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Nestled in the mountainous terrain of Indian-administered Kashmir, the scenic village of Naranag has long drawn global travelers to its ancient archaeological sites and world-famous high-altitude trekking routes. For local residents like 45-year-old Ghulam Qadir Jagil, the summer tourist season from May to August is not just a busy period—it is the foundation of his livelihood. A grocery store owner and veteran trekking guide, Jagil once catered to dozens of international adventure seekers tackling the 70- to 75-kilometer, seven-day trail cutting through seven pristine alpine lakes, offering everything from sleeping gear to porter services. Today, his shop sits beside empty village streets, with barely enough foot traffic from limited day trips to cover basic household costs.

The collapse of Kashmir’s adventure tourism industry traces back to the 22 April 2025 militant attack on Baisaran meadow in Pahalgam, which left 26 people dead: 25 tourists and one local pony handler. The attack dramatically escalated long-simmering tensions between India and Pakistan, the two nuclear-armed neighbors that have disputed control of Kashmir since both gained independence from British colonial rule in 1947, pushing the region to the brink of full-scale war just weeks later.

In the aftermath of the violence, regional authorities imposed sweeping restrictions on all adventure and trekking activities across Kashmir’s high-altitude regions. For Jagil, the losses have already climbed to roughly $6,300 (Rs 600,000)—a devastating blow for a household that relies entirely on tourism income. He is far from alone. Local estimates place the population of Naranag and its surrounding areas at between 2,000 and 4,000 people, many from the semi-nomadic Gujjar and Bakarwal communities, with the vast majority depending on tourism-related work ranging from pony rentals to catering for trekking groups. Currently, only limited day excursions ending by 5 p.m. are permitted, leaving small business owners like Jagil unable to recoup basic expenses.

“The meager earnings from selling tea and snacks to a handful of day-trippers are nowhere near enough to feed our families,” Jagil told Middle East Eye in an interview.

The damage extends far beyond Naranag, hitting one of the region’s most critical economic sectors. According to the 2025-26 Jammu and Kashmir Economic Survey, tourism contributes nearly 7 percent of the region’s gross domestic product, supporting more than 500,000 jobs directly and indirectly across hospitality, handicrafts, transportation, local retail, and tour operations. Official visitor data underscores the scale of the collapse: Pahalgam welcomed more than 460,000 tourists in the first four months of 2025, with over 137,000 arriving in April alone in the weeks before the attack. By comparison, the same four-month period in 2026 saw just 250,000 arrivals—less than 55 percent of the previous year’s numbers.

While mainstream tourist destinations in the region have shown tentative signs of a gradual recovery, communities dependent on the short summer trekking season have been left stranded. Khursheed Ahmad Magray, a Ganderbal resident who owns a small local motel, says local tourism stakeholders including shopkeepers, pony service providers, and trekking company representatives have held multiple meetings with police, government, and civil administration officials to push for the restrictions to be lifted. Though the talks made incremental progress, they have yet to deliver any tangible relief for what Magray calls “victims of the actions of others.”

Magray described his own experience: after waiting months for authorities to ease restrictions, he purchased new inventory to prepare for returning visitors, only to learn that overnight stays would remain banned and only limited day trips would be allowed. “Now I am stuck struggling to sell the stock I bought in good faith,” he said. “This place used to be packed with adventure lovers setting up tents and staying among the Naranag woods. Today everything is deserted, with only a handful of visitors passing through.”

When Middle East Eye reached out to regional officials for comment on the impact of the restrictions, none responded prior to publication. Jatin Kishore, district magistrate of Ganderbal, confirmed to the outlet that all high-altitude trekking areas have been “declared restricted and that no activities are allowed there” as part of post-attack security measures.

