I had gone to Kashmir for an internship with a local English daily “separatist” newspaper. I was there for two months and once I returned, everybody used to ask me about my stay. Tired of repeating the same things again and again, today I wish to speak about something else.
There is a bunch of buddies in my class who call themselves the “bhai-log”. Syed Nabeel, a kashmiri muslim is best friends with Chirag Mahlotra and Gaurav chopra (both Delhi Punjabis) as well as Abhishek Kaul, a kashmiri pandit. Not only do these people hang out together, they have also gone on a 29-day all-India road trip on their bikes.
Each year, the four go to old-Delhi areas during the month of ramzan so that Nabeel shouldn’t be alone during his Iftar. Chirag’s family is Delhi-based and they are particularly fond of Nabeel.
Once I was back from Kashmir, I joined Hindustan Times. Peerzada Ashiq, a young Kashmiri is a close friend of Ashutosh Sapru, a KP who left the valley when armed militancy began. After a tiring day at work, I have often heard Ashiq murmur “Hey Bhagwan” without really being conscious that he is referring to a “rival God”. On the other hand, when someone asks Ashu if he would like to go back to Kashmir, he too, quite unconsciously says, “inshaallah”.
These might be small, irrelevant things. But I have been watching them closely ever since I came back from Kashmir and I feel that the so-called tags we all are made to adhere when we are young are often baseless.
We have notions about Muslims just as they have notions about us. I had never imagined the concept of “Halal” could have such a logical explanation behind it. Neither did anyone ever explain the concept of Roza.
When ‘panchtantra’ was being written by Vishnu Sharma centuries ago, he must never have thought of restricting the beautiful moral stories to Hindu children. In the same way, the stories of tilism-e-hoshruba would fascinate a Hindu child as much as it would attract the attention of a Muslim kid.
I, in my post, haven’t said a word about my stay in Kashmir. Because the love that people showed me there and the affection I have developed for them is way beyond words. When hearts meet, all barriers are broken and all that remain is the feeling of being “one”. All I can say that in my 20month stay, I never NEVER missed my folks. And after the period got over, I have been pining to get back to Kashmir. This, despite the fact that all my friends, my room mates, my colleges- everybody was a Muslim. I hardly met any pundits there.
To my parents shock, I have more Muslim friends now. And though they may never understand what I feel for them, I know they have created a place for themselves in my heart just as I have done so in their hearts and their lives.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
kashmir
The hand that today holds a mug of coffee
pines to drink the nun-chai once more.
As I sit today beside the window in my room,
my feet long to walk up to the Dal’s shore.
Beyond the window, in a garden, stand the vast Gulmohours;
the summers having brought their orange flowers to full bloom.
It reminds me of the expansive chinars, with their claw-shaped leaves and huge trunks,
standing magnificently in Srinagar, just outside my room.
Sitting beside the window, on perfectly silent nights such as this,
I yearn to listen the waves of Dal and Nigeen lapping at the shores
But all I hear is the occasional sound of a vehicle passing… perhaps someone
going for a party or an office cab to pick up the night-shift employees.
I look up at the night sky, trying to spot the stars on it.
Sadly, the stars don’t shine here as bright as in the valley
where I would see the moon shining from behind the clouds
like a bride peeps from her veil shyly.
As I step out, I expect to see the Dargah standing pure and white
the mountains at its back, the Dal at its side.
Moving towards the office, I still feel the presence of the Hari parbat
looming at me, as it overlooks the entire Srinagar.
But I fail to see any of it
there is no dargah, no Hari parbat, no Dal, no Jhelum…
only a maze of flyovers and expressways
A modern city, with skyscrapers and the ever increasing slums.
While walking on the roads nowadays,
my eyes keep searching for the “masala-roti” vendors.
The orange chutney on lavasa still makes my mouth water…
but finding none of them, I settle for the aloo chat sellers.
As soon as I sit to have my dinner
my hands ready to dig into the rajma-chawal ma has prepared
She hands me a spoon so I can eat “properly”
ignorant she is, to the Kashmiri eating habits I have savored.
Out with my friends for the evenings at Khan chacha’s
I have my once-favorite chicken tikka and mutton fried in butter.
It instantly reminds me of the Tujh I had in Khayaam;
That heavenly dish, which I know is no longer available for my platter.
Often, sitting idle, I remember the talks we would have in office
the livid images are back…a smile crosses my lips and rests there
the madness of the newsroom, the fights, the leg-pulling
but I know none of it will ever be the same, over is my share.
These are just glimpses of what I feel;
mere scenes in that larger picture of nostalgia.
I wish I could be back and wish it with all my heart
but I am aware that that’s not how life goes.
Like a traveler who visits a place and promises to return back but is never able to
my heart too yearns never to leave Kashmir
yet my soul knows that there are far greater heights to scale
and I walk towards them, with a dim promise to return back simmering in me.
Whether I am able to return is what Destiny knows best
but the days I spent and the life I had here
would always remain treasured in a corner of my heart
these would be the stories I would share with my grand kids.
pines to drink the nun-chai once more.
As I sit today beside the window in my room,
my feet long to walk up to the Dal’s shore.
Beyond the window, in a garden, stand the vast Gulmohours;
the summers having brought their orange flowers to full bloom.
It reminds me of the expansive chinars, with their claw-shaped leaves and huge trunks,
standing magnificently in Srinagar, just outside my room.
Sitting beside the window, on perfectly silent nights such as this,
I yearn to listen the waves of Dal and Nigeen lapping at the shores
But all I hear is the occasional sound of a vehicle passing… perhaps someone
going for a party or an office cab to pick up the night-shift employees.
I look up at the night sky, trying to spot the stars on it.
Sadly, the stars don’t shine here as bright as in the valley
where I would see the moon shining from behind the clouds
like a bride peeps from her veil shyly.
As I step out, I expect to see the Dargah standing pure and white
the mountains at its back, the Dal at its side.
