My phone lit up at 7 AM, eyes heavy with sleep as I squint at the screen, notifications piling up. First, a school alert flashes ‘closed,’ then a higher education notice from Punjab’s government, dated May 7, 2025, declares all colleges and universities shut today, exams postponed, no reason given. My gut twists. I hit Google news, and its chaos: missiles hit Muzaffarabad last night, and tabs scream Muridke, safety, escape. If you’re in Pakistan, your morning’s probably dragging like a power-cut afternoon.

This isn’t just news. It’s the 77-year-old India-Pakistan feud flaring up, and we’re the ones left reeling. Not the politicians shouting on TV, not the analysts dissecting it in Delhi or Islamabad, but us — the ones wondering if the kids can go to school, if the shop can open, if life can just hold steady for a day. This fight isn’t ours, but we’re the ones choking on its smoke.

India launched what they’re calling ‘Operation Sindoor,’ striking nine sites across Pakistan and Pakistan-administered Kashmir. They claim it hit ‘terrorist camps’ linked to Jaish-e-Mohammed, retaliating for the April 22 Pahalgam attack that killed 26 tourists, while Pakistan calls it a ‘cowardly attack’ on civilians — targeting the Subhan Allah mosque-seminary in Muzaffarabad and a complex in Muridke, near Lahore. At least 31 are dead, 57 injured, some kids barely old enough to read, per Pakistan’s count. Shelling raged along the Line of Control overnight, with rumors swirling that five Indian jets were shot down, three crashing on their side, though India remains silent. Lahore and Sialkot airports shut till noon, flights grounded, and the tension’s thick enough to choke on. X is a desi rumor bazaar — some say Pakistan stopped a missile near Amritsar, others swear drones buzzed Lahore. With both sides spinning tales, who’s feeding the fear?

This is the same old story, just with new scars. Something sparks it — a terrorist attack, a border clash — and suddenly it’s all-out noise. TV anchors crank up the volume, X turns into a shouting match, and hashtags like #StandStrong drown out everything else. Nobody’s posting about the family in Bahawalpur sifting through rubble or the kid in Poonch too scared to close his eyes. India says it’s about security. Pakistan says it’s about dignity. Both claim it’s for “us.” But we’re not the ones making the calls — we’re the ones ducking the consequences. The soldiers dying out there, most of them come from villages, signing up because the army’s their only way out of a life with no prospects. The civilians caught in the middle, their only mistake was being born near a line some British guy scratched on a map in 1947. Their stories don’t make the evening news. They’re just names on a ticker, if that.

Look at who’s keeping this fire burning, and it’s painfully clear. In India, a spicy Pakistan-bashing headline can sweep away their bad news — unemployment, air you can’t breathe, take your pick. Operation Sindoor, with elections coming up, feels more like a vote-grabber than a battle plan. Arms dealers are grinning, selling missiles to both sides while our schools run on fumes and our hospitals turn folks away. War’s a cash cow, and it’s grazing fat. Peace? That’s a harder pitch when the big shots are raking it in.

They’ve been wiring us for this since we were kids. Our textbooks make India sound like a monster waiting to pounce; theirs paint us as a terrorist factory. By the time we’re old enough to question it, it’s in our blood. Pakistani dramas can’t resist an Indian villain; Bollywood’s bad guys started talking like us in the ‘90s. Even cricket, the one thing that should glue us together, gets twisted. A six in the Asia Cup isn’t just a shot — it’s “revenge.” But zoom out, and it’s almost funny. The roti in Lahore could be straight from Amritsar. The qawwali in Multan could play in Delhi and no one’d blink. The Urdu shayari that makes you ache in Karachi? It’s breaking hearts in Lucknow too. We’re not just neighbors — we’re practically twins, split by a border younger than our nanis. But they’ve taught us to see strangers. It’s easier to hate when you don’t see your own reflection.

Every time peace gets a heartbeat, someone pulls the plug. In 2005, after the Kashmir earthquake, folks were helping each other across the Line of Control till the suits shut it down. The Samjhauta Express, that lonely train between Lahore and Delhi, barely chugs along because getting a visa’s like winning a lottery you didn’t enter. X accounts trying to talk sense get drowned out by trolls; YouTube channels building bridges get buried by algorithms. And now climate’s coming, and it doesn’t care about our flags. The Indus isn’t picking teams. Glaciers are melting, rivers are drying, and we’re still fighting over who gets to die of thirst first. If we could share water in 1960, we can do it now. But that’d take leaders who care more about us than their next vote.

Every time peace gets a chance, someone snuffs it out. In 2005, after the Kashmir earthquake, people were helping each other across the Line of Control until the paperwork caught up. The Samjhauta Express, that lonely train between Lahore and Delhi, barely runs because getting a visa’s like winning a lottery you didn’t enter. X accounts trying to talk sense get trolled into silence; YouTube channels building bridges get buried by algorithms. And now climate’s coming for us, and it doesn’t care about borders. The Indus isn’t picking teams. Glaciers are melting, rivers are shrinking, and we’re still arguing over who gets to die of thirst first. If we could share water in 1960, we can do it now. But that’d take leaders who care more about us than their next speech.

This fight’s not about you or me. It’s about keeping the powerful comfy. The politicians who need a distraction from broken promises, the arms dealers who need a market. Meanwhile, our kids are dropping out, our air’s poison, and our graduates are selling mangoes on the street. The real enemy’s not across the border — it’s the system here, eating us alive.

We’re not stuck. We can push back. Skip the news that’s too loud, the posts that smell like propaganda. Share the stories that don’t make the 9 PM slot — the Kashmiri artisan selling shawls to both sides, the poet whose words don’t stop at Wagah. Back the small traders dodging the bans. When your cousin starts with “We need to crush them,” ask: “Who’s ‘them’? And who’s crushing us?” History’s got proof we’re not doomed. The 1972 Shimla Agreement showed we can talk without shooting. The ‘80s cricket matches had us cheering in each other’s stands. The early 2000s, when Indian films packed our cinemas and our singers rocked their cities, showed we’re hungry for normal. These aren’t fairy tales — they happened.

So today, when you’re scrolling X or flipping channels, don’t buy the war drums. Lift up the voices talking sense — the weavers, the poets, the ones saying we’re bigger than this fight. This conflict’s been burning for 77 years, and it’s not our fire. The big shots lit it, and they’re keeping it alive. Let’s starve it. Not with songs or hashtags, but with the stubborn truth: we’re in this together, and we’re the only ones who can rewrite the ending.