An Open Letter To Jhanvi Behal From A Kashmiri

Dear sister,

First of all, I would like to applaud you for your open, courageous challenge of hoisting the Indian national flag in Lal Chowk, Srinagar. You are out of the ordinary and so are your dreams. Being so outspoken in India is not very common. I really appreciate your gallant approach towards the social matters.

Well, I am not going to question your nationalistic romanticism towards the Indian national flag. Neither am I going to campaign about any anti-national event that offends you. I am not going to speak in favour of or against any mainstream politician or a separatist either. In this letter, I will only try to give you some brotherly advice on behalf of my Kashmiri brethren.

You talked about hoisting the Indian national flag in Lal Chowk where according to you the Tri-colour was disrespected by some ‘anti-national’ elements. It was not something surprising because you are not the first person who has challenged that. Many have attempted to do that before. But what actually is surprising is, how an extremist thought has found a place in your innocent mind at such a tender age. It speaks enough of the invasion of nationalism among young Indians which is a problem. Let me explain.

When you are overly emotional, your desperate move can result in a wrong turn. Your situational incognizance adds to it and makes it worse. Revolution happens only when the right opportunity meets the right preparation. When you are not aware of everything happening around you and respond improperly; you are ought to make a blunder. Being patriotic is a great quality. But the love of nation should not blind you from differentiating between right and wrong.

You are on a mission of achieving something that is unachievable without force. Isn’t that a military invasion? For the sake of argument, let us assume that you will successfully hoist the Indian national flag in Lal Chowk on coming 15th August. What is Next? What is that going to prove?

If you visit Kashmir, how many wall-graffiti are you going to wash off from the streets of Srinagar saying: “Go India Go Back!” Even if that is one of your agendas in Swach Bharat Mission, how many ‘Go India Go back’ slogans are you going to wash off from the minds of Kashmiris?

My dear sister, I would suggest you not to waste your sincere efforts on something forceful. Rather try to earn it. We, Kashmiris, are very modest people and known for our hospitality. You are welcome to come over, sip some kehwa, enjoy a shikara ride and feel the warmth of our love. If you really want to attest the presence of India in Kashmir, try to attest that in the hearts of our people and not in the heart of our city. What is the point of hoisting a flag on a watch tower where there will be no one to fold it respectfully every evening and hoist it back the next morning after you go back home? There is no point in hoisting the national flag on a building with a concrete heart void of emotions.

What if I ask you why the streets in Kashmir wear a deserted look every 15th August when the whole India is celebrating on the streets? If you are really open to challenges then let me challenge you openly to hoist the flag in our hearts. Can you? If you are sincere to your patriotic claims, then rather take a pledge to hoist it high in the heart of every Kashmiri, and that can’t be done forcefully. Your challenge reminds me of the words that echo in the streets of Kashmir every now and then, “You might win our land, but you can never win our hearts.”

My dear sister, you are young and seem to be sincere to work for the betterment of the society. I learned that you are greatly inspired by Mother Teresa. Well if you are, then you should see Kashmir issue as a human rights/social issue first and not a military issue. The day you stop looking at Kashmir through the nationalistic prism, you will find your answers.

You have a long way to go, grow up and make a difference. Take a suggestion from this brother who has lived 27 years under the shadow of guns in Kashmir: Being patriotic is one thing and being nationalistic is something entirely else. There are furthermore categories like overly nationalistic, outrageously nationalistic, religiously nationalistic and jingoistic. And above all is humanity. Now you have to see where you stand and where you want to go.

With Love,

Your Kashmiri Brother

P.S. This article was first published by Youth Ki Awaaz 

Burhan … and what Next?

Only a day has passed since 22 year old most wanted militant in Indian Controlled Kashmir, Burhan Wani, has been killed in south Kashmir and the whole Kashmir is protesting on streets. Burhan’s death is the only buzzword filling the news space around Kashmir.