Moving towards the office, I still feel the presence of the Hari parbat
looming at me, as it overlooks the entire Srinagar.
But I fail to see any of it
there is no dargah, no Hari parbat, no Dal, no Jhelum…
only a maze of flyovers and expressways
A modern city, with skyscrapers and the ever increasing slums.
While walking on the roads nowadays,
my eyes keep searching for the “masala-roti” vendors.
The orange chutney on lavasa still makes my mouth water…
but finding none of them, I settle for the aloo chat sellers.
As soon as I sit to have my dinner
my hands ready to dig into the rajma-chawal ma has prepared
She hands me a spoon so I can eat “properly”
ignorant she is, to the Kashmiri eating habits I have savored.
Out with my friends for the evenings at Khan chacha’s
I have my once-favorite chicken tikka and mutton fried in butter.
It instantly reminds me of the Tujh I had in Khayaam;
That heavenly dish, which I know is no longer available for my platter.
Often, sitting idle, I remember the talks we would have in office
the livid images are back…a smile crosses my lips and rests there
the madness of the newsroom, the fights, the leg-pulling
but I know none of it will ever be the same, over is my share.
These are just glimpses of what I feel;
mere scenes in that larger picture of nostalgia.
I wish I could be back and wish it with all my heart
but I am aware that that’s not how life goes.
Like a traveler who visits a place and promises to return back but is never able to
my heart too yearns never to leave Kashmir
yet my soul knows that there are far greater heights to scale
and I walk towards them, with a dim promise to return back simmering in me.
Whether I am able to return is what Destiny knows best
but the days I spent and the life I had here
would always remain treasured in a corner of my heart
these would be the stories I would share with my grand kids.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Almost 50 cases of human rights violation in 5 months
Sumegha Gulati
Srinagar, June 27: Since January 2009, thirty-six people have lost their lives in different violence related incidents in the Valley excluding unidentified bodies, renegades, political activists and Village Defence Committee members, reveals the figures obtained from various civil society observers. Besides, four cases of custodial killings, six cases of alleged enforced disappearances and three cases of rape, which include the recent Shopian twin rape-and-murder-case, have come to the forefront.
Out of these 49 cases, magisterial probe was ordered just in 13 incidents and it was followed up in only six cases by the concerned authorities.
The graveness of the situation does not end here as out of the 6 cases that were followed up by the officials, only 3 yielded “some” results.
The Bomai incident, which had invoked massive protests in the Baramullah district, resulted in the shifting of the Rajinder Post to the premises of SK University of Agricultural Sciences and Technology after a 32-day long agitation by the protestors.
The custodial killing of Manzoor Ali Beig at the hands of the SOG had resulted in the concerned official being suspended. However, no ex-gratia relief has been received by the family as yet.
The recent volatile Shopian case had led to the suspension of four police officials who had supposedly with held vital information regarding the culprits. However, the culprits who performed the dastardly acts have yet to be brought into books.
The data cited is a compilation of all the reports collected from the various police stations as well as the news items that have appeared in the various media across the valley.
Insiders claim that this might represent a minuscule percentage of the actual number of cases that have taken place since the beginning of this year.
“Scores of such cases go unreported each day in the far flung areas of the valley. Lack of awareness, inadequate means to pursue the cases, risk to the well being of the family members and the social stigma attached to such cases, particularly rapes and molestations, results in many of such instances going unaccounted for”, opined an activist working with a local NGO.
Srinagar, June 27: Since January 2009, thirty-six people have lost their lives in different violence related incidents in the Valley excluding unidentified bodies, renegades, political activists and Village Defence Committee members, reveals the figures obtained from various civil society observers. Besides, four cases of custodial killings, six cases of alleged enforced disappearances and three cases of rape, which include the recent Shopian twin rape-and-murder-case, have come to the forefront.
Out of these 49 cases, magisterial probe was ordered just in 13 incidents and it was followed up in only six cases by the concerned authorities.
The graveness of the situation does not end here as out of the 6 cases that were followed up by the officials, only 3 yielded “some” results.
The Bomai incident, which had invoked massive protests in the Baramullah district, resulted in the shifting of the Rajinder Post to the premises of SK University of Agricultural Sciences and Technology after a 32-day long agitation by the protestors.
The custodial killing of Manzoor Ali Beig at the hands of the SOG had resulted in the concerned official being suspended. However, no ex-gratia relief has been received by the family as yet.
The recent volatile Shopian case had led to the suspension of four police officials who had supposedly with held vital information regarding the culprits. However, the culprits who performed the dastardly acts have yet to be brought into books.
The data cited is a compilation of all the reports collected from the various police stations as well as the news items that have appeared in the various media across the valley.
Insiders claim that this might represent a minuscule percentage of the actual number of cases that have taken place since the beginning of this year.
“Scores of such cases go unreported each day in the far flung areas of the valley. Lack of awareness, inadequate means to pursue the cases, risk to the well being of the family members and the social stigma attached to such cases, particularly rapes and molestations, results in many of such instances going unaccounted for”, opined an activist working with a local NGO.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
"My knees are broken; my will is not"
Mehmooda Wani (name changed) walked silently, tapping her cane slowly. Her aging eyes looked up at the building that she is visiting for the past eight months. Her frail body was fatigued after the tiresome bus journey, but the will to see her son free is too strong to stop her from pursuing the court case.
“My son Ahmad (name changed) was detained in the last year’s Amarnath land row uprising, after he was caught stone-pelting by the forces. Since then, I have been making rounds of the courts and police stations but to no avail. My husband died thirty years ago and my other three sons are now weary to pursue the case. I also met National Conference (NC) leader Ali Mohammad Sagar but he gave me Rs 200, saying that he can’t assure anything and I should go back home. But I will not rest till my son comes back home”, she says.
