On Wednesday, at 1.45 am in Islamabad’s Kuri Shehar neighbourhood, I was jolted awake by a harrowing, roaring sound outside my window. Half-asleep, and given the forecast for expected rain in our area, I thought perhaps it was the sound of thunder and lightning.

But my phone, switched to silent mode at nighttime and placed on my nightstand, would not allow me to return to sleep. A constant buzzing of alerts, one alert after another, underlined the seriousness of what was unfolding. This wasn’t a storm. The bone-deep rumble that passed overhead came from Pakistani fighter planes jetting off from Nur Khan Airbase in neighbouring Rawalpindi to intercept an imminent threat.

After tuning in to our TV channels to confirm the news, a gut-wrenching feeling permeated throughout my body as my thoughts vacillated from exploring ways to survive to exacting retribution.

India had launched missiles at our urban centres in Punjab, Bahawalpur, Muridke, and others, under the cover of night. In that moment, I was wide awake, as a surge of adrenaline, fear, and disbelief took over. War wasn’t something I reported on anymore. It was at my doorstep.  

Scrambling for safety

When war arrives uninvited into your country, your mind races in all directions—what to pack, where to go, who to call. And yet, amid the survival instinct, a darker storm brews: anger. 

For days, Indian media had whipped up nationalist hysteria and jingoism following the attack in Pahalgam, which tragically resulted in the deaths of 26 civilians in Indian-administrated Kashmir. Pakistan was quick to condemn the attack and called for an independent investigation. But that wasn’t enough for India. By launching missile strikes on Pakistani soil, India made its intent clear—this was no warning shot. It was now a war declaration.

Our government had tried to avert this from happening, with its diplomatic overtures, but Foreign Minister Ishaq Dar warned that our country would respond if provoked. That promise was now being fulfilled in real time.  

From reporting war to living war

I’ve written about conflicts for years — the wars in Gaza, massacres in Myanmar, but nothing prepared me for seeing attacks on my own country. It pales in comparison to the Kargil war of 1999, when I was a lot younger, in middle school, and there was no direct attack on Pakistani soil by India.

The glaring images of a mosque being levelled in Muridke, which is close to home, felt deeply personal. So did the news of the seven-year-old, Irtiza Abbas Turi killed by an Indian missile in Azad Kashmir. I felt an irrational urge to get on the N5 motorway for a four-and-a-half-hour drive to grieve with his family, but I didn’t, given the imminent threat of another Indian missile, too real to ignore. 

These moments hit differently when they’re happening around you. I thought of Gaza's children, and for the first time, not as distant victims, but as mirrors of our own. Similarly, reports of elderly citizens being killed by Indian rockets made me feel Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s state-sponsored, anti-Pakistan, Islamophobic, and pro-Hindutva ideology on my body, mind, and soul. 

And then there was the propaganda, Indian news channels like Times Now and Republic TV paraded the attack as a victorious “anti-terrorism operation” which they have named Operation Sindoor. This in itself is a grotesque twist designed to evoke vengeance, even as real blood soaked the earth.

Sindoor is a sacred vermillion powder worn by married Hindu women on their hairline. The grieving widows whose husbands were killed in the Pahalgam attack were said to have removed their sindoors and were now being used by Indian media to rile up hate.   

I was reminded of the Gujarat riots in 2002, and the institutionalised hate that allowed them to happen. I thought of the genocide in Gaza, again, justified by a taught hate for Palestinians. The world keeps letting this happen.

We Pakistanis had to avenge India’s violation of our territory, which was stated by Director General of the Inter Services Public Relations, Ahmed Sharif Chaudhry, who denounced India’s naked aggression and vowed to avenge the blood of innocent lives lost.

Within hours, the blaring noises of more fighter jets becoming airborne outside meant that India was to be deterred at all costs and in all forms.

By sunrise, I was on television panels, making the case for Pakistan’s response. Under international law—specifically Article 51 of the UN Charter—we had the right to retaliate. And we did.

India’s aggression showed no signs of slowing. Israeli-made Harop drones—known for their long loitering time and heavy payload—hovered ominously over Rawalpindi and Lahore. In the distance, I could hear explosions as our jets intercepted and shot them down. While our forces successfully neutralised the threat, the recklessness of Modi’s strategy was unmistakable.

In Islamabad, the tension was electric, like the sky before a storm.

Exhausted and sleepless, I stepped out onto the streets at 8 am the following day. The city felt suspended in a strange stillness—shops shuttered, schools closed, and long, anxious lines snaking outside utility stores. People were stocking up on essentials: wheat, sugar, cooking oil, and fuel, anything they thought might run out if the situation worsened. The quiet urgency was everywhere. I overheard tense conversations, the ever-present fear of what might come next.

Along with palpable public anger against India, there was something else too — a unity I hadn’t seen in years. Pakistani Pashtuns, Punjabis, and Sindhis stood side by side, denouncing India’s aggression.

Living in the fog of war

As I write this, the fog of war persists, fed not only by missiles but by misinformation. Social media brims with conspiracy, while television spins narratives. And as with all conflicts, truth becomes the first casualty.

It’s strange. Writing about war has always required a degree of detachment. You process facts, verify sources, and measure your tone. But living in it? There’s no room for detachment. Everything is visceral. Everything is immediate.

War steals your sleep, sharpens your instincts, and shifts your moral compass. You stop thinking like a writer. You start thinking like a survivor.