As the helicopter ascended into the sky, my heart raced with excitement and a twinge of fear: This was my first helicopter ride. The man next to me glanced over and asked why I would choose to visit the Gurez Valley now, when it had so little to offer. “Even the locals avoid it if they can,” he said.
I didn’t have a clear answer. All I knew was that the Himalayan valley, shrouded in snow and the secrets in the far reaches of Indian-controlled Kashmir, held something important for me, and I was willing to brave the dangers of winter to discover it.
During my childhood in the north Kashmir town of Baramulla, I was surrounded by storytellers who conjured up images of snowy Himalayan lands. Later, when I first saw images of Gurez, it seemed to embody the stories I had heard and I felt compelled to visit. My chance finally came in early 2022 as the pandemic began to wane.
Hidden in the Himalayas along the ancient Silk Road, the Gurez Valley was historically part of Dardistan, the homeland of the Dard people, which stretched west into Afghanistan. When the outgoing British colonial rulers partitioned India and Pakistan in 1947, the valley was divided along the disputed border known as the Line of Control, severing its connection to its roots and placing Gurez – just barely – on the Kashmir side administered by India.
Long off-limits to both foreign tourists and most Indian citizens, the valley — a heavily militarized border with barbed-wire fences as a constant reminder of the ongoing conflict — recently opened its doors to tourists. Now, summer is in full swing. But as winter sets in, the area becomes inhospitable and isolated, with the only road in or out buried under up to 15 feet of snow.
When I landed in the central town of Dawar, my eyes were immediately drawn to the majestic pyramid-shaped peak of Habba Khatoon, standing tall behind a line of passengers waiting for a helicopter ride. I was warmly welcomed by Bashir Teroo, a cheerful man who worked as a doctor in the health department. Mr. Teroo, who later proved to be a reliable guide, gave me valuable insights into the daily struggles of the communities in Gurez.
I was stranded in Dawar for the first three days due to heavy snow. But on the fourth day I awoke to the hum of a helicopter – the signal of a sunny day. I called Mr. Teroo and asked him if he could take me to Chorwan, one of the last villages along the Line of Control. He warned of danger: Sunny days after heavy snowfall can trigger avalanches, he said. He suggested waiting until the snow subsided.
We started for Chorwan by car the next day. All the way, the snowy terrain looked amazing, with smooth, white slopes giving way to majestic granite cliffs. Empty streets stretched before us.
As we approached the village, I spotted some locals. One of them, Jaleel Ahmad, showed us around his house. Like all the houses in the village, it was built of sturdy wooden logs stacked horizontally. Here, the lower floors are often used as stables for animals, while the upper floors serve as living quarters.
As winter sets in, the villagers turn to their looms and knitting needles to create a variety of handmade items from locally produced wool. A precious handmade treasure is the pakol, a flat, folded hat that remains a beloved symbol of local identity.
At Mr. Ahmad’s house, as I sat on a raised platform in the warm kitchen, drinking traditional salt tea steeped in butter, I felt an unusual sense of belonging.
Throughout my stay, Mr. Teroo had piqued my interest with stories about Tulail, a smaller valley deep in the mountains that he said embodied the essence of Gurez. It wasn’t until the 12th day of our visit that I set out to find it.
The sun faded, casting a silvery glow on the landscape as I hired a man named Ajaz to take me there in his Tata Sumo, a large 10-seater SUV with off-road capabilities. Winding roads led me through rugged terrain unlike anything I had ever seen before: The mountains became sharper and rose above us like jagged knives. The villages I passed felt like gateways to a bygone era.
The valley of Tulail felt timeless, and as daylight faded I had no choice but to arrange an overnight stay. The next morning, a light snowfall had made everything dull and gray. I walked down the slippery road, a raging blizzard enveloped the valley as the winds whipped the powdered snow into a dense fog.
I felt a sense of awe at the resilience of those who call this harsh landscape home. Snow and isolation make even a minor emergency a potential death sentence. Fresh vegetables are a luxury between November and April, and some residents travel miles to make a phone call. Despite a new electricity project in the heart of the region, residents still rely on oil-fired generators for just six hours of electricity each day.
And still, the people of Gurez persist.
As visitors arrive and the outside world presses in, residents fear that their customs and traditional ways of life will be lost. Some see tourism as an opportunity for growth and prosperity, but others worry that the lure of financial gain will threaten the genuine warmth of communities and erode the very essence of place.
And it’s not just visitors: The arrival of Internet access in Gurez in 2018 has also had profound effects, especially on young people, offering them a wealth of information and a global perspective and changing the way they learn outside the classroom. Social media has connected them with others around the world and given them a platform to express themselves.
However, many residents are determined to preserve their rich cultural heritage, particularly their musical and poetic traditions. In Dawar, I met a group of young men who participate in a singing club, led by musician Fareed Kaloo. The band performs songs in Sina, an ancient language unique to the region.
On my last day in Gurez, I woke up with a heavy heart. I knew it would be filled with bittersweet goodbyes. My new friends kindly offered to take me to the army cafeteria for a cup of coffee. As I sipped my drink, the first rays of sunlight peeked gracefully over the horizon, illuminating the majestic white peaks of the Himalayas in the distance.
As I admired the scenery and reflected on my journey, Zahoor Ahmad Lone, a burly man with a bushy brown beard and blue eyes, came over for a chat. “People think we’re unlucky because we don’t have the luxuries of the cities,” he said. “But they don’t realize that God has blessed us with better resources.”
Mr. Lown explained that despite the harsh living conditions in Gures, people here had learned to appreciate the simple things in life. They were hard-working and self-sufficient, he said, content with their simple food and the peace of mind and good health that comes with living in such a remote place.
Later that day, when I arrived at the helipad, I learned that the helicopter was on its third flight of the day, ferrying people between Gurez and Bandipora, about 50 miles away. It would be two more trips before the crew called my name and I dashed through a razor section to board the helicopter.
As we climbed, I thought of the people I had met and the cups of tea they had shared with genuine kindness. The mountains seemed to be looking down on me, as if beckoning me to stay a little longer.
But soon we were flying over a valley surrounded by jagged peaks. The winds were strong and the helicopter rocked violently, frighteningly. Finally we emerged on the other side, the mountains bathed in a new light.
Showkat Nanda is a journalist, photographer and educator from Kashmir. You can follow his work on Instagram: @showkatnanda.
