After India destroyed nine terrorists hideouts in the Pakistan Occupied Kashmir (PoK), avenging the killing of 26 civilians in Pehalgam, Pakistan retaliated with non-stop shelling along the border areas, killing at least 15 people including an army personnel.

India also retaliated and as per media reports, the Indian forces neutralised Pakistani Air Defence Radars and systems in several locations, including Lahore. This attack was made in response to Pakistan's attempts to attack military facilities in Srinagar, Pathankot, Amritsar, Ludhiana, Chandigarh, and other locations.

Well, the war between India and Pakistan has finally erupted. And like every war, this one too will end—perhaps in days, or weeks, or months—with one side claiming victory, and the other forced to accept defeat.

Newsrooms will eventually begin returning to their regular rhythm, war graphics will disappear from television screens, and digital platforms will stop flashing hourly updates.

A few weeks after this ends, the devastation of the conflict will begin to fade from our collective memory—especially for people like you and me, who watched it all unfold from behind keyboards and smartphone screens.

In bars, cafés, and private gatherings, we will recount how bravely our soldiers fought. Some of us will boast about how accurate our predictions were, how we “knew” it would all play out. And then we will move on—to the next trending topic, the next election, the next controversy.

But here lies the unsettling question: will we ever go beyond this armchair activism? Will we ever do something real for the people whose lives were ripped apart by this war between Indian and Pakistan?

What will be our role in the rebuilding process? How will we stand by the families who have lost loved ones in the line of duty? Will we even remember them once the flags stop waving and the hashtags fade?

Whether one supports or opposes this war between India and Pakistan is not the only question that needs asking. What truly matters is how we, the indirect sufferers, respond to the long-lasting damage endured by those who suffer directly.

Because while governments declare wars and armies fight them, it is the ordinary people who endure the deepest scars—some seen, many invisible.

As the fighting intensifies, so does the human toll. Each passing hour adds to the count of shattered families, displaced villagers, orphaned children, and lives forever changed. But when the final shot is fired, and the silence returns, that toll will not disappear with the noise.

The men and women who fought will not all come back. And those who do may not return whole. Many will carry the trauma for years, sometimes silently.

Their families—wives, parents, children—will try to hold on to normalcy in a world that no longer feels normal.

Civilians living along the borders will return to the shells of their homes, if they have any left. Their crops, businesses, schools, and futures will all lie in tatters.

And we, the unaffected majority, will scroll past.

We will say, “Such is the cost of war.” We will try to rationalise. But in doing so, we will miss the point.

The real question is: what will we do after this war?

Will we be content merely celebrating victory or mourning defeat? Will we attend memorials once a year and feel that our duty is done? Will we change our profile pictures temporarily and consider it patriotism? Or will we rise to do something that truly matters?

We live in an age where it is easier to express outrage or pride than to engage in meaningful action. We share viral videos of airstrikes, we debate military strategies on social media, and we echo the rhetoric we consume through 24/7 news channels. But once the conflict ends, our involvement often ends too.

That is not enough.

True patriotism begins when the war ends. When the soldiers return, they should not come back to neglect. When the widows grieve, they should not do so in silence. When displaced civilians try to rebuild, they should not be abandoned.

This is where we come in—not as policy-makers or army generals, but as citizens of conscience.

It is easy to glorify sacrifice. It is harder to share its burden.

There is no shortage of things we can do: support mental health services for veterans and their families; demand policies that ensure education and employment for war widows and their children; contribute to rebuilding efforts in affected villages; challenge divisive narratives that turn neighbours into enemies.

We can also do the difficult work of empathy. Listening. Understanding. Reflecting. Educating ourselves and others about the long-term human consequences of conflict. Moving beyond jingoism to a more mature, compassionate form of nationalism.

Let us not forget that the people on the other side of the border—the so-called “enemy”—are also human. They, too, lose sons and daughters. They, too, bury loved ones. They, too, hope for peace.

To be patriotic does not mean hating another nation’s people. It means loving your own country so deeply that you want it to be just, wise, and peaceful—not only victorious.

In the weeks to come, this war will generate thousands of stories—some heroic, some tragic, some untold. It is our responsibility to remember those stories long after the headlines move on.

We must not only ask who won, but at what cost?

We must not only ask what happened, but what now?

And most importantly: what is our role in the healing?

Because history will not only remember the soldiers and leaders. It will also remember the people—us. Not for what we said when bombs fell, but for what we did when the silence returned.

Will we be healers or forgetters?

Will we build, or simply move on?

The war has begun. It will end. But our responsibility must not.

Let us prepare—not for more conflict—but for more compassion.

Let us commit—not just to victory—but to humanity.

Because when the last soldier lays down his weapon, the work of peace begins. And it will need all of us.

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