Industry estimates indicate Kashmir is home to roughly 200 adventure tour operators, almost all of which rely entirely on the short summer window for trekking, camping, and other outdoor activities to generate their annual income. For many, the prolonged ban has left them completely out of business. Mohammad Adil Langoo, co-owner of Srinagar-based trekking company Cliffhangers India, says his firm’s annual turnover, which once hit nearly $207,500 (Rs 20,000,000) before the restrictions, has now dropped to zero.

“Not a single trekking location is open across the entire region—we cannot take groups through Naranag, Sonmarg, or Pahalgam, all our core routes,” Langoo explained. “Our income from trekking is entirely gone, and we have suffered catastrophic financial losses.” Some adventure seekers have shifted to neighboring Ladakh, a northern Indian Union Territory that was part of Indian-administered Kashmir until 2019, to trek to high-altitude sites like Kala Pari. But Langoo notes that Ladakh cannot replace Kashmir’s unique trekking landscape. “Not even five percent of the trekkers who used to come to Kashmir will go there instead. We still get constant inquiries for Kashmir treks, but when we offer Ladakh as an alternative, almost everyone turns it down,” he said. “Both domestic and international travelers specifically want to experience Kashmir’s unexplored wilderness—they will not settle for another destination.”

For adventure tourism workers and enthusiasts alike, the restrictions have come at a personal as well as economic cost. Musadiq Rafiq Wani, a Srinagar-based trek leader and adventure tourism professional who left a conventional office job to work in the mountains, says the prolonged ban has stripped adventure lovers of their connection to the region’s natural spaces. Wani acknowledges that temporary restrictions were understandable after the attack, noting that over-tourism had already placed growing pressure on Kashmir’s fragile alpine ecosystems. But he argues the open-ended ban is unnecessary, pointing out that large-scale religious pilgrimage tourism has been allowed to continue while trekking routes remain closed.

“We completely condemn terrorism and violence, and we understand that security has to be a top priority,” Wani said. “But permanent restrictions should not mean people lose their access and connection to the mountains that define this region. If someone asks me to go trekking now, I always carry the fear that we will face penalties or be turned away. That fear alone takes away all the joy and freedom that trekking once gave us. It feels like a choking of that freedom.”

Last month, catastrophic flash floods tore through the Nepal-China border, leaving a trail of widespread destruction and an unprecedented humanitarian crisis that continues to upend the lives of thousands of survivors. With more than 5,000 people still unaccounted for after the waters receded, families across the hardest-hit districts are confronting a dual burden: crippling grief over lost loved ones and a suffocating legal and administrative quagmire rooted in Nepal’s outdated civil code.

At Pashupatinath Temple, situated along the banks of Kathmandu’s Bagmati River, grieving relatives have gathered to perform traditional symbolic funerals for their missing loved ones. In accordance with Hindu custom, when a body cannot be recovered, families craft effigies from sacred kusha grass to represent the deceased, allowing them to carry out the necessary last rites that bring a modicum of closure. For Madan Lal Lawat, who lost five relatives—including his brother Mangal, who died warning villagers to evacuate—this ritual is the only opportunity he has to honor his family’s memory, after rescue operations were officially wrapped up.

Lawat survived the disaster because he was driving his bus outside his home village of Betrawati, one of the communities hit hardest by the flood. Footage from the immediate aftermath shows that the raging waters swallowed most of Betrawati in mere minutes, leaving behind nothing but hardened mud and silt. The village’s bustling market was erased, the local school was reduced to rubble, homes were swept away, and even heavy vehicles like school buses were tossed aside like toys. Today, Lawat has no doubt that his five missing relatives are dead, but under Nepal’s current law, that certainty counts for nothing.

Nepal’s Civil Code requires that a person must be missing for 12 years before they can be legally presumed dead. While Section 40 of the code outlines limited exceptions for specific circumstances, it makes no provision for large-scale disasters like last month’s flood. Without a legal declaration of death and an official death certificate, families cannot access the government’s flood compensation funds, transfer property, or settle inheritance claims. Under the current compensation scheme, eligible families can receive up to 25,000 Nepali rupees ($162) for funeral costs, plus 200,000 rupees ($1,302) for the first deceased family member and 100,000 rupees ($651) for each additional loss—none of which can be accessed without the required documentation.

