Under Drones and Conflict바카라�s Shadow: Punjab바카라�s Border Villages Endure

But drones바카라�usually known in the region for ferrying drugs and other contraband바카라�took on a completely different meaning just weeks ago. During a blackout in Amritsar amid mounting tensions between India and Pakistan in the wake of the April terrorist attack in Pahalgam, Kashmir, a doctor was jolted awake by strange noises. She stepped onto the rooftop of her home, where she also runs a hospital on the ground floor. Atop the large red cross painted on the roof at the authorities바카라� insistence, she froze, taking in the haunting sight of trees swaying in the bright moonlight. In the distance, a JCB vehicle moved slowly, presumably deployed by armed forces. Military personnel stirred cautiously, their presence stark against the stillness of the night. Nearby was a gurdwara that had once lent space for the forces in previous battles, a silent testament to the escalating situation. Soon after, her sister from Ferozepur called, transmitting the chilling sounds of a dogfight overhead and reporting that a drone had been downed at Ram Tirth, a locality near Amritsar city.

The night air was thick with trepidation as the doctor felt the weight of living just minutes from the international border at Attari바카라�where everyday life and conflict can blur in an instant. 바카라�If there바카라�s a shutdown in Delhi, that won바카라�t affect us as much as one along the border. Four or five thousand vehicles ply this route daily, bringing supplies and tourists바카라�the mainstay of our economy. The khana-peena here depends entirely on cross-border trade. But it바카라�s not easy to live here. During the terrorism era in the eighties, factories left Punjab. Since then, people live in mortal fear of losing trade income as well if conflict breaks out,바카라� says Kawaljit Kaur from Guru Nanak Hospital near Attari, also a member of the All India Democratic Women바카라�s Association (AIDWA).

The Cost of Displacement

That fear is widely shared. 바카라�Hum chahtey hain ki thandey-thandey mahaul mein baithey rahein, ladai mein kya rakha hai바카라�we just want to live in peace, in calm conditions; what바카라�s the point of conflict?바카라� says Manpreet Singh, a landless worker at Daoke, a small village near the Attari border, hemmed in on three sides by five Pakistani villages, with only a single road leading out. The fear of being caught in any potential crossfire between India and Pakistan had many of its less-well-off residents pack their meagre belongings and leave to shelter elsewhere during the recent escalations.

They left because of memory바카라�of past conflicts, when entire communities fled across raised embankments that encircled their village, housing bunkers where soldiers conceal themselves and fire from vantage points. They left because of what they saw on TV the night Operation Sindoor was launched바카라�people in states like Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, Karnataka, Maharashtra clamouring for war with Pakistan, far removed from the frontlines. 바카라�But it바카라�s us sitting on the border. When the bombs fall, we go to relatives바카라� houses for shelter,바카라� says Lakhbir, who sent his children away to family while he stayed behind in Daoke. 바카라�And who wants visitors arriving for indefinite stays these days바카라�nobody. It바카라�s best to stay home if we can, and to resolve conflicts with discussions rather than battles.바카라�

News and mobile updates poured in, filled with vivid accounts of rising hostility between India and its neighbour. Schools shut. Work came to a halt as the Attari-Wagah crossing closed, choking trade and silencing the economy. 바카라�For ten or twelve days, we were roaming empty-handed, with nothing to do, barely able to sustain ourselves,바카라� Manpreet says. During those two weeks of tensions, he took on a loan of over Rs 30,000바카라�his daily earnings of Rs 300 as a coolie at the Integrated Check Post had suddenly disappeared. The checkpoint, where limited trade with Afghan truckers continued, had long suspended trade with Pakistan. Alongside customs, immigration, security and warehousing, the post also draws growing tourist interest. (Trade recently resumed along this border crossing, but slowly).

You may think such disruptions are rare, but along Punjab바카라�s border villages, they are the drumbeat that accompanies life. One day, you바카라�re a farmer, and a BSF soldier opens the gate in the border fence바카라�electrified for the most part바카라�that leads to your farm across it. You toil from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., and then your fields are floodlit all night바카라�limiting their fertility, but still sustaining your family. The next day, you find the border gate no longer opens바카라�indefinitely바카라�because of firing from the other side, or a bigger conflict has erupted in any part of the long border with Pakistan. Then you have to wait and watch as your fields whither, or pick up and leave, either as an entire community or in ones, twos, or by the dozen. This cycle of sudden dislocation is etched into life experiences, passed down over generations.

