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?
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
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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