When Lawat attempted to obtain a death certificate for his relatives last week, local municipal officials turned him away, telling him the issue was still under discussion. “There’s so much uncertainty,” Lawat told reporters. “I don’t know how to start over. Police say they’re still searching, but I’m not sure they’ll ever find the bodies.”

Constitutional law expert Bipin Adhikari argues that the current legislation is poorly suited to the reality of 21st-century disasters. The 12-year waiting period, he explains, was originally designed for people who disappeared after traveling abroad and left no trace of their whereabouts. “But technology has advanced now, it isn’t as difficult to send or receive information,” Adhikari notes, adding that “in view of the current disaster, the law is outdated.”

Even for victims whose bodies have been recovered, the process of identification is slow and fraught with challenges. So far, more than 1,400 bodies have been recovered, but Nepal lacks the infrastructure and experience to process DNA identification at this scale. Authorities have adopted the workaround of collecting DNA samples before burying bodies in marked plots, so they can be reclaimed by families if a match is eventually made.

Across the affected region, local officials have echoed the frustration of grieving families. Bidur Municipality, which encompasses Betrawati and has seen more than 3,000 buildings damaged or destroyed—more than any other municipality in the country—has called on the federal government to immediately revise the law. Bidur Mayor Rajan Shrestha says that under current rules, families could be forced to wait a full 12 years before accessing the compensation they are entitled to, leaving all efforts to rebuild “on hold.” Local officials say they are bound by existing legal boundaries to avoid future legal liabilities, even as they acknowledge the overwhelming emotional pain being inflicted on families.

Nepal’s government has acknowledged the scale of the problem, telling the BBC that it is aware of the difficulties created by the existing law in exceptional disaster circumstances, and that it stands ready to amend the legislation if necessary. But for thousands of families already grappling with loss, the wait for a solution is already taking an unbearable toll.

The economic scale of the disaster is staggering. The latest government assessment puts the number of damaged or destroyed private residential buildings at 7,570, displacing nearly 33,000 people. Total damage to personal property alone is estimated at $165 million, averaging roughly $20,000 per affected household. When accounting for destroyed public infrastructure—including schools, hospitals, roads, bridges, hydropower projects, and water treatment facilities—the total reconstruction bill could reach as high as $4.8 billion. Speaking at the UN General Assembly, Prime Minister Balen Shah noted that this sum amounts to more than 10% of Nepal’s total gross domestic product, an enormous burden for one of South Asia’s smallest and poorest economies.

Notably, Nepal is one of the lowest contributors to global greenhouse gas emissions, yet it ranks among the countries most vulnerable to the impacts of climate change, which are driving increasingly frequent and severe extreme weather events. Shah told world leaders that Nepal cannot be expected to shoulder this recovery alone via new debt: “When a climate-driven disaster destroys infrastructure of a poor country, the answer cannot simply be another mega-loan or a patchwork of small grants.” He called instead for substantial international grant-based support to fund the reconstruction effort.

For many survivors like Tisum Ghale, this disaster marks the second time in less than a decade that they have lost everything. Ghale and his family lost their home in the devastating 2015 Nepal earthquake, spent months displaced, and eventually rebuilt their lives in Betrawati. Last month’s flood killed 19 of his relatives, including five of his sisters, and left him homeless once again. Ghale was working on a construction project outside the village when the flood hit, and today he cares for eight orphaned children left behind by his dead sisters. So far, he has received no compensation, and like Lawat, he plans to hold a symbolic funeral with kusha grass effigies while he waits for the law to catch up to the tragedy that has unfolded.

