There are lives that thrive in peace, and there are lives that survive in silence—on the edge of a battlefield, where peace is a distant dream, and sacrifice is a daily companion. In the homes of soldiers, time pauses not for luxury, but for duty. Their lives are not governed by the ticking of the clock, but by the rhythm of uncertainty. One call, one emergency, and their holiday turns into another mission. Their children wait, their wives pray, their mothers hope—and the country sleeps peacefully, unaware of the price paid for that peace. An army man does not choose when to love his family or when to protect his nation. He is bound by honor, sworn to a uniform, and driven by something deeper than orders—an unshakable sense of duty. Imagine preparing to return home, finally getting those few days with your loved ones, only to be summoned again. No complaints. No questions. Just a bag packed again and boots laced tighter.

It’s not just the soldier who serves; it’s his whole family. His wife keeps his place at the dinner table untouched, believing he’ll return. His child learns to sleep with unanswered bedtime stories. And his mother—oh, the mother who birthed him—prays with trembling hands each night, knowing that her son’s survival is never promised. But what if the call she dreads comes true? What if her child returns not with laughter and life, but wrapped in the nation’s flag?

How does one accept that?

Can a nation understand that pain?

Can a mother bury her son and call it honor, when her heart is broken beyond repair?

When War Arrives Uninvited

War is never beautiful. It is never poetic. It is a storm that erases homes, burns dreams, and leaves only ashes behind. It knocks not at the doors of politicians but at the hearts of civilians. Soldiers at the border don’t ask if the war is right—they obey, even if it costs them their tomorrow. But the real question is: Why does war need to happen at all?

Can destruction ever be justified when dialogue is an option?

Can we clap for "Operation Sindoor" in one breath, and ignore the cries from Poonch in another?

Do we really win a war if it leaves a thousand mothers mourning, hundreds of homes destroyed, and hearts scarred for a lifetime?

Peace is never achieved through blood. Yet somehow, war keeps repeating itself—always with new names, new heroes, and new victims. And behind every operation we celebrate, there’s a story we never hear—a village wiped out, a school reduced to rubble, a child screaming for their parents. The people in Poonch didn’t start a war. But they lived through one. And no one came for them—not when the skies rained fire, not when the ground trembled, not when their homes turned to ruins. Leaders arrived only after silence returned—after the destruction was done, after the grief settled into the soil.

Where is the empathy in that?

Where is the humanity?

The Blackouts and The Fear 

In Jammu and along the border, people have learned to live with fear—not as a stranger, but as a silent companion. Mornings begin with hope and end in blackouts. There’s no warning. No time to say goodbye. Just a sudden darkness that carries questions no one can answer.

Are we safe? Is tonight the last? Will we wake up tomorrow? Children don’t dream here. They hold onto their mothers and hide in corners. And even that feels dangerous, because in war zones, there are no safe corners. And while the rest of the world scrolls through social media or complains about trivial inconveniences, there are entire communities wondering if they will survive the night. Their entire existence reduced to waiting—for help, for news, for a miracle. Some flee to what they believe are safer places. But is there any guarantee? A safer place might just be where death chooses next. And so they move—not toward safety—but toward uncertainty. It’s not relocation; it’s a gamble between life and loss.

The Truth About War: It’s Not Just a Soldier’s Story

We often paint soldiers as heroes—and they are. But we forget the burden they carry isn’t just theirs. The war doesn’t end with a bullet or a ceasefire. It continues in the nightmares of those who survive it. PTSD doesn’t wear a uniform, yet it marches into the homes of every soldier who returns. Anxiety sits at the dinner tables of their families. And trauma becomes a silent heirloom passed on to their children. And what about those who don’t come back? The ones who return as a folded flag and a few medals? What do we tell their families? That it was worth it? That they died for the country? Is that enough? Do condolences heal the heart of a child who will never be held again? Do tributes replace a father? Does a speech on TV compensate for the absence that will echo for generations?

Politics and War: Who Profits?

It’s time we ask the hard questions.

Why are wars still happening in the age of diplomacy?

Is it truly for the nation, or are political parties manipulating patriotism for power?

They sit safely in conference rooms, trading accusations and shaping narratives—while soldiers bleed and locals perish.

Have we ever seen a political leader’s child at the border?

Have we seen them sleep on bunkers, hear the whistle of bombs overhead, or carry their friend’s body on their shoulder?

No. Because wars are designed to be fought by others, while the architects remain untouched. And we, the people, become pawns in a larger game. A game where death is a strategy, and suffering is collateral damage.

The Forgotten Frontlines

While cities light up in celebration, rural border areas live in the shadow of dread. When a missile misses a target, it doesn’t land on a political symbol—it lands on someone’s home. When airstrikes shake the earth, it’s not the rich who lose everything—it’s the man who owns a small shop, the girl who dreams of becoming a teacher, the grandmother who just wants to live her last years in peace.

We don’t talk enough about these stories. About how trauma never makes it to headlines. About how bravery isn’t just on battlefields but also in every woman who stands in the ruins of her home and says, “We’ll survive.” These are the stories that deserve our attention. These are the lives we must protect.

Empathy Over Applause: Let’s shift the focus from applause to action. From celebration to compassion. From glory to gratitude.

If a soldier’s life can be called at any moment, let us at least make sure they return to a nation that values them—not just in posters and parades, but in policies, protections, and peace. Let’s stop romanticizing war and start questioning it. Let’s hold leaders accountable. Let’s create systems that value dialogue over destruction. And most of all, let us not forget the unseen pain—the silent suffering—that surrounds every conflict.

A single soldier’s life is not just a loss to his family, but a crack in the soul of the nation.

A village destroyed is not just land lost—it’s a future erased.

And a war won on paper may be a lifetime lost in reality.

Is Peace Really That Difficult?

The truth is, most wars can be avoided. Most disagreements can be resolved. But compromise requires courage. Listening takes humility. And peace demands more effort than power ever will.

Why not choose that? Why not sit down at tables instead of sending missiles? Why not teach our children about unity rather than enmity? Why not be the generation that ends the cycle?

Because in the end, war doesn’t have a happy ending. It only has survivors and mourners.

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