Indian media is celebrating the triumph of killing the chief commander of Hizb, the local Kashmiri militant organization fighting against the Indian occupation. Kashmir, on the other hand, is on streets, protesting and mourning the death of a local hero, their own Che Guevara.

The young boy with a charming chocolate face, Burhan, has been in news following his growing popularity on social media. His modus operandi that was different from the other young recruits in the Hizb has made him an iconic figure among the locals. He was leading the Hizb as an Independent body while using social media for his campaign. His recent statement of welcoming Kashmiri pundits and Amarnath yatris in the valley added more to his following. That spoke enough of his liberal cause. He clearly spoke about his only objective of fighting against the Indian occupation. In no time he became the most wanted militant in the valley earning him a bounty of one million rupees on his head.

Now when Burhan is killed, there is strange feeling around. People from all over the valley are pouring into his town to pay tributes to him. Eulogies are being sung by the local woman, showering candies and flowers over his funeral. There have been unprecedented protests following his killing where around eight protesters have been killed so far and hundreds injured. More causality is expected; I pray otherwise.  Restrictions and curfew has been placed in most of the towns while mobile internet has been gagged.

There have been militant killings before but none was responded the way it being done now in case of Burhan. This speaks of the people’s sentiments for the freedom movement that started decades ago. Burhan’s death has given that movement a new face.

There is a strange deafening silence around while emotions are doing the talk. Violence has erupted once again in the valley but the question remains: Where is Kashmir leading? How many death tolls more? This is worrisome. 

I pray it is not a start of another bloody cycle of action and reaction where people are gunned down to mere numbers for a ravenous death toll. Whoever is being killed or kills the other might have his own reasons to do so. One is serving his nation and other is serving his cause. But what next?

Violence is definitely not a solution. Sometimes it can be one of the medium to reach a solution but definitely not a way to be preferred; history teaches us. My heart pained equally at the death of 8 CRPF personals that were killed by militants recently is an ambush in Pampore, Kashmir. Poor fellows didn’t even know why they were being targeted. They are mere pawns of a bigger bloody game unaware of the actual actors and their dirty script. How many more deaths? How many more cycles of killings and retaliations? There has to be a way out.

With the killing of Burhan opens a new chapter in the history of Kashmir struggle for freedom.  There will be definitely consequences attached – mostly bad. I pray it ushers Kashmir to its resolution in a peaceful way.

Burhan’s death should not be celebrated by pro-Indians as a triumph. Neither should it inspire pro-Kashmiris to follow the same path. His cause should rather be pondered upon. It might be the end of his life but it’s a beginning of his cause that needs to resolve with peace; sooner the better. If not, then the only worry is: what next?

P.S.  As a eulogy to the lost, one heartbroken poet friend writes:

Come to the skies, long forgotten. Come, we wait
for that promised day. Not for those, who hold winters
close, like me; but for flowers yet to be. Come, we wait.

Those saffron fields, that once were: grow not saffron
any more. We now grow stones in them. Those we keep
to fight, and some we keep to remember.

Knitting purl jersey, now half complete. If she could knit
the fate, or cancel the ink that wrote, or dissolve it perchance.
What fancy at times does heart make, when love is at the stake.

They found him after the moons forgotten, sleeping
in the fields. One shoe lost somewhere, the other
with laces undone. That white shirt had lost its color,

faded into red. Tucked safe inside the pocket of jeans, 
a letter to the sweetheart; dirty at creases. Now, never
to be read; for the want of a listener, word on his lip unsaid. 

The kohl lining to those clouds; tonight, washed away by rains.
Carefully placing the mothballs; Mothers knot those bags of memories.
Fold carefully: they are too young, for the old age bevel-top trunk.

Come to the skies, long forgotten. Come, we wait
for that promised day. Not for those, who hold winters
close, like me; but for flowers yet to be. Come, we wait.

Two Bloody Shrouds

Two different killings and two bloody shrouds. Same fateful story and same destination. 

Two weeks after the three year old Syrian boy, Alan, drowned into the Mediterranean Sea while pursuing his survival, another 3 years old toddler succumbed to the unknown bullets for the sins of his ill-fate in another part of a doomed world called Kashmir. 

Alan who was born as a commoner died as a hero. Syrian crisis could not melt any hearts around but the heart-wrenching picture of little Alan’s cadaver triggered a revolution, awakening the world in slumber. He left for abode but created a space for his compatriots into the hearts of the millions worldwide. Even the kings opened the doors of their rusty mansions for the poor refugees as their hearts melted watching Alan’s dead body snuggled silently on the sea shore. 

In another part of the world, another innocent soul departed but without much uproar. Perhaps the mornings of his poor mother could not cross the borders fettered with a propaganda.  Young Burhan, also 3 years old, was killed while toddling with his father. The father-son duo were fired at and killed by “unknown gunmen” for the fault unknown to young Burhan. 

After the death of Burhan, people in Kashmir started comparing the two deaths, seeking answers for how is Burhan different from Alan. Alan’s death could stir many hearts but poor burhan’s name got buried along with his little cadaver.

Both the deaths are equally unfortunate and to be lamented equally. Both have been murdered for wrong reasons. Both are the children of conflict. Both share a common story. Both share an ill-fate.

I could not feel the cries of Alan while he was struggling with the Mediterranean waves. But my heart wailed at his death. Burhan’s death was more familiar. My ears are already aware of his sobbing. My childhood has already introduced that ill-fate to me. My eyes have detested all the tribulations to shed those tears of sorrow. My ears have ached enough against the deafening roar of the “unknown” guns.   

I had pledged to tear myself apart from whatever keeps happening back in Kashmir Valley that adds to my trauma. Although my heart and soul lives there, I decided to keep my focus entirely on something more meaningful. But the never ending tribulations drags you right back into the mess. There is no escaping to this. There is no abatement to this pain. There is no escaping to this ill fate with which I was born.

The question remains: Where are we heading? What is the fault of young innocent kids into this proxy wars of greed and hatred? How many more Alans and Burhaans are to be sacrificed to make us comprehend and introspect. These children of conflict also deserve to live and breathe in free air like any other child does.  Are they child of a lesser God?

Alan and Burhan are not alone. They have joined the league of their young compatriots – Samir Rah ,Tufail Matoo and many others who have been martyred young for no reasons. They are all together now in heaven, perhaps seeking reasons for their murder.

Alan And Burhaan in Heaven.....

Alan: Samundhar mera qatil nahi..Mera mujrim to koi aur hai..

Burhaan: Mera gunah kya mera qasor kya.. Mere ilm mei ghumnaam hai..

Alan:Meri zindagi kangaal thi..Meri mout to mashroor hai..

Burhaan:Meri Zindagi badh naam thi.. Meri maut bhi badh naam hai..

God: Tum maqtool ho Tum shaheed ho.Tumhara Qasoor to Tumhara naseeb hai!!

One Deceased Neighbour

ABDUL WAJID

It was early morning when the wailing from neighbouring women woke me up before my alarm clock could wail. I rubbed my sleepy eyes to check my neighbourhood for the untimely unrest. People, mostly old, were jostling outside my neighbour's house. "Taaje  boebe hai Moeyi bechaer ( Poor taj-e-boaba has expired) , " heralded my mother to my curious ears. Taj-e-boeba, an amicable old woman in my neighbourhood, was 90.

Setting aside the many layers of warm blankets and the heavy quilt under which I was buried, I got up from my cozy bed and performed wazu, Islamic ablution, to prepare myself for the namaz-e-jinaaza (special congregational prayers for the deceased). I trotted down to the fateful house to find more people swarming the mourning house. Women were wailing in kashmiri tones as if orchestrated by a connecting rhythm. There was some storytelling in their mournings. "Azaad gai bechaer( she got relieved at last) ," opined one cracking voice from the wailing house. "Kaensi theaven ne minath ( she left with no trouble to anyone ) , " joined another wailing voice, this time from an old man hiding his grey head inside his warm pheran against the cold and the grief. Similar statements and opinions kept airing for some more time, mixing the cold air with strange voices of wailing, murmuring and howling. Meanwhile more people kept pouring in as the news spread across the neighbourhood.

I kept standing near the main gate, watching the mourners and their sympathisers. Three hours passed as such but there was no sign of nimaaz-e-jinaaza. It seemed the deceased had to wait for more people to come and see her face one last time before the earthy soil could absorb her body. It was time to go for another round of ablution and come back afresh. 

Sometime later, all the relatives, neighbours, well wishes, office colleagues, formal friends and others; Everyone assembled in the small house that now looked swelling. It never looked that the modest house would accommodate such a humongous crowd. Every possible space, every corner, every staircase was occupied. Interestingly a cavalcade of waza, Kashmiri cook, also arrived at the spot, funnily enough, much prior to the arrival of the local imaam heading the nimaaz-e-jinaza. After all someone has to feed the family of the deceased and the others for sometime.

After all the arrangement were done, the faithful men walked into an open ground to join the nimaz-e-jinaaza. Women on the other hand kept beating their chest while trying their best to get the lasting glimpses of the dear boaba. Meanwhile the army of the waza started arranging their team and respective tools of cauldrons and ladles. While the men prayed for the deceased, the women folk got more busy in gabbing and badmouthing as such subsiding the wailing cries remarkably. 

As the Jinaza finished, the huge rows of people disbanded into parting ways. Some people joined back the mourners while few others, the curious cases, joined the waza team to check the salt and pepper of each delicacy being cooked while sipping down the complimentary noon chai (Kashmiri salt tea).

The whole day, noon chai kept brewing in the lifesized somavar. People kept coming and going, marking their formal attendance. The rush of the visitors and the bam of their vehicles made the street look busy that otherwise wears a deserted look.  Later, as I signed off my day and laid down on my cozy bed, taj-e-boaba came to my dream and whispered, "suin kyah oosukh rounmut?( what was there in the meals?)."

*********************************************************************************

P.S.  This is truly a fictional work of author's imaginations. Any kind of resemblance would merely be a candid coincidence.

The Sopore Massacre

Abdul Wajid

  

Jan 6 is over and with that the first week of a new year is about to culminate. This is the time when most of us are planning to draft our new-year resolution while others might have already started to practise. 

 

Whenever a fresh year is born, people all over the world plan for a better upcoming future while recollecting the beauty of the yesteryear. Unfortunately, there is a poor section of this society who always miss the bus of jubilations. For them a new year is nothing but a reminder of their ill fate. Every new calendar on their walls reminds them of their terrifying doom, rubbing salt on their wounds. This poor section of the society is where I live. The name is Kashmir, the most beautiful prison on planet, where a new year has an ugly string attached.

Most of the deadliest massacres have taken place in the first two months of some bloody years, consuming the lives and dignity of hundreds of innocent Kashmiri people. Starting from the #SoporeMassacre(6^th Jan) to #GowKadalMassacre(20^th Jan) and to the #kunanposhpura mass rape(Feb 23), Kashmir has always been raped and bruised.

Today let us remember the #SoporeMassacre. 55 innocent Kashmiri civilians were killed and as many as 450 buildings were burnt by the Indian Border Security Forces (BSF), in revenge, after militants ambushed a BSF patrol, in the town of Sopore in Kashmir on 6 January 1993. 

It is widely alleged that after the killing of the BSF guy, the Indian troops, out of frustration and anger, fired indiscriminately at local residents and set ablaze their homes and shops. According to the testimony of the eye witnesses and major media(local and international minus the apex Indian Media that cooked its own part of the news), a public coach was also attacked by the troopers that killed the driver and