“I have lost everything,” Ghale says. Like thousands of other families across northern Nepal, he just hopes the government will act quickly to change the law, so he can finally get the support he needs to begin rebuilding after a lifetime of loss.

On a pre-dawn Tuesday in the al-Tur neighborhood of occupied East Jerusalem, one kilometer east of Jerusalem’s Old City on the Mount of Olives, a five-story residential building owned by Palestinian families was completely razed to the ground. The operation, personally overseen by hardline Israeli National Security Minister Itamar Ben Gvir, left approximately 70 people – most of them women and children – without shelter, just weeks ahead of Israel’s upcoming national elections.

Residents told reporters they were taken completely by surprise when Israeli bulldozers and armed forces encircled the building at 3 a.m. Heavily armed soldiers stormed individual apartments without warning, breaking down doors and forcibly evicting all residents while barring them from returning to retrieve personal possessions. Fayez Khalfawi, a longtime resident of the building, described the chaotic, terrifying scene to Middle East Eye: sleeping women and children were jolted awake by the raid, with some women fleeing into the streets disoriented and without their head coverings, while young children screamed and cried uncontrollably throughout the forced evacuation. By the end of the operation, the entire structure had been flattened, and all belongings inside the 10 apartments were destroyed. Displaced residents now sift through the rubble in a desperate search for any salvageable clothing or personal items.

Shortly after participating in the operation – which included climbing into a bulldozer to film a campaign-style video at the site – Ben Gvir posted a message to his X account celebrating the demolition. “The bulldozers of governance never rest for a moment,” he wrote. “This morning in the al-Tur neighborhood of East Jerusalem! That’s the only way it works.” The minister added that he had attended the site personally to verify that his policy was being implemented on the ground, and claimed that over the past 18 months, Israeli authorities have demolished 10,000 “illegal structures” and reclaimed an area of land equal to the combined size of Tel Aviv and Givatayim.

The demolition marks the end of a 15-year legal battle for the displaced families. The first demolition order was issued back in 2011, on the grounds that the building was constructed without the required Israeli permits. Human rights and policy analysts have long documented that Israeli governing authorities in East Jerusalem make it nearly impossible for Palestinian residents to obtain legal building permits, a pattern that leaves thousands of Palestinian families at constant risk of displacement. Despite submitting permit applications more than four times over the years and challenging the demolition order in Israeli courts, the families’ appeals were rejected. In addition to facing denial of permits, the families were also forced to pay tens of thousands of dollars annually in fines, penalties and property taxes over the course of the dispute, receiving only a final 24-hour eviction notice on Monday, one day before the demolition.

The Palestinian Authority’s Jerusalem Governorate issued a sharp condemnation of the demolition and Ben Gvir’s personal involvement, framing the action as “official incitement” against Palestinian residents and cynical election campaigning conducted at the expense of basic Palestinian human rights. The Governorate argued that the home demolition is part of a broader, systematic policy of forced displacement designed to alter the demographic and urban character of occupied East Jerusalem. Israel’s 1967 occupation and subsequent unilateral annexation of East Jerusalem has never received recognition under international law, and the Fourth Geneva Convention explicitly prohibits occupying powers from implementing permanent changes to occupied territory unless such changes are required for explicit military necessity or for the benefit of the local civilian population.

This demolition comes amid a dramatic escalation in the rate of Palestinian home demolitions across Jerusalem. Data from the Jerusalem Governorate shows that Israeli authorities carried out 427 demolitions in the city between January and the end of September this year. A recent report from the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (Ocha) released last month added broader context: between September 15 and 21 alone, Israeli authorities demolished 86 Palestinian-owned structures across the West Bank, including East Jerusalem, displacing 147 Palestinians – 73 of them children – 13 of whom were displaced in East Jerusalem.

