In anticipation of the fast-approaching harsh winter, a devastating fire reduced around 80 homes in Mulwarwan to ashes. Syed Shadab Ali Gillani visited the remote Warwan Valley hamlet, where isolation and harsh conditions now compound the residents’ overwhelming loss.
Despair, anxiety, and grief have cast a heavy shadow over Mulwarwan hamlet. A devastating fire reduced around 80 houses to ashes in the small village nestled in Warwan Valley, forcing dozens of families to flee with nothing but the clothes on their backs, all while winter looms ominously on the horizon. The village, a remote settlement located six hours from Kokernag, is home to about 1200 people.
The fire, according to residents, ignited when the battery of a solar panel in one of the houses exploded, sending flames racing through the tightly packed dwellings. Now, only smoke, ash, and the smouldering remnants of lives disrupted remain where homes once stood. The village lacks grid connectivity and survives with solar lighting and kerosene lamps.
Ashes of Despair
On October 14, the day disaster struck, villagers were engrossed in their daily routines – some preparing for the harsh winter ahead, when the inferno broke out at 1:30 pm. Panic spread quickly as the fire swallowed one house after another. Now, in the cold light of day, the villagers pick through the charred debris, searching for anything that might have survived the flames—perhaps a pot, a family heirloom, or a scrap of cloth. But hope is a fragile thing here, with the encroaching winter threatening to make recovery an impossible dream. With no electricity, Mulwarwan relies on solar panels, but now even that faint lifeline seems fraught with danger.
The village was engulfed in flames within two hours. The homes, most of them fragile structures made of mud and wood, stood no chance. Entire families watched helplessly as not only their homes but also the crops, grass, and winter supplies they had painstakingly gathered fed the hungry blaze.
The old locality, where most houses were built with timber, bore the brunt of the destruction. Yet a handful of newly constructed concrete homes managed to halt the fire’s advance, containing the devastation to the older part of the village—at least until the fire brigade arrived. But even these small mercies felt hollow. By the time the fire brigade, dispatched from Kokernag over 100 kilometres away, finally reached the village, it was already too late. The flames had done their cruel work, and Mulwarwan was left in ruins, a ghostly reminder of what had once been a community.
As one walks through the ruins of the village, a flood of emotions surges with every step, the wind carrying the bitter ash of what once was. The scene is haunting—like the remnants of an ancient civilisation, felled by an untold catastrophe. The acrid smell of burnt rice and crops, carefully stored by villagers for the unforgiving winter ahead, lingers in the air. Among the rubble lie molten copper utensils, once cherished, now twisted by fire—a mother’s dowry for her daughter’s wedding, now nothing but a painful reminder of loss.
Reflecting on the day of the fire, a woman, her face etched with sorrow, recalls how her daughter collapsed in shock as the flames consumed everything they owned. “We lost everything. Not a single thing remains, not even a needle. We could not save anything.” Her voice trembled with the weight of her grief, years of careful saving and preparation for her daughter’s wedding now reduced to ashes. “We were in pain then, and we still are. What will we do? What can we do? My husband is old, and no one came to help us. Everything is gone. Where will we sit? Where will we live?”
The Mourning of Ashes and Wind
Now huddled with her family in a temporary tent, her despair is palpable. “My children are labourers. We have no support, nothing. Our belongings lie there, destroyed. We could not save a single thing. If the government helps us, maybe our problems will be solved. I had collected so many things for my daughter’s marriage, and they all burned. The fire took everything—our hopes, our support.”
She pauses, wiping away tears before speaking again, her plea simple yet heavy with desperation. “We do not want anything else, but if a member from each family here gets a job from the government, our problems will be solved. We can live in tents, but we need some kind of help.” Her words hang in the air, like a quiet prayer for mercy in a place where hope seems as fragile as the charred remains surrounding them.
