A Hindu’s Heroism In A Muslim School: When Faith Meant Saving Lives
POONCH, India — On April 22, a group of armed terrorists stormed the Baisaran Valley near Pahalgam, a scenic stretch in South Kashmir popular among tourists. The attackers, armed with assault rifles, singled out men based on their religion before shooting them at point-blank range. A Christian tourist and a local Muslim pony operator who tried to resist were also killed.
In total, 26 people died, including several newlywed couples. The Resistance Front (TRF), a proxy of the terror group Lashkar-e-Taiba, initially claimed responsibility before later distancing itself from the carnage.
It was the deadliest civilian massacre in India since the 2008 Mumbai attacks. In response, India launched “Operation Sindoor,” a precision military strike deep inside Pakistani territory. Indian officials described the operation as “non-escalatory and non-targeting of military installations,” but the message was clear: There would be retribution to cross-border terrorism.
Less than two weeks after the Pahalgam terror attack, the war came home to civilians. On May 7, Pakistan retaliated with intense shelling along the Line of Control or the LoC (a de facto border that separates India and Pakistan).
This time, however, the mortars didn’t just target military posts. They fell deep inside civilian areas of Jammu and Kashmir’s Poonch district, a region that has long borne the burden of hostilities between the two countries.
Thirteen civilians died within hours. Among the dead were schoolchildren, a daily wage worker, a Sikh Granthi and an imam. Several homes were reduced to rubble. Amid the chaos, stories emerged (and not just of grief), but unimaginable courage, of friendships that withstood fire and of faith that refused to yield to fear.
Friendship transcends faith
When a shell slammed into a madrassa (an Islamic school) housing over 1,200 children, its caretaker, Sayyed Habib, didn’t dial the army or the police. He didn’t call emergency services. He called Pradeep Sharma, a Hindu and former BJP legislator, and his best friend since ninth grade.
“Pardeep, come and help me,” Habib pleaded. “The children are inside.”
Despite the danger, Sharma rushed through the smoke and falling debris. Inside the madrassa, the destruction was immense.
“There wasn’t a wall left standing,” Sharma recalled. “I found Maulvi Iqbal Qari, gravely wounded. His three sons were also injured. I picked up one of the boys, wrapped his wounds, and got him out. That boy survived. So did the others. But Maulvi Qari … died in my arms.”
As Qari bled from the mouth, he recited verses from the Quran, his voice faltering. For the final 30 minutes of his life, he lay in Sharma’s lap.
“I don’t know why, but I felt some bond with him, maybe from a past life,” Sharma said, choking back tears. “Since that night, I have been waking up crying. That moment haunts me.”
Risking his own life, Sharma ferried the wounded out, three at a time, ignoring the fresh volleys of fire overhead. At the hospital, he stayed with the children, calming them, holding their hands, reassuring the frightened.
For Qari’s family, Sharmas’s actions weren’t just heroic. They were sacred.
“He did what even one’s real brother might not have done,” said Qari’s nephew, who did not want to be identified by name. “In that storm of shelling, he ran in—not out. My uncle died in his arms. We’ll be thankful till the Day of Judgment.”
The friendship between Habib and Sharma had already weathered other storms. During the pandemic, the two worked together to feed the hungry, often sharing food from the same plate.
That day in Poonch, one man died, but hundreds were saved because one friendship stood stronger than the war.
History of conflict
Kashmir acceded to India in 1947, choosing New Delhi over a Muslim-majority Pakistan. It later received special constitutional protections under Article 370, granting it semi-autonomy. In August 2019, Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s government revoked this status, promising a new era of integration and development. But for many in the Valley, and in border towns like Poonch, that promise still lies buried under years of bloodshed.
Revoking Article 370 was a longstanding demand of right-wing nationalists in India. Its revocation in August 2019 was largely applauded by Indians outside Kashmir. Article 370 prevented non-Kashmiris from settling or owning businesses and property in Kashmir.
Over the past three decades, an estimated 47,000 people have died in the Kashmir conflict, most of them civilians. In the early 1990's after armed militancy erupted against the Indian rule, many Kashmiri Hindus fled for their lives and settled outside Kashmir leaving behind their homes, businesses and places of worship.
What happened in Poonch on May 7 isn’t just the story of a shelling. It is the story of what happens when civilians become collateral to larger strategic decisions. When religious identities are eclipsed by shared survival. When a Hindu and a Muslim rescue children together under fire. When a Sikh prays his last paath warning his neighbors.
On that day, it wasn’t the hate that stood tallest, it was humanity. But the people of Poonch ask the same question they’ve asked for generations: How long can ordinary lives bear the weight of extraordinary wars?
Making a sacrifice for others
In another Poonch neighborhood, Amarjeet Singh, a 50-year-old ex-serviceman, began his day with his usual “paath,” the sacred Muslim morning prayer.
When the first shells landed, he didn’t run. Instead, he picked up the loudspeaker and warned others: “Stay inside. Don’t come out.”
Moments later, a shell tore through his home.
“There was a loud blast. Smoke everywhere,” said his uncle, who did not want to be named. “I was injured, but my nephew took the worst of it. A splinter pierced his lungs. He couldn’t be saved.”
Even without a uniform, Singh never left the frontlines. In his final act, he gave his life so others might be spared.
Now, each morning in his gurdwara, there is silence where once his voice sang of devotion.
The events of May 7 were not random. Poonch, which lies right at the LoC, has historically been the first to bleed whenever tensions escalate between India and Pakistan. The district has seen decades of firefights, displacement and the quiet endurance of communities trapped between political posturing and cross-border retribution.
After four days of intense hostilities, both countries agreed to a ceasefire. But in Poonch, people know what ceasefires mean. It means a pause — not peace.
Zaffar Iqbal is a journalist based in Kashmir, India. He has reported on armed encounters, environmental issues, crime, politics, culture and human rights. He’s formerly the bureau chief of Jammu-Kashmir for NDTV.