Amjad Shihab, a political science professor at Al-Quds University, explained that the escalating demolition campaign reflects a shrinking set of constraints on Israeli policy toward Palestinians in East Jerusalem. “The situation marks the start of a period in which Palestinians face increasingly few ‘red lines’,” Shihab said. He described the demolitions and tight building restrictions as an organized displacement campaign, noting that more than 70 percent of Palestinian residents of Jerusalem live below the poverty line. High taxes, strict construction bans, and ongoing Israeli settlement expansion have combined to make daily life unsustainable for many Palestinian families. “Any attempt to build without a permit results in immediate demolition,” Shihab explained. “There is insufficient work, life is unstable, prospects are bleak, and the land is being eroded by settlement projects.” The ultimate message to Palestinian residents, he added, is unambiguous: “You have no future here, so leave.”

Three full years into the ongoing conflict in Gaza, thousands of Palestinian families are trapped in an agonizing limbo, still searching for any trace of loved ones who have vanished since the outbreak of hostilities. The disappearances have unfolded across every phase of the war: some went missing during Israeli ground incursions that leveled residential neighborhoods and displacement camps, others vanished while searching for life-saving humanitarian aid, checking on damaged family homes, or traveling near the heavily militarized Yellow Line. For these grieving families, the lack of any definitive answer has left them suspended between fragile hope and crippling grief, unable to move forward and unsure whether to hold out for a reunion or begin mourning their losses.

Official data underscores the scale of this human crisis. The Independent Commission for Human Rights records that more than 11,000 people across Gaza remain unaccounted for. This staggering number includes both those believed to be buried under the rubble of thousands of destroyed buildings, and those classified as suspected enforced disappearances. The Palestinian Centre for Missing and Forcibly Disappeared puts the number of enforced disappearance cases between 2,500 and 3,000, spanning from the start of the war through the ceasefire announced on 9 October 2025.

To date, the fate of these missing people remains entirely unknown. Israeli authorities have continued to withhold full lists of detainees held from the Gaza Strip, and have not provided identification for roughly 620 bodies that have been returned to Gaza. For the families left behind, this pervasive uncertainty is a daily torment: they carry the constant, unanswerable question of whether their relatives are still alive, detained by Israeli forces, buried under rubble, or among the growing number of unidentified dead.

Middle East Eye spoke with three families grappling with this three-year wait, to document their fears, their fading but persistent hope, and the heavy toll that unresolved loss has inflicted on every part of their lives.

Inside a cramped displacement tent on al-Nafaq Street in central Gaza City, 62-year-old Suhail al-Waheedi and his wife scroll through mobile phone photos of their son Nidal, a journalist who disappeared in the early hours of 7 October 2023. The photos are almost all they have left: the family’s home was destroyed in an Israeli bombing raid, and all of Nidal’s personal belongings were lost in the destruction.

“We have nothing to do but look at his pictures and wait,” Suhail told Middle East Eye. “For three years, all we have done is wait and hope for any news about our son.” Nidal had left the family home that morning with colleagues to cover developments at the Erez crossing in northern Gaza, following an attack on the Israeli checkpoint there. Just minutes after arriving at the site, all contact with Nidal was lost.

“Nidal is never far from our thoughts. We try to stay hopeful and keep waiting for some word from him,” Suhail said. But the family has grown deeply frustrated with international human rights organizations: Suhail says he reached out repeatedly to the Red Cross and other groups, but never received any information about Nidal’s fate. “None of the appeals we made to rights organisations helped us. In this war, sadly, there is no respect for human rights.”

For the al-Waheedi family, the pain extends far beyond the uncertainty itself. The loss of Nidal, who was the primary breadwinner and emotional anchor of the family, has left a gaping hole in their daily lives. “Nidal was not just our son. He was our friend, the backbone of our family and my righthand man. I miss him most now. I keep thinking about how much easier these difficult days would be if he were here,” Suhail said.