Mehmooda isn’t the only case of this kind. Hundreds of women throng the courts and police stations in Kashmir every week to follow up with the cases of their loved ones who have become victims of the security forces’ wrath ever since the conflict started. Most of them are now getting little support from the rest of the family members. Yet, they have high hopes from the system and never fail to miss the hearings at the courts.
An advocate at the State High Court, Urfi explains, “Women tend to be more emotional than men. It is usually the mothers, wives or sisters, who file the petitions and follow the cases rather than the male family members. For them, the advocate is next to God and they religiously follow our advice.”
Over the years, the Kashmiri men have been subjected to human rights violations including custodial killings and detentions having multiplied the number of widows and half-widows, who now pursue the cases of their dear ones.
The vulnerability of men to fall prey to the troopers and various agencies is another factor that prompts the women of the family to fight the legal battles. “I have seen many cases where the brothers or fathers do not come forward due to the fear of being noticed by the security forces. The bread-earners of the family also have other responsibilities, which leave them with less time to focus on the court cases”, opines Ashraf Wani, a lawyer with the High Court.
However, the difficulties these women face make things worse for them. Travelling from far-off distances to meet their solicitors, seeking loans from neighbours to meet petty expenses, meeting politicians and top-level officials often make things cumbersome.
“Most of the such suffering women are illiterate and have never stepped outside their comfort zones. Courts, police stations, interrogation centers etc are conservative places that they have never previously visited in their lives and understanding the legal nuances is a complex exercise for them. They are also unaware of the authority levels and can be seen, literally begging the policemen and petty officials for the early release of their relatives. All these factors make them an easy victim to exploitation at the hands of unreliable elements”, says Urfi.
Her views are seconded by Neelofar Bhat (name changed), who has been following the case of her detained husband Fahad (name changed) for the past four years. “I feel my knees are broken after making so many rounds of the courts. He used to drive an auto, before the forces took him away claiming he was involved in a Fidayeen attack. I draw a meager salary of Rs 200 as a peon in the local school. My 15-year-old son had to discontinue his education and is now working as a daily laborer. My daughter, who was extremely attached to her father, suffered a heart ailment after he was arrested. But I don’t have enough money for her treatment”, says Neelofar, amid sobs.
She said the financial hurdles and lack of support from family often make her weak. “Fahad’s brother initially tried to help us but he was harassed by SOG. He also has a family of his own. My brother too helps us. But my three sisters-in-law are widows and they are dependent on him for survival. My brother has a family of his own. How much can he support me?"
A high Court lawyer, Asif Iqbal reflects ruefully, “There is an outburst of emotions when these women plead with us for the safety of their kith and kin. Their mental state is usually disturbed and the financial hurdles they face are stressful. One can see them crying in the courts, before politicians and anyone whom they consider powerful enough. At times, small children accompany them. It is often a heart wrenching sight.”
Despite all the difficulties, these women continue their struggle in the hope that one-day, their sons, brothers and husbands would return. Till then, life goes on for them.
“I am often torn between whether to pursue the case or lead my life as a widow. But the absence of a male member should not deter me from fighting this battle”, Neelofar concludes.
“My son Ahmad (name changed) was detained in the last year’s Amarnath land row uprising, after he was caught stone-pelting by the forces. Since then, I have been making rounds of the courts and police stations but to no avail. My husband died thirty years ago and my other three sons are now weary to pursue the case. I also met National Conference (NC) leader Ali Mohammad Sagar but he gave me Rs 200, saying that he can’t assure anything and I should go back home. But I will not rest till my son comes back home”, she says.
Mehmooda isn’t the only case of this kind. Hundreds of women throng the courts and police stations in Kashmir every week to follow up with the cases of their loved ones who have become victims of the security forces’ wrath ever since the conflict started. Most of them are now getting little support from the rest of the family members. Yet, they have high hopes from the system and never fail to miss the hearings at the courts.
An advocate at the State High Court, Urfi explains, “Women tend to be more emotional than men. It is usually the mothers, wives or sisters, who file the petitions and follow the cases rather than the male family members. For them, the advocate is next to God and they religiously follow our advice.”
Over the years, the Kashmiri men have been subjected to human rights violations including custodial killings and detentions having multiplied the number of widows and half-widows, who now pursue the cases of their dear ones.
The vulnerability of men to fall prey to the troopers and various agencies is another factor that prompts the women of the family to fight the legal battles. “I have seen many cases where the brothers or fathers do not come forward due to the fear of being noticed by the security forces. The bread-earners of the family also have other responsibilities, which leave them with less time to focus on the court cases”, opines Ashraf Wani, a lawyer with the High Court.
However, the difficulties these women face make things worse for them. Travelling from far-off distances to meet their solicitors, seeking loans from neighbours to meet petty expenses, meeting politicians and top-level officials often make things cumbersome.
“Most of the such suffering women are illiterate and have never stepped outside their comfort zones. Courts, police stations, interrogation centers etc are conservative places that they have never previously visited in their lives and understanding the legal nuances is a complex exercise for them. They are also unaware of the authority levels and can be seen, literally begging the policemen and petty officials for the early release of their relatives. All these factors make them an easy victim to exploitation at the hands of unreliable elements”, says Urfi.
Her views are seconded by Neelofar Bhat (name changed), who has been following the case of her detained husband Fahad (name changed) for the past four years. “I feel my knees are broken after making so many rounds of the courts. He used to drive an auto, before the forces took him away claiming he was involved in a Fidayeen attack. I draw a meager salary of Rs 200 as a peon in the local school. My 15-year-old son had to discontinue his education and is now working as a daily laborer. My daughter, who was extremely attached to her father, suffered a heart ailment after he was arrested. But I don’t have enough money for her treatment”, says Neelofar, amid sobs.
She said the financial hurdles and lack of support from family often make her weak. “Fahad’s brother initially tried to help us but he was harassed by SOG. He also has a family of his own. My brother too helps us. But my three sisters-in-law are widows and they are dependent on him for survival. My brother has a family of his own. How much can he support me?"
