On the evening of May 6, India went to bed. In the morning, we are in war.

When I woke up at 4:30 a.m. Wednesday to use the bathroom, the light from my phone screen attracted my sleepy eyes. I was still asleep and I picked it up - just after the title screamed the same unthinkable message, the headlines shook the headlines: India launched a series of strikes against Pakistan, targeting "terrorist strongholds."

My husband is preparing to catch the 7 o'clock flight from New Delhi to Jaipur. My phone beeps again. Some flight routes have been cancelled and some airports in northern India may be closed. It is unclear whether this is a preventive measure or is expected to retaliate against Pakistan through air. We think it's too risky. He can drive.

I had overturned my nights for an hour and a half before the world woke up, and I was trapped in the bondage of emotions - fear, anxiety, deep uneasiness and, most importantly, helplessness. I've been refreshing this message, hoping for a little more clarity, which may make things less surreal.

Of course, like all other Indians, I know the catalyst for the offensive: the recent terrorist attack in Pahalgam - it was a truly terrible act in which 26 unarmed Indian tourists were killed. India blames Pakistan's militants for the attack, an allegation that Pakistan denies. In the days that followed, India took a series of powerful measures: suspending the Indian Water Treaty, expelling Pakistani nationals and cutting trade relations. Pakistan fired the Indians too, closed the airspace and suspended the Simla agreement.

There are also consequences at home. Just as the tensions between India and Pakistan, Indian Muslims and Kashmiris were the first to take the brunt. Some people lift their jobs, others give up their accommodation. Some were attacked, others were branded as "terrorists". Amid the noise and anger, Himanshi Narwal (the legacy of the man killed in Pahalgam) makes an admirable appeal to the peace of hatred, urging people not to target Muslims or Kashmiris. Ironically, she encountered a lot of abuse and trolling.

In the following days and weeks, the Indian government continued to commit military retaliation. Still, many of us don't completely believe it. Both countries are nuclear weapons and India is bound between Pakistan and its ally China. A political posturing can be expected, but surely, when it comes to downgrading it will be the preferred option.

As the sun began to rise, the WhatsApp group became active. It was a day's victory, chest thump, meme stirring and flag waves. One group is expected to debate the astrological possibilities of a mature war, while another quickly teems with gentle Islamic rhetoric, comparing aerial strikes to Diwali. There is no debate on the cost of war for humanity, nor the terrible possibility of debate on nuclear conflict.

The continuous euphoria is confusing. On our side, at least 15 civilians were killed in cross-border shells following air strikes. Countless others were horrified overnight, praying that they might live to watch the sunrise. However, in all the violence, the local population of Kashmir remained invisible and was once again trapped in the firefight.

When the world around me seemed to be intoxicated at this moment, I felt quiet, lasting pain. The pain of life disappeared, the pain of growing divisions and the values ​​of growing up and growing, and now seems to go further from our grasp. What should I say when empathy is threatened? How to protect their values ​​when freedom, democracy and diversity are distorted into split tools? Most importantly, how do we stick to our humanity during these troubled times?

How do we balance our love for our country with our sympathy for the innocent people in the middle of this conflict?

As a society, when do we allow humanity to transcend war politics and choose different paths?

I can’t help feeling very disconnected when others celebrate. Just like the emperor's new clothes, the tragedy of mankind is still invisible. The call for peace and diplomacy silences people, replaced by the cry of war - without room for ordinary citizens to express sadness, anxiety and uncertainty.

And, if I feel overwhelmed and isolated in all of these cacophony, I wonder: Of course, can't I be the only one?

In the end, I can only mourn what I have lost - both in life and values.

The views expressed in this article are the author's own views and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.