Neglect Beyond the Barbed Wire: A Life on Hold

바카라�We have to go behind the defence lines and shelter if something happens,바카라� says Swarn Singh, a prominent farmer from Daoke, who recalls the conflicts of 1965, 1971, and Kargil (1999), as well as more recent terrorist attacks in Uri and Pulwama. 바카라�Each time was different, but in 바카라�71, we fled on our bellies, crawling. Pakistan is that close to us,바카라� he says.

After Kargil, landmines were installed and later defused in Amritsar바카라�s border areas by the armed forces, but not all could be removed. People still bear memories of those difficult times, when some lost their limbs바카라�and the armed forces faced losses too바카라�although farmers were compensated. That time, too, locals had crossed over the defensive embankments, and were not forced to go too far away to seek safety.

This year, the conflict was nowhere near many previous instances, say locals, so the sudden border closure and the fences not being opened to farming threw them into a tizzy. Even a distant threat upends their fragile normalcy. The warnings of numerous old timers, and the hypervigilant media had many leave women and children elsewhere, while most of the menfolk stayed put.

바카라�Life on the border is difficult for everybody바카라�those who leave, and those who stay. The authorities helped us harvest the wheat crop early this year, but we could not access our fields after that, which ruined our chances to prepare fodder from the leftover chaff. Now we must beg, borrow or buy it, or our cattle will suffer,바카라� says Ranjit Singh, who ferried his family to a 바카라�safer place바카라� in May.

The border fence, firmly anchored on the Indian side, shapes the daily rhythms of farmers here in ways their Pakistani counterparts don바카라�t experience. Across the divide, Pakistani farmers move freely in and out of their fields without ID checks, permissions, or the watchful eyes of security personnel. On this side, farmers like Darbara Singh must navigate strict regulations and controlled access, their movements bounded by gates that open and close according to security protocols. The BSF sometimes instructs them not to engage with their neighbours across the fence바카라�not even a casual greeting or a simple question like, 바카라�Had your lunch?바카라� Darbara Singh, who has worked in these fields for over thirty years, puts it wryly: 바카라�Yeh dekho, chidiya toh aa rahi hain taar paar, sirf saanp hi rukk rahey hain fencing se.바카라� (Birds cross the fence easily, but only snakes are stopped바카라�a nod to how smugglers cannot infiltrate as easily, but still slip through.)

Yet, while the barrier has enhanced security, it has also disrupted the farmers바카라� lives, breeding resentment as they must adhere to strict timings and face constant surveillance just to tend to their own land. Their time on the fields is limited even during emergencies, such as inclement weather at night, when all they can do is wait and hope the damage is minimal. What is more, in recent years, drone-based drug supplies have become commonplace, limiting the fence바카라�s efficacy in curbing such cross-border smuggling.

바카라�Drones keep falling on us these days,바카라� says Minder Kaur, an aged resident of Dhanoe Khurd. 바카라�But not during past conflicts. During the Kargil war, we moved with everything바카라�water, wheat, beds, chairs, gold바카라� to my mother바카라�s house across the defence line. Ullu boltey they yahan (owls used to hoot here). Then we returned and started over.바카라�

Another resident, Sukhwinder Kaur, says she saw news of the terrorist attack in Pahalgam in April, and that steeled her resolve to move out of her home and village again if needed. 바카라�I바카라�ve seen it all바카라�바카라�65, 바카라�71. Back then, we got no water, nothing to eat, and we lost our cattle fleeing in the dead of night. We바카라�ll move again if we have to, leaving everything behind. But we don바카라�t want war.바카라�

Dhanoe Khurd is particularly vulnerable during tensions with Pakistan. Like many border villages, it바카라�s connected to the rest of Punjab by narrow bridges tucked between homes, fields and foliage. Residents live with the constant fear that if something goes wrong, they could be cut off바카라�left to the mercy of fate and crossfire.

A three-hour drive from the bustling city of Amritsar, Tarn Taran바카라�s border villages tell a quieter, slower story. In places like Kalas, in Gandiwind tehsil, life is marked not just by sudden displacements but by the daily grind of absence바카라�roads that crumble, services that never arrive, promises that slowly wear thin.

바카라�A few days after the Pahalgam attack, the local gurudwara urged people to leave and seek shelter elsewhere. Rumours spread of tanks spotted across the border, and those who had lived through previous conflicts grew anxious, some pleading with others to leave. Many responded by ferrying children and the women to safer ground,바카라� says Gurpreet Singh, a member of the Aam Aadmi Party and resident of Assal Uttar, a village that hosts a memorial to a pivotal tank battle during the 1965 war with Pakistan.

