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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
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.”
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