At the Palestine Stadium displacement camp in central Gaza, the Hajjaj family carries a similar burden of unresolved grief. Fifty-two-year-old Mona Hajjaj has lived in a tent since Israeli forces invaded northern Gaza, and every night before she sleeps, after taking medication for a heart condition brought on by grief, she and her two daughters sit together and share memories of Saeed, Mona’s husband, and Qasem, their son. Both men have been missing since 26 December 2023.

“My mother developed heart problems from the grief of losing my father and younger brother,” 35-year-old Nisreen Hajjaj told Middle East Eye. “Her eyesight also became weaker because she cried day and night, missing them and not knowing what had happened to them.”

The family was trapped in their home in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood of northern Gaza when Israeli forces launched their invasion on 20 December 2023. After surrounding the area and destroying nearby homes, Israeli troops raided the Hajjaj family home. All the women were forced to evacuate to southern Gaza, while Saeed and Qasem were detained.

“The last time we saw my father and brother was when they were naked, handcuffed, tortured and humiliated. Since then, we have known nothing about them – where they are or what condition they are in,” Nisreen said. Like the al-Waheedi family, the Hajjajs have contacted multiple human rights groups for help, but have received no answers.

“They are still part of our lives, but we do not know whether to mourn them or wait for them,” Nisreen said. “We have been left without the people we depended on. Sadly, support organisations do not deal with us because they are not listed as martyrs or prisoners.”

Mona Hajjaj refuses to declare the men dead without official confirmation, holding out for even the smallest glimmer of hope that they will return home. That commitment came at a steep cost: when Nisreen’s younger sister was offered a university scholarship that required a death certificate for Qasem, the family turned down the opportunity rather than accept his death.

The uncertainty has stolen future moments the family once looked forward to. When Qasem was detained, his wife was nine months pregnant, and Saeed had long been waiting to meet his first grandchild. By the time the baby was born, Saeed was gone. “What hurts us most is when his children ask: Where is our father? Why can’t we see him anymore? When will he come back?” Nisreen said.

In the al-Zahra area south of Gaza City, 48-year-old Alaa Abu Shaaban carries on the search for his younger brother Mohammad, who has been missing since 7 October 2023. Alaa regularly posts Mohammad’s photo to a WhatsApp group for families of missing Gazans, asking any members if they have seen or heard news of his brother.

Alaa recalled the day Mohammad disappeared: when Israeli airstrikes began hitting Gaza on 7 October 2023, Alaa traveled to eastern Deir al-Balah to evacuate Mohammad’s wife and children to the safer family home further from the Israeli-Gaza border. Mohammad chose to stay behind to guard their empty house. “He told me things would end soon, and there was no point leaving the house empty,” Alaa said. “We spoke that afternoon and tried to convince him to leave. He said he would leave and come. That was the last time we spoke before we lost contact with him.”

Two months after the disappearance, a relative received a text message from Mohammad’s phone: it said he was in the Kissufim area, inside Israeli territory adjacent to Deir al-Balah, and asked the family to come retrieve him. But the area was too heavily militarized and dangerous for the family to reach, and they were unable to get to him. No contact has been made since.

“For three years, we have not known what happened to my brother, how he disappeared, where he is or whether he is alive,” Alaa said. “Some released prisoners told us they had heard his name in Ofer prison. We contacted all the rights organisations, but received neither confirmation nor denial. We have lived through this painful wait all this time. We now look after his family. But his eldest son was killed while waiting for aid.”

The constant uncertainty has gravely harmed the health of Alaa’s elderly parents, who still cling to the hope that Mohammad will return. “My father and family believe Mohammad will come back one day. They hold on to that hope despite the pain. But not knowing anything about him leaves them overwhelmed with anxiety and grief,” he said.

Today, Alaa waits for every newly released detainee, pulling out Mohammad’s photo to ask if they have seen him or heard his name inside Israeli prisons. “Many nights, I fall asleep in tears because I miss my brother and the support he gave me. It also breaks my heart that his eldest son was killed and we could not protect him while his father was gone,” he said.