Kalas residents recall a wedding interrupted by the 1965 war, when guests from the marriage party were dragged across the border바카라�it is just a few feet from their homes바카라�to the Pakistani side, and were allowed to return only days later. 바카라�After the attack in Kashmir, we took our children, women, and belongings. They left out of fear of a repeat,바카라� says Gurpreet, a twenty-six-year-old kabaddi player whose family owns farmland바카라�all of it on the Indian side of the fence.

바카라�We never want to leave our homes, but I바카라�ve done it at least three times before,바카라� says his mother, Balwinder Kaur. She remembers the day she left in May. 바카라�We wept as we rode away on tractors and cars, not knowing when we바카라�d return바카라�or what we바카라�d return to바카라�as memories of past exits haunted us.바카라�

Jinder Kaur, her sister-in-law, adds: 바카라�I stayed in Dyalpur for a couple of weeks바카라�I had to go. Who would want to leave their home, everybody loves their home, but we have no choice in these matters.바카라�

Even the men who stayed back wept as the women and children left. Fear was so palpable that staying on seemed impossible. 바카라�The problem is,바카라� Gurpreet adds, 바카라�hamarey gharon me fauj aa jaati hai, aur unkey peechey civilian바카라�the Pakistani army reaches our houses and the civilians follow them in.바카라�

The Collective Memory Of Conflict

In the 1965 and 1971 conflicts, families recall returning after weeks away to find their belongings gone. Sometimes, relatives took things in their absence; other times it was the Pakistani civilians who crossed over with their troops. 바카라�Pakistani taar utha ke chaley aatey hain바카라�they lift the wire and saunter in, taking our things. We have land and businesses here, but in ten minutes, we become beggars when things change for the worse,바카라� Gurpreet says.

That바카라�s why, this time, he also packed off their most precious belongings바카라�beds, mattresses, clothes바카라�while he stayed behind to care for his own cattle and that of his neighbours.

바카라�The forces and administration just told us to switch off the lights at night and sit tight,바카라� he says. 바카라�But with the border gates closed for farming, schools shut, soldiers mobilised, bunkers reopening and JCBs roaming around, we couldn바카라�t wait for the first shots to be fired.바카라�

But the feeling of abandonment runs deeper than the fear of conflict. For years, say members and leaders of the local sangat바카라�the congregation of devotees that forms the core social unit in Sikh villages, especially in times of crisis바카라�pleaded with the authorities to repair the road connecting them to the nearest town. When no help came, they pooled their resources and laid a makeshift path over the crumbling stretch. The road바카라�a patchwork of yellow dust held together by communal effort and hope바카라�snakes unevenly through fields and homes. As the only path out of the village, it is, in its very neglect, a reminder to all that this is a border village, visible only when convenient, forgotten otherwise.

Gurpreet, the kabaddi player, says the lack of basic infrastructure extends well beyond roads. There is no gymnasium for young athletes to train, and despite his pride in the village, he sends his children to a private school. The government ones just don바카라�t teach properly,바카라� he says. He himself received no support for his education and never attended a government school. 바카라�It바카라�s been all on our own바카라�like that road,바카라� he adds with a wry smile.

In 2016, Gurpreet bought a car, and drove many seriously ill locals to the hospital in it. Most of the time, the patient died before they arrived, the hospital was that far away, and the roads were always that bad. 바카라�Many have died in my car. My own father had a heart attack, but when they took him from here to Amritsar, the doctors said he arrived just minutes late. That바카라�s how it is here,바카라� he says.

Manjeet Kaur, another Kalas resident, whose tiny house overlooks a BSF checkpoint right at the border, and whose family is landless, says she, too, left with all her possessions and her two sons during the recent tensions. They 바카라�visited바카라� relatives in Patti tehsil nearby, as they had during the Kargil conflict. 바카라�It was very difficult for us as we could not afford to take our cattle with us바카라�we left with the clothes on our backs. My brother came to take us바카라�hum dar ke maarey yahan sey nikaley hain. (We left in terror.바카라�)

Here, the arc of the story shifts again. In Ferozepur, farther south along the border, the anxiety of conflict is atop another layer of erosion바카라�of opportunity, infrastructure, and hope. If Amritsar pulses with cross-border trade and Tarn Taran strains under absence, Ferozepur drags under neglect. War is not always at the gates here, but poverty is.

As a result, in Ferozepur바카라�s border villages like Hazara and Yaarawala, the fear is different바카라�it바카라�s not just about conflict but about being forgotten.

In Yaarawala, residents recall nights of relentless, warlike sounds echoing from across the border and flying objects zooming overhead. 바카라�Children quivered with fear,바카라� says Rajkumar, describing how the entire village sat through blackout-imposed nights, gripped by dread. When the noise didn바카라�t stop for two or three nights, people packed up and left. The images on TV바카라�of bombings and escalating military movement바카라�only deepened the sense of urgency.