A high Court lawyer, Asif Iqbal reflects ruefully, “There is an outburst of emotions when these women plead with us for the safety of their kith and kin. Their mental state is usually disturbed and the financial hurdles they face are stressful. One can see them crying in the courts, before politicians and anyone whom they consider powerful enough. At times, small children accompany them. It is often a heart wrenching sight.”
Despite all the difficulties, these women continue their struggle in the hope that one-day, their sons, brothers and husbands would return. Till then, life goes on for them.
“I am often torn between whether to pursue the case or lead my life as a widow. But the absence of a male member should not deter me from fighting this battle”, Neelofar concludes.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
"After all, we have seen this for the past two decades.”
People sometimes ask me if I miss home. Well, I don’t really miss Delhi. But I definitely, most certainly miss my “life”, my freedom and my sense of being alive. A society where people are treated like humans; where the crushing of young children or brutal murders of innocents deserve at least a fair hearing; where blood does not come as cheap as it does in the valley.
People in Kashmir don’t live. The circumstances don’t allow them to. Kashmiris just strive to survive. And many of them are just waiting to be killed- either by the Army, or by the CRPF or perhaps, in the rarest of rare cases, by the militants.
Ever since I came here, reading and reporting about protests, firings, killings, rapes and murders became a part of the professional routine. Be it the crushing of 10 year old Khushboo under an Army vehicle or the death of teenager Ayoub; be it the custodial killing of Manzoor Beg or the recent Shopian rape case- the demonstrations and the Ragda are features I frequently come across.
The two women who were raped were young. One of them was pregnant and had a family. The other was a girl younger than my own self. At 17, she was considered to be a bright student, who was on her way to become a successful doctor. All the dreams she ever harbored were shattered in a single instance. Her life, honour and pride- all crushed under the violence by the forces of Indian occupation.
The whole valley comes out to protest against such incidents. People pelt stones, face tear gas shells and survive firings. Young boys get killed while protesting against why their sisters and wives are dishonored. And then, after two days, everything comes back to “normal”.
People go back to work again, the fear of being killed stronger in their hearts. The women move out again, but not without thinking twice that they may be raped, murdered and mutilated- just like so many others have been in the past. And many of them wait patiently for their deaths; curious to know in what form would it eventually arrive.
This is the “normalcy” that the world’s largest democracy offers to its people.
For the past five days, the strike to protest against the rapes had disrupted the daily life. The city’s heart and centre- Lal Chowk was shut down completely. Not a single bus plied on the roads. Medical stores, shops, schools, colleges, courts- all closed.
The entire city faced a black out for the first day. From Lal Chowk till the Dargah, we could see young boys standing on the roadside, instructing vehicles to switch off their headlights. The Dalgate, which is one of the liveliest joints, was closed too. For the first time, I saw that the houseboats were dark. The whole place looked eerie; as if the town had never been inhabited.
After coming back home, I could hear the protests late unto the night. The university students shouted pro-Azadi slogans, cursing the Indian forces for their ruthlessness. And then…silence prevailed. But the silence wasn’t peaceful. It was like a warning that there is worse to come.
The next afternoon, after I had hired an auto for my office, somebody told us of the ongoing stone-pelting. There were protests everywhere. Young boys were not letting any vehicles-private or public- to move around.
A fruit vendor told us how the protestors wouldn’t hurt me, but they would not spare the auto driver. “They will beat him up and burn his auto”, he said. The scared driver rode me back home and left.
Not a single shop had opened in the past two days. The whole place, which usually is filled with people at all times, bore a deserted look. It was as pale as death.
I waited eagerly for things to come back to the state as I had first seen them. However, the call for an indefinite strike has been declared and god alone knows for how long it will go on.
It all seems strange; something I have never witnessed before. In the newsroom and elsewhere, people continuously debate if the conditions would eventually be worse than last year. The memories of the economic blockade and the discussions provide me a glimpse into what the valley must have faced in those 3 months of the uprising last year.
I feel frustration and irritation building up inside me. Most of my work has been left half undone ever since the strike started.
One night, as we lay wide awake, listening to the Azadi calls of the university students, I mentioned how testing it is to stay in Kashmir. “How can people survive when there are so frequent strikes?” I had asked my room mate.
Her answer silenced me. “We are habitual to it now. After all, we have seen this for the past two decades.”
People in Kashmir don’t live. The circumstances don’t allow them to. Kashmiris just strive to survive. And many of them are just waiting to be killed- either by the Army, or by the CRPF or perhaps, in the rarest of rare cases, by the militants.
Ever since I came here, reading and reporting about protests, firings, killings, rapes and murders became a part of the professional routine. Be it the crushing of 10 year old Khushboo under an Army vehicle or the death of teenager Ayoub; be it the custodial killing of Manzoor Beg or the recent Shopian rape case- the demonstrations and the Ragda are features I frequently come across.
The two women who were raped were young. One of them was pregnant and had a family. The other was a girl younger than my own self. At 17, she was considered to be a bright student, who was on her way to become a successful doctor. All the dreams she ever harbored were shattered in a single instance. Her life, honour and pride- all crushed under the violence by the forces of Indian occupation.
The whole valley comes out to protest against such incidents. People pelt stones, face tear gas shells and survive firings. Young boys get killed while protesting against why their sisters and wives are dishonored. And then, after two days, everything comes back to “normal”.
People go back to work again, the fear of being killed stronger in their hearts. The women move out again, but not without thinking twice that they may be raped, murdered and mutilated- just like so many others have been in the past. And many of them wait patiently for their deaths; curious to know in what form would it eventually arrive.
This is the “normalcy” that the world’s largest democracy offers to its people.
For the past five days, the strike to protest against the rapes had disrupted the daily life. The city’s heart and centre- Lal Chowk was shut down completely. Not a single bus plied on the roads. Medical stores, shops, schools, colleges, courts- all closed.