Mulwarwan, the heart of the region, is believed to be the oldest settlement of the ‘little Kashmir’. A sense of history permeates its landscape, where the valley is split by a river, with villages clinging to its banks as if they too are rooted in a centuries-old tradition. On the river’s right bank, one finds Mulwarwan, Inshan, Mungil, Afti, Margi, Gumber, and Rikinwas. Across the water, Branyan, Chodraraman, Basminah, and Sukhnai lie in a quieter expanse, each settlement echoing the rhythms of the land.
Rebuilding
Omar Abdullah made his visit – the first day out after taking over as the Chief Minister, to the area by helicopter to offer solace to a community left shattered by fire.
“We are here to help you rebuild,” he told the residents, standing amid the ruins. His words, though reassuring, were measured, acknowledging the depth of the loss. “The district administration has given initial relief, and I have directed further support.”
Abdullah announced that the government would seek additional aid from the Prime Minister’s Relief Fund, ensuring that families would receive the assistance they so desperately needed. Housing support, he promised, would come through the Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana, a scheme aimed at rebuilding BPL homes and restoring some sense of normalcy.
In a bid to prevent future disasters, Abdullah pledged the establishment of two new fire service stations in Warwan and Marwa. This, alongside the construction of a proper road to the villages, was seen as a crucial step not only towards improving access but also reducing the risk of fires that so often ravage these isolated communities.
“Our focus is on immediate relief and long-term solutions to prevent such tragedies,” Omar said, his voice carrying both the weight of responsibility and the urgency of the moment. His words offered a glimmer of hope to a people who have long endured the harsh realities of life on the margins, cut off from the world and left vulnerable to forces beyond their control.
Survival in the Cold Mountains
The twin valleys of Madwa and Wadwan, cradled in the mountains between Kashmir and the Chenab Valley, remain largely isolated from the rest of the world. Cut off for six months each winter, these villages endure long stretches of solitude, punctuated only by the harshness of the elements. Fires are a constant threat here, especially during the chill of autumn and the biting cold of winter. The geography itself seems to conspire against these communities, with access to the outside world always precarious.
The Marwa-Warwan-Margan Top-Matigawran Road, a lifeline stretching 100 kilometres, was opened in 2007, providing a tenuous connection to Kokernag in South Kashmir’s Anantnag district. While this road links the valleys to the broader world, it remains their only link to the outside, threading its way through a landscape that is as unforgiving as it is breathtaking. Though the valleys are administratively part of the Kishtwar district, their lifeblood flows more easily towards Kashmir.
The journey from Kokernag begins gently enough, with good roads easing travellers into the mountains. But after Larnoo, the terrain shifts dramatically. The hilly, dusty stretch becomes rough and unforgiving. Climbing higher, the road ascends to 13,000 feet above sea level, with the leg up to Margan Top proving especially daunting.
As Margan fades into the distance, the rugged landscape unexpectedly yields to tranquillity. The road unwinds smoothly for 25 kilometres, a brief respite. Though merely six hours, the journey from Kokernag to Warwan feels endless, intensified by the suffocating isolation.
Despite the existence of the road, it is far from a year-round lifeline. For at least six months during winter, it remains closed, cutting off around 40,000 residents from the outside world. The twin valley comprising 40 villages, is left isolated from Kishtwar’s district headquarters, their connection to vital resources severed. In these times, villagers often have no choice but to trek 60 kilometres over harsh and unforgiving terrain to reach Dachan in Kishtwar, a journey that underscores their isolation.
The recent fire has been one of the most devastating in memory, but it is not without precedent. Fires have plagued these valleys for years, each incident compounding the fragility of life here. In 2014, a fire ravaged the village of Sukhnai, marking the fifth major fire in just 15 years—a brutal reminder of how precarious survival is in these remote regions.
