Hariz Aftab
It is natural, perhaps inevitable, for grief to seek meaning in the aftermath of violent acts — such as the Pahalgam attack on April 22, 2025 — when society mourns, demands answers, and yearns for closure. However, recent trends indicate that grief has transitioned into grudge, and that rage honed by grief is directed not toward the culpable, but toward the proximate, the visible, and the vulnerable. Yet, this isn’t an entirely novel phenomenon. What is new, however, is its growing acceptance in our society — a moral backslide that democracies simply cannot afford. When pain is obscured to rationalize prejudice, and outrage is replaced with collective blame, grieving becomes a form of distributive justice. Soon enough, what starts as mourning becomes a means of persecution.
The disturbing attack on tourists in Pahalgam has renewed national attention on the complex challenges of security and communal harmony, where the socio-political environment becomes a hunting ground for community scapegoats. Public anger, instead of demanding accountability and focusing on the perpetrators, devolved into a dangerous campaign of suspicion against innocent Kashmiri students and professionals working across the country. Amid media commentary about “internal enemies” and mobs vowing to teach “traitors” a lesson, we are witnessing an ecosystem where community targeting is sanctioned through coded language. For the predictable victims of this rage, the discrimination manifests in numerous ways — subtle rejections, landlords refusing to rent flats, physical attacks, threats, verbal assaults, and public humiliation.
These reactions are not merely random. They stem from a potent mix of fear and the seductive simplicity of scapegoating. The danger does not lie only in individual acts of intimidation or violence, but in what these acts represent collectively: a society slipping into the psychology of punitive generalization. Let’s be clear — grief does not justify injustice. The pain of the terror ambush must not be used to delegitimize an entire population of Kashmiri students. If anything, national unity is tested in moments like these — not by how furiously a society reacts, but by how faithfully it upholds justice amid grief.
Moreover, it is troubling how conveniently public discourse avoids speaking in terms of rights, law, or due process, and instead normalizes retaliatory actions. Rather than using democratic language, we hear the rhetoric of tribalism — the logic of collective punishment applied to Kashmiri students.
It is time to pause and ask difficult, necessary questions. What does a democracy mean if young students must restrict their identity just to stay safe? What does it mean if universities are compelled to issue travel advisories urging students from “sensitive regions” to “stay inside” or avoid speaking their mother tongue in public? What does a democracy mean if they are pressured to constantly prove their loyalty to the state or the common good after every national tragedy?
While such reactive suspicion limits civil liberties, the broader implication is even more dangerous: it erodes social trust. Neighbours become suspects, students become scapegoats, and democratic institutions morph into surveillance machinery open to manipulation. Another disturbing outcome of this ethical outsourcing of guilt is that it dilutes the concept of accountability altogether. Instead of condemning the actual perpetrators of violence, guilt is assigned to those who merely share a faith or ethnicity. At this point, justice becomes symbolic rather than real. It becomes a search for catharsis, not fairness.
Political capital can quietly be built on the back of public outrage. Anti-social elements looking to disrupt harmony or gain visibility understand this well. When grief and rage are collective, they try to redirect those emotions toward convenient targets. They exploit polarization and promote binary thinking: “us vs them,” “nationalists vs sympathizers,” “defenders vs dissenters.” In this binary framework, complexity is erased, and emotionally charged narratives replace critical thinking. Empathy is painted as weakness — even betrayal.
The result is not just a misinformed public opinion, but an accelerated breakdown of the social fabric. These moral panics have long-term consequences: they deepen alienation, radicalize the centre, and cultivate the very extremism they claim to oppose.
Is this the legacy we want to leave behind? A republic that weaponizes grief? Where one community’s pain is used as a justification to harm another? Where a tragedy is used not to reflect, but to divide?
In honouring the slain, our collective duty is not just to mourn them but to uphold the principles they were denied — justice, dignity, and peace. A democracy must never emulate the mindset of its enemies. The greatest tribute we can offer victims is to resist becoming what terrorists want us to be: fractured, fearful, and unjust.
Moving forward requires courage — not just the courage to face enemies at our borders, but the courage to confront hatred within. The courage to speak up when the mob silences. The courage to empathize when the majority rages. The courage to ask: what kind of country are we becoming, where the innocent must fear how someone else chooses to grieve?
In times of rage, restraint is revolutionary. In times of mourning, fairness is radical. And in times of collective hurt, empathy is resistance. When a nation grieves, the urge to grieve together can be a powerful glue — but only if rooted in justice and compassion rather than fear and suspicion. Ethical outrage must be unbiased — it must question misdirected anger, resist stereotypes, and protect the innocent.
Hariz Aftab is a Doctoral Researcher based in Jammu and Kashmir, with a keen interest in political, social, and humanitarian affairs, literature, and cultural studies. He can be contacted at aftabhariz@gmail.com.
The views expressed in this article are author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the policy of the platform.