The entire city faced a black out for the first day. From Lal Chowk till the Dargah, we could see young boys standing on the roadside, instructing vehicles to switch off their headlights. The Dalgate, which is one of the liveliest joints, was closed too. For the first time, I saw that the houseboats were dark. The whole place looked eerie; as if the town had never been inhabited.
After coming back home, I could hear the protests late unto the night. The university students shouted pro-Azadi slogans, cursing the Indian forces for their ruthlessness. And then…silence prevailed. But the silence wasn’t peaceful. It was like a warning that there is worse to come.
The next afternoon, after I had hired an auto for my office, somebody told us of the ongoing stone-pelting. There were protests everywhere. Young boys were not letting any vehicles-private or public- to move around.
A fruit vendor told us how the protestors wouldn’t hurt me, but they would not spare the auto driver. “They will beat him up and burn his auto”, he said. The scared driver rode me back home and left.
Not a single shop had opened in the past two days. The whole place, which usually is filled with people at all times, bore a deserted look. It was as pale as death.
I waited eagerly for things to come back to the state as I had first seen them. However, the call for an indefinite strike has been declared and god alone knows for how long it will go on.
It all seems strange; something I have never witnessed before. In the newsroom and elsewhere, people continuously debate if the conditions would eventually be worse than last year. The memories of the economic blockade and the discussions provide me a glimpse into what the valley must have faced in those 3 months of the uprising last year.
I feel frustration and irritation building up inside me. Most of my work has been left half undone ever since the strike started.
One night, as we lay wide awake, listening to the Azadi calls of the university students, I mentioned how testing it is to stay in Kashmir. “How can people survive when there are so frequent strikes?” I had asked my room mate.
Her answer silenced me. “We are habitual to it now. After all, we have seen this for the past two decades.”
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Meeting Khushboo's family...
May 16, 2009
As the cab turned into the street, images from that day of the protests appeared before me. The point where blood had been smeared just 5 days ago was full of dust and stones- a sign of how one is not even entitled to mourn enough in this valley.
I was visiting the family of Khushboo, 10, who had been crushed 5 days ago at Lasjan in Srinagar. The house was locked and neighbours said the family had moved into a relative’s place nearby. The entire locale seemed deserted.
Following instructions, we found ourselves outside the gate beyond which sat a family that had lost a young child sometime before. Grim faces and moist eyes welcomed us. A gloom seemed to have fallen upon the entire place. Even young kids were quiet, sullen. An old man, presumably the family patriarch, wept bitterly in a corner of the courtyard.
“Our daughter was destined to die. The driver could have been more watchful but it was an accident. He did not do it purposely and I wish he isn’t punished too harshly. After all, he might be having a family too”, said Abdul Qayoom, Khushboo’s father said, as he escorted us into the house.
Qayoom was away at work that day and it was several hours before he got the news. By then, the badly shaped body of his daughter had been brought home. For a moment, he could not understand why so many people had gathered at his place. When someone did tell him about all that had happened he could not compose himself.
“Her face could not be recognized. The entire body was smeared with blood. Family, friends, neighbors…everyone is in a state of shock”, he said tearfully.
Even at this time of loss, this Kashmiri family had not given up their sense of hospitality. The traditional namkeen Chai was placed before me and Mubashir (my cameraman). It was then that Khushboo’s mother, Hafiza, entered the room. My heart sank as I looked at her. She walked silently and sat down in a corner, her eyes fixed at the ground. Even after repeated prompting by family members, she did not say much; just mumbled every once in a while.
“She did not eat for 2 days, but kept repeating her daughter’s name. Later, we advised Abdul to shift from their place and stay for a few days here, at our residence”, explained Khushboo’s Khala.
13 year old Bisma relates how her sister was fond of playing. “She was good at studies too. It was her dream to be a pilot. All our friends and teachers visited us. Her absence is painful.”
Lighting his second cigarette, a visibly shaken Qayoom opined, “I am a driver myself and know for a fact that any vehicle being driven at a speed of 40 KMPH or less stops if brakes are applied. So, this driver must have been plying the truck at a speed of no less than 60, and that too during rush evening hours.”
He added how the state government has failed to provide them with necessary infrastructure. “People blame Central Government for all mishaps. But, it always sanctions funds.We need more roads because traffic flow is heavy. Footpaths are required. The width of roads needs to be increased. Speed limit on vehicles must be fixed when there are colonies nearby. But the state government is least concerned.”
Ever since the armed forces entered the valley, normal life has been jolted. They ply heavy trucks all day long. Even emergency cases are not given priority over them. The convoys are always the first ones to be allowed to pass, even if there is a heart patient or a maternity case amongst those waiting.
“They might offer us compensation but money cannot bring our child back. And neither will killing that army driver”, added Qayoom, before he left the room for his next cigarette.
I looked at Hafiza’s face one last time before I was to leave. The tea and bread kept before her had gone cold. She was still looking at some unrecognizable point on the floor.
Had that young girl lived, what could she have made of herself? She might have become a pilot, as she had wished. Or perhaps a doctor, as her parents had envisioned her to be. But does it really matter now?
As the cab turned into the street, images from that day of the protests appeared before me. The point where blood had been smeared just 5 days ago was full of dust and stones- a sign of how one is not even entitled to mourn enough in this valley.
I was visiting the family of Khushboo, 10, who had been crushed 5 days ago at Lasjan in Srinagar. The house was locked and neighbours said the family had moved into a relative’s place nearby. The entire locale seemed deserted.
Following instructions, we found ourselves outside the gate beyond which sat a family that had lost a young child sometime before. Grim faces and moist eyes welcomed us. A gloom seemed to have fallen upon the entire place. Even young kids were quiet, sullen. An old man, presumably the family patriarch, wept bitterly in a corner of the courtyard.
“Our daughter was destined to die. The driver could have been more watchful but it was an accident. He did not do it purposely and I wish he isn’t punished too harshly. After all, he might be having a family too”, said Abdul Qayoom, Khushboo’s father said, as he escorted us into the house.
Qayoom was away at work that day and it was several hours before he got the news. By then, the badly shaped body of his daughter had been brought home. For a moment, he could not understand why so many people had gathered at his place. When someone did tell him about all that had happened he could not compose himself.
“Her face could not be recognized. The entire body was smeared with blood. Family, friends, neighbors…everyone is in a state of shock”, he said tearfully.
Even at this time of loss, this Kashmiri family had not given up their sense of hospitality. The traditional namkeen Chai was placed before me and Mubashir (my cameraman). It was then that Khushboo’s mother, Hafiza, entered the room. My heart sank as I looked at her. She walked silently and sat down in a corner, her eyes fixed at the ground. Even after repeated prompting by family members, she did not say much; just mumbled every once in a while.
“She did not eat for 2 days, but kept repeating her daughter’s name. Later, we advised Abdul to shift from their place and stay for a few days here, at our residence”, explained Khushboo’s Khala.
13 year old Bisma relates how her sister was fond of playing. “She was good at studies too. It was her dream to be a pilot. All our friends and teachers visited us. Her absence is painful.”
Lighting his second cigarette, a visibly shaken Qayoom opined, “I am a driver myself and know for a fact that any vehicle being driven at a speed of 40 KMPH or less stops if brakes are applied. So, this driver must have been plying the truck at a speed of no less than 60, and that too during rush evening hours.”
He added how the state government has failed to provide them with necessary infrastructure. “People blame Central Government for all mishaps. But, it always sanctions funds.We need more roads because traffic flow is heavy. Footpaths are required. The width of roads needs to be increased. Speed limit on vehicles must be fixed when there are colonies nearby. But the state government is least concerned.”
Ever since the armed forces entered the valley, normal life has been jolted. They ply heavy trucks all day long. Even emergency cases are not given priority over them. The convoys are always the first ones to be allowed to pass, even if there is a heart patient or a maternity case amongst those waiting.
“They might offer us compensation but money cannot bring our child back. And neither will killing that army driver”, added Qayoom, before he left the room for his next cigarette.
I looked at Hafiza’s face one last time before I was to leave. The tea and bread kept before her had gone cold. She was still looking at some unrecognizable point on the floor.
Had that young girl lived, what could she have made of herself? She might have become a pilot, as she had wished. Or perhaps a doctor, as her parents had envisioned her to be. But does it really matter now?
Monday, May 18, 2009
I became an “outsider” the moment I showed them my “local” press card !
By the time I would leave office each night, most shops would have closed and NIT being very close to my current residence would prove to be a great option to have my evening meal.
The old Kashmiri gatekeeper at the NIT gate would look at my Delhi University college I- card each night and good-naturedly allow me to go inside the cafeteria to have my dinner. The CRPF personnel positioned there not once objected.
But that was before I showed them my press card.
In the first 10 days that I spent in Srinagar, I had not once been questioned by a policeman. Never was any inconvenience caused by any member of the security forces. I, therefore, was convinced that in order to uphold their “image outside the valley”; the forces would never trouble any mainstream Indian.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Because, you are safe from the wrath of the forces in Kashmir only till you are one of the ‘mainstream’. The moment you are even remotely associated with anything local here- be it the families, the community or the media- you become an object they love to insult.
That night, I walked into the sprawling NIT campus like I had done so many times previously. I had got my temporary press card that very day and believing it to be an adequate proof of my credentials, I showed it to the concerned authorities. “You are an outsider. You cannot enter NIT”, was the shocking, immediate reply.
I wondered if I would have to sleep without dinner. But the middle-aged, south-Indian accented CRPF personnel clearly hadn’t finished. “Being in the press, you must be aware that no place is safe for women here. Even the campus is insecure. If something happens tomorrow, then your folks will blame us. The cafeteria is not for outsiders.”
Confused, I came back home, only to sleep on an empty stomach that night. But the questions being raised disturbed me for quite some time. If the campus was insecure, why had I been allowed in it for the past 10 days? Had anything gone wrong then, would the forces have not been responsible? Or had the campus become unsafe after I told them I was interning for a local (read separatist) paper? Also, I had not been going to the hostel mess, where only the institution’s students are allowed but the privately owned cafeteria that is open for all. Who gave the CRPF the right to prevent a Central University student from entering a State-run educational institution to have a harmless meal in a privately owned cafeteria?
“Outsiders are not allowed here”, the CRPF official had said.Ironically, I had become an “outsider” the moment I showed them my “local” press card.
The old Kashmiri gatekeeper at the NIT gate would look at my Delhi University college I- card each night and good-naturedly allow me to go inside the cafeteria to have my dinner. The CRPF personnel positioned there not once objected.
But that was before I showed them my press card.
In the first 10 days that I spent in Srinagar, I had not once been questioned by a policeman. Never was any inconvenience caused by any member of the security forces. I, therefore, was convinced that in order to uphold their “image outside the valley”; the forces would never trouble any mainstream Indian.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Because, you are safe from the wrath of the forces in Kashmir only till you are one of the ‘mainstream’. The moment you are even remotely associated with anything local here- be it the families, the community or the media- you become an object they love to insult.
That night, I walked into the sprawling NIT campus like I had done so many times previously. I had got my temporary press card that very day and believing it to be an adequate proof of my credentials, I showed it to the concerned authorities. “You are an outsider. You cannot enter NIT”, was the shocking, immediate reply.
I wondered if I would have to sleep without dinner. But the middle-aged, south-Indian accented CRPF personnel clearly hadn’t finished. “Being in the press, you must be aware that no place is safe for women here. Even the campus is insecure. If something happens tomorrow, then your folks will blame us. The cafeteria is not for outsiders.”
Confused, I came back home, only to sleep on an empty stomach that night. But the questions being raised disturbed me for quite some time. If the campus was insecure, why had I been allowed in it for the past 10 days? Had anything gone wrong then, would the forces have not been responsible? Or had the campus become unsafe after I told them I was interning for a local (read separatist) paper? Also, I had not been going to the hostel mess, where only the institution’s students are allowed but the privately owned cafeteria that is open for all. Who gave the CRPF the right to prevent a Central University student from entering a State-run educational institution to have a harmless meal in a privately owned cafeteria?
“Outsiders are not allowed here”, the CRPF official had said.Ironically, I had become an “outsider” the moment I showed them my “local” press card.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Why did my goverment lie to me and other Indians for so long?
“Run Sumegha, run!!” These are the only three words that still ring in my ears, though I can recall the whole incident as it were happening before my eyes just now.
As an irony to mark the end of my peaceful first week in Kashmir, the protests at Lasjan presented a facet of Kashmir to me, which I had only heard of.
A CRPF vehicle had crushed a 10-year-old girl and the driver had run away after the accident. As my colleague Danish Nabi led me through the mob to the dead body, things seemed under control. Yes, the anger and frustration was pretty evident. True, the young men of the area hurled abuses at the Indian Government and the military forces. Yet; things seemed manageable.
It was only after the mob tried to burn the vehicle that the forces got into action. And before I could assimilate what was happening, I saw people running. Everywhere. Danish told me to run too. But I could not. Colour had drained out of my face. I was blank. I looked around and saw the men in the uniform throwing tear-gas shells at the young and the old alike. It was at that moment that I realized for the first time, the difference between reading about ‘Conflict Reporting’ and reporting from a conflict zone in the real life. I looked at Danish who was still urging me to run. And then, I ran. Not because I wanted to shirk off my journalistic duties. But because, no story is worth a life. And nineteen is too young an age to die. So, I ran for my life.
On my way back to office, while overcoming the initial shock that often encapsulates naïve reporters, I wondered how far from reality was the image that the world has of Kashmir today. Barely a week here in Srinagar, and I already feel as if I am living in constant “captivity”. At every next crossing, a bunker awaits you. In the midst of the lush green lawns at the Kashmir University, the CRPF personnel seem completely out of place.
They can stop you, beat you, rape you, pass lewd comment, run their vehicles over the kids and nobody can stop them; courtesy the Armed Forces Special Powers Act. Which democracy in the world throws tear-gas shell at its unarmed, protesting civilians? Which republic imposes a curfew on the day of the Parliamentary elections in the whole state? Which “efficient governance” justifies patrolling of heavy army vehicles, even though the city roads are not meant for such load?
Before coming here, Kashmir was an image, a mirage that had men with long beards, women wearing hijab, a restricted and closed society. That reflection was the result of “facts” that I was “made aware of” by the Indian media for the past 19 years of my life. That image today stands broken, shattered. There are no men with long breads and kalashnikovs roaming on the streets. A lot of women wear hijab, some wear burqa and almost all cover their heads; yet it is perfectly fine if one doesn’t wish to adhere to any of the above. One finds ATMs at every corner. Brands of every essential commodity are available. Big hotels and small dhabas coexist to give the true flavour of Kashmir. Lal Chowk is as lively as Connaught place in the evenings. Wherever one goes, people are good in the true sense of the word. They are good-natured and they don’t fake it for personal interests the way people in Delhi and Mumbai do. Kashmiri hospitality is famous round the globe and now I know why. Even if arriving uninformed, the Kashmiris are ready to serve their guests. Be it the traditional samovar for the Kahwa or the tashnari to wash one’s hands; be it the rista or the keema- they know how to take care of their guests.
I remember walking down the street once, in the evening, when I asked a middle-aged woman for directions to the local market. She told me to go back home since it might be unsafe with the military being around. Sensing the urgency, she accompanied me to the market and back home. I thanked her, remarking how good the Kashmiris are. She kissed my forehead and blessed me. We never met again. But God alone knows, I will never be able to forget her affectionate eyes.
Is this the Kashmir that India has, for so long, tried to term as the ‘breeding ground of terrorists’? Are these the people we refuse houses and rooms-on-rent in Delhi and Mumbai, fearing they might have links with the Hizbul or the Lashkar?
After seeing all this, I am at a loss for words. I am dumbfounded. A sense of betrayal has crept in. I trusted my government for so long when it equated Kashmiris to terrorists. Today, I know it was all a big lie that was fabricated beautifully by the Indian Government. Worse, the mainstream media, a profession I had felt proud I would soon be a part of, too lied. Sometimes out rightly, sometimes by hiding the facts- but being a permanent party to all that the Indian state did.
Not once did they have the audacity to report the protests in Srinagar during the Amarnath row, despite the fact that thousands of young people were losing lives everyday. Kashmiris were accused of hurting the pilgrims. Strangely, not a single worshipper was harmed. Rather, they were touched by the Kashmiri hospitality. Wondrously, the mainstream media did not report it even once. Perhaps they forgot to do so, given the fact that they were too busy playing and replaying the protests in Jammu.
A writer once wrote, “When you are in Jammu, you are in India. When you are in Srinagar, you are in Kashmir”. Perhaps the statement was made in an entirely different context but it holds true for my article too. It’s true that Kashmir and its people are different from the rest of the countrymen. Which other state would try to lead normal lives despite being under a military occupation?
Having been brought up in a totally different environment, in the liberal environs of the capital, I often used to wonder why so many youth in Kashmir demand for Azadi. Now I know why. When you are asked for identity cards each day as you step out of the house; and that too by forces who are themselves foreigners to your land, what would one think of such a state? When the CRPF has the right to enter a home, kill, rape, murder and torture people, what are these youngsters supposed to do?
My family and friends in Delhi feel India will never give away Kashmir. The truth is that India will not be able to “give” Kashmir away. These enthusiastic youngsters will “take” away from them, the Kashmir that is rightfully theirs.
So much blood has flowed. A Lakh Kashmiri youth is not a joke and the Kashmir struggle, so far, has been written by the martyr’s blood.
A bullet that I picked up from the protest site in Lasjan would keep the memories of the day etched in my memory forever. Inshallah, I hope I live to see a free Kashmir.
SUMEGHA GULATI
As an irony to mark the end of my peaceful first week in Kashmir, the protests at Lasjan presented a facet of Kashmir to me, which I had only heard of.
A CRPF vehicle had crushed a 10-year-old girl and the driver had run away after the accident. As my colleague Danish Nabi led me through the mob to the dead body, things seemed under control. Yes, the anger and frustration was pretty evident. True, the young men of the area hurled abuses at the Indian Government and the military forces. Yet; things seemed manageable.
It was only after the mob tried to burn the vehicle that the forces got into action. And before I could assimilate what was happening, I saw people running. Everywhere. Danish told me to run too. But I could not. Colour had drained out of my face. I was blank. I looked around and saw the men in the uniform throwing tear-gas shells at the young and the old alike. It was at that moment that I realized for the first time, the difference between reading about ‘Conflict Reporting’ and reporting from a conflict zone in the real life. I looked at Danish who was still urging me to run. And then, I ran. Not because I wanted to shirk off my journalistic duties. But because, no story is worth a life. And nineteen is too young an age to die. So, I ran for my life.
On my way back to office, while overcoming the initial shock that often encapsulates naïve reporters, I wondered how far from reality was the image that the world has of Kashmir today. Barely a week here in Srinagar, and I already feel as if I am living in constant “captivity”. At every next crossing, a bunker awaits you. In the midst of the lush green lawns at the Kashmir University, the CRPF personnel seem completely out of place.
They can stop you, beat you, rape you, pass lewd comment, run their vehicles over the kids and nobody can stop them; courtesy the Armed Forces Special Powers Act. Which democracy in the world throws tear-gas shell at its unarmed, protesting civilians? Which republic imposes a curfew on the day of the Parliamentary elections in the whole state? Which “efficient governance” justifies patrolling of heavy army vehicles, even though the city roads are not meant for such load?
Before coming here, Kashmir was an image, a mirage that had men with long beards, women wearing hijab, a restricted and closed society. That reflection was the result of “facts” that I was “made aware of” by the Indian media for the past 19 years of my life. That image today stands broken, shattered. There are no men with long breads and kalashnikovs roaming on the streets. A lot of women wear hijab, some wear burqa and almost all cover their heads; yet it is perfectly fine if one doesn’t wish to adhere to any of the above. One finds ATMs at every corner. Brands of every essential commodity are available. Big hotels and small dhabas coexist to give the true flavour of Kashmir. Lal Chowk is as lively as Connaught place in the evenings. Wherever one goes, people are good in the true sense of the word. They are good-natured and they don’t fake it for personal interests the way people in Delhi and Mumbai do. Kashmiri hospitality is famous round the globe and now I know why. Even if arriving uninformed, the Kashmiris are ready to serve their guests. Be it the traditional samovar for the Kahwa or the tashnari to wash one’s hands; be it the rista or the keema- they know how to take care of their guests.
I remember walking down the street once, in the evening, when I asked a middle-aged woman for directions to the local market. She told me to go back home since it might be unsafe with the military being around. Sensing the urgency, she accompanied me to the market and back home. I thanked her, remarking how good the Kashmiris are. She kissed my forehead and blessed me. We never met again. But God alone knows, I will never be able to forget her affectionate eyes.
Is this the Kashmir that India has, for so long, tried to term as the ‘breeding ground of terrorists’? Are these the people we refuse houses and rooms-on-rent in Delhi and Mumbai, fearing they might have links with the Hizbul or the Lashkar?
After seeing all this, I am at a loss for words. I am dumbfounded. A sense of betrayal has crept in. I trusted my government for so long when it equated Kashmiris to terrorists. Today, I know it was all a big lie that was fabricated beautifully by the Indian Government. Worse, the mainstream media, a profession I had felt proud I would soon be a part of, too lied. Sometimes out rightly, sometimes by hiding the facts- but being a permanent party to all that the Indian state did.
Not once did they have the audacity to report the protests in Srinagar during the Amarnath row, despite the fact that thousands of young people were losing lives everyday. Kashmiris were accused of hurting the pilgrims. Strangely, not a single worshipper was harmed. Rather, they were touched by the Kashmiri hospitality. Wondrously, the mainstream media did not report it even once. Perhaps they forgot to do so, given the fact that they were too busy playing and replaying the protests in Jammu.
A writer once wrote, “When you are in Jammu, you are in India. When you are in Srinagar, you are in Kashmir”. Perhaps the statement was made in an entirely different context but it holds true for my article too. It’s true that Kashmir and its people are different from the rest of the countrymen. Which other state would try to lead normal lives despite being under a military occupation?
Having been brought up in a totally different environment, in the liberal environs of the capital, I often used to wonder why so many youth in Kashmir demand for Azadi. Now I know why. When you are asked for identity cards each day as you step out of the house; and that too by forces who are themselves foreigners to your land, what would one think of such a state? When the CRPF has the right to enter a home, kill, rape, murder and torture people, what are these youngsters supposed to do?
My family and friends in Delhi feel India will never give away Kashmir. The truth is that India will not be able to “give” Kashmir away. These enthusiastic youngsters will “take” away from them, the Kashmir that is rightfully theirs.
So much blood has flowed. A Lakh Kashmiri youth is not a joke and the Kashmir struggle, so far, has been written by the martyr’s blood.
A bullet that I picked up from the protest site in Lasjan would keep the memories of the day etched in my memory forever. Inshallah, I hope I live to see a free Kashmir.
SUMEGHA GULATI
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