In nearby Hazara, home to around 700 voters, memory carries its own weight. During the 1971 war, residents say Pakistani forces entered and took over homes and belongings바카라�only to be pushed back later. The older generation hasn바카라�t forgotten. 바카라�The moment we hear tanks, bombs or gunfire, our minds go back to that time, which our ancestors had described to us,바카라� says the elderly Hardev Singh, who runs a repair shop here and lives across the single bridge connecting the village to the rest of Punjab. 바카라�If something happens, people here know they바카라�ll have to leave.바카라�

This bridge is their only lifeline. If it were to be damaged, they바카라�d be trapped. That fear pushed many to flee again this time바카라�just in case. 바카라�The whole village emptied out,바카라� says Bitta, the sarpanch. 바카라�Civil and police officials and the Army and BSF made the rounds and didn바카라�t ask us to leave. Still, old memories passed over generations pushed people to go.바카라�

Bitta, though, acknowledges that this time wasn바카라�t as bad. 바카라�Yes, there was tension. But it didn바카라�t escalate. The farmers바카라� gates have reopened. Though it바카라�s too late now바카라�the chaff has rotted on many fields, and many people will have to buy fodder.바카라�

The villagers know they live in a place few choose to see. 바카라�We are grateful for the wheat we receive from the government, for the electricity we get,바카라� says Jinder, a local farmer, 바카라�because we see the conditions across the border바카라�it바카라�s much worse. Prices are sky high.바카라�

But this gratitude exists alongside deep disillusionment. 바카라�The media?바카라� says Bitta, waving his hand. 바카라�There바카라�s no point talking to them.바카라� For a while, the press was requested not to cross the bridge into this area because their reports spread panic.

Others point to problems that go far beyond conflict. 바카라�This is a backward area,바카라� Jinder says, flatly. 바카라�No one notices. For six months of the year, we are forced to leave anyway바카라�because the land floods. And now the government has control of our land; we바카라�re just occupants, even though our forefathers settled here from across the border.바카라�

The flood water stands for weeks, halting any farming. That바카라�s why there바카라�s such intense poverty here. Even MGNREGA doesn바카라�t run properly바카라�nothing does.

Back in the Khasa area of Amritsar city, where military installations dot the landscape, people recall how the blackouts cast a surreal glow on the nights. For three nights, from around 5 a.m. onwards, the sky remained fully lit for a few minutes바카라�even without electricity바카라�as drones appeared in the sky, then were shot down. Residents followed instructions to stay indoors, their fear thick and silent.

Gurinder Kaur and her three sons ate and slept in their parked car during two of those nights, wary of what they couldn바카라�t see바카라�or predict. 바카라�Hamley ka pata thodi chalta hai,바카라� she says. You never know when an attack might come. They바카라�d never seen a drone before, but one night, they watched it loop overhead바카라�red lights blinking바카라�as it vanished down the road to Attari. Minutes later, the sky exploded in flashes and sound, a fury they believed was the military바카라�s response. 바카라�A light and sound show,바카라� says her son, Sonu, half-jokingly, though his voice is edged with unease.

New to drones, unlike their rural brethren, and also to blackouts, city-dwellers were terrified, imagining the worst바카라�but never thought they might have to leave their homes and flee. 바카라�It never crossed our minds to leave바카라�where would we go?바카라� says Sonu. Rural folk were more circumspect바카라�about having to move, as well as returning, eventually.

But amid such nights of tension, there바카라�s a long-term fatigue for all. 바카라�What we really need is a better education system,바카라� Gurinder finally says. 바카라�This government one... it바카라�s not working.바카라� The lights they live by now aren바카라�t just from towers바카라�they flicker from a future that feels uncertain and dim.

For those who live in Punjab바카라�s border belt, home is both sacred and uncertain바카라�indistinguishable from movement. It is the field fenced in by wires, the lanes paved by collective will, the cots and utensils dragged to safety in the dead of the night. It is where they long to stay rooted, even as they are forced, time and again, to leave it behind. Home here is defined by return, not permanence, by rebuilding and restocking, not accumulating. Near the international border, what holds people together is not just land or livelihood바카라�but a deeper sense of belonging that assures them they will always find their way back.

This article is part of Outlook Magazine's June 11, 2025 issue, 'Living on the Edge', which explores India바카라�s fragile borderlands and the human cost of conflict. It appeared in print as 'Lines Drawn In Blood.'