran, India. The once ubiquitous sounds of exploding shells have been replaced by the clatter of camera shutters. Bunkers have been converted into homestays. And instead of appearing in headlines about terrorist infiltrations or military operations, Keran is being promoted as a “hidden gem” for adventurous travelers. 

For decades, village residents had to dodge cross-border fire during frequent violations of a cease-fire declared at the end of the India-Pakistan war in 1971. But two years after the two countries recommitted to the cease-fire along the countries’ de facto northern border, Keran and other frontier hamlets are shedding their war-torn image and playing happy hosts to outsiders. 

Locals say 2023 has witnessed unprecedented foot traffic. Some estimate that tens of thousands of people have visited Keran so far this year, and new inns and eateries have cropped up to accommodate tourists. India’s central government has also been investing in road improvements in remote border areas.

Residents welcome the shift, expressing pride that their hometown is now “on the map.” Though challenges and trauma remain, they agree that the influx of visitors is breathing new life into the battered village, as well as fostering greater awareness about life on the border between the two traditional enemies.

“With the return of peace,” says local cleric Iftikhar Khan, “the village’s newfound tourism industry is becoming a vital source of income.”

On the map

Guns have fallen silent in this formerly hostile corner of Kashmir, a predominantly Muslim and heavily militarized region in northern India that shares a contentious border with Pakistan.

Surrounded by towering peaks and pine-clad slopes, Keran lies some 60 miles northwest of Srinagar, the summer capital of the Jammu and Kashmir region. Watchful sentries guard the banks of the Kishanganga River, which flows into Pakistan-administered Kashmir as the Neelum River.

Access to such border villages used to be extremely limited. But following the reiteration of the cease-fire agreement in February 2021, the Jammu and Kashmir administration decided to open these no-go zones to tourists.

Still, reaching Keran is no easy feat. Visitors face not just a high-altitude mountain pass but also five military checkpoints. At the final stop, they must submit their identity cards, and the village remains under strict surveillance. 

“Traveling to Keran was not a pushover,” says Shakir Baba, a tourist from central Kashmir. “The problem here is with the phone connectivity and the road connectivity; the last kilometers of Keran [roads are] dusty, and it’s very difficult to drive on this terrain. Most of the time the cars get stuck.”

Dilip Kuman from Noida, India, agrees that the final miles were tough to navigate – but judging by the pace of road work around Keran, he doesn’t think that will be a barrier for long. Once the roads improve, he predicts that the valley will see rapid development. “People here are nice,” he says. “They are loving.”

And for his photographer wife, Keran’s natural beauty was well worth the trouble. 

“People trek miles in order to reach a place like this,” says Gita Singhaniya, pointing her camera on its tripod towards the Kishanganga River. “The government’s decision to open this border area has been fruitful. It has given immense happiness to see this beautiful place.”

Locals are eager to share the valley’s history, too. For instance, few visitors know that India’s first post office sits along the Kishanganga River, predating independence and the 1947 Partition of India. “It never stopped its services,” says postmaster Shakir Bhat.

A community divided

After decades of intermittent hostilities, people here are beginning to relax, says Mr. Bhat, and are finding new ways to earn a living from the influx of visitors. He was among the first villagers to convert his wooden home into a homestay for tourists, charging around 1,000 rupees ($12) per night for a single room, or around 600 rupees ($7) per night for a tent in his courtyard.

The septuagenarian runs the homestay with his wife, daughter, and sons, and the extra income has brought the family hope and financial security. 

Yet Keran remains a divided village, lying on both sides of the border. No amount of tourist dollars will restore lost lives or heal broken families. The cease-fire has brought a sense of normalcy and new economic opportunities to Keran, but it has not opened the border.

After an uprising against the Indian state broke out in majority-Muslim Kashmir in the 1990s, “many villagers migrated to the other side of the river to escape from the daily mayhem,” says Aurangzeb Khan, looking at the staffed checkpoints stationed on what used to be open grasslands. “My brother and his family, my wife, two daughters, two sons – they all went to the other side and never returned.”

These narratives of loss and longing are now finding voice in tourist experiences and travelogues. Indeed, many visitors come to Keran specifically to learn about life near India’s most volatile border. They photograph deserted wooden homes, abandoned years ago by families such as Mr. Khan’s, and compare Keran, India, with the village sitting just across the river: Keran, Pakistan. 

“It seems that the other side of the border is more developed in terms of infrastructure, roads, and electricity,” says Bilal Ahmad, a Kashmiri visiting Keran after seeing a video about the village on Instagram. “The opposite village is ... well maintained, and the double-storied wooden houses are scattered over the Neelum Valley.” 

At night, many tourists watch as locals trek to the riverside, light up their phone flashlights, and wave to relatives across the water. In a region with poor phone and internet connectivity, this is the primary form of contact for many cross-Keran families. 

Mr. Khan, who is now in his late 80s and starting to lose his sight, makes this journey every day, coming down from the mountains just to gaze upon his daughter who lives on the other side of the border. “Too near,” he whispers, “yet too far.”