Tested by Fire
In the aftermath of the fire, a woman recounted how her family managed to salvage only a single trunk containing their important documents. “Everything else went up in flames,” she said, her voice heavy with disbelief. Pointing towards the charred debris where her home once stood, she added, “We lost everything. Look at this—this was our house, our belongings, and now it is all junk.” She gestured to the rubble; her bitterness palpable. “I do not even know if a rag picker would take this.”
She explained how, when the fire broke out, the men were away, leaving the women to confront the disaster. “We screamed until our throats were raw, but no one heard us. We injured our feet because we could not even save a pair of slippers for ourselves or our children. The copper vessels, the big gas stoves we had, it is all kabad now,” she said, using the local word for scrap.
Abdul Raheem Wani, reflecting on the day, spoke of the unease that had plagued him even before the fire started. “When I heard about the fire, my first thought was, ‘It is my house burning,’ because I had not slept for four days, feeling restless. My uncle got burn injuries, and my children and wife were screaming. Everything we had was gone in a moment,” he recalled, his voice breaking under the weight of the memory.
Raheem’s family narrowly escaped the fire, fleeing through the rear window of their home. “My son told me the flames had blocked the main door and the front windows. The back door was our only way out,” he said, still shaken by the thought of what could have happened.
An elderly man, in his late eighties, stood among the ruins of what was once a village. “By the will of God, the fire came upon us,” he said, his voice low and resigned. “We still do not know what caused it, but our village, home to nearly 250 hearths, was devastated.” His gaze lingered on the remains of the mosque, once the spiritual heart of the community. “It may not seem like many people lived here, but we were a close-knit community. Even our sacred mosque was consumed by the flames.” He paused, a sadness settling into his words. “I cannot help but feel this is a test from Allah, a consequence of our sins.”
The Unthinkable
The raw grief, the disbelief, and the quiet faith of these voices echo across the ruins, capturing not just the loss of homes, but the destruction of a way of life.
“While our lives were spared, everything else was taken from us—our homes, our wealth, and the possessions we had spent years collecting. In a moment, it was all reduced to ash,” one man said, his voice steady yet filled with grief. “We have little water, and electricity is something we barely know. Thanks to Mufti Sahab, who gave us solar panels, we had some relief, but now even those are gone.”
He paused, his gaze distant, before adding, “For months, our village has been buried under five to six feet of snow, cutting us off from the rest of the valley for about eight months every year. We had spent months preparing, and gathering supplies for the long winter ahead, but now everything is gone. Everything we worked for has been destroyed.”
An elderly man, visibly shaken, recounted the moment the flames consumed their homes. “I was offering my salah when the fire struck. We heard people screaming, and shouting for help, but there was nothing we could do. We could not save anything—not even the Quran. That is my only regret, that I could not save the holy book.” His voice faltered as he spoke of the loss, the weight of it pressing upon him.
The man, clearly overwhelmed, continued, “It happened during the day, but we had no idea how severe it was until it was too late. There was no water, nothing to fight the fire with, and the women were fainting from the shock. We had no water even to revive them. We lost everything.”
Another villager, a teacher, had stepped in to help, especially the women. “We have nowhere left to live, nowhere to go. This place is so remote that even the fire trucks struggled to get there. It was as if the fire was punishing us,” the old man, who had suffered burns, said, his voice tinged with both sorrow and acceptance.
The valley, where time seems to have stood still for a century, continues to live without basic amenities—electricity, hospitals, mobile networks, and fire services, all taken for granted elsewhere. “This place is not easily accessible,” he said, “and now we are left with nothing.”
End Tail
The visit of Omar Abdullah has stirred cautious optimism among the residents. “Maybe this time, the government will finally pay attention to us, finally do something to address these issues,” the man said, as the enormity of what they had lost—and the uncertain future—hung in the air.
Taking note of the area’s isolation, Omar Abdullah told Kashmir Life that he would raise the issue with major telecom companies upon his return. “You, as journalists, would not be able to send your stories from here—you will have to reach home first and then share them. This area is cut off from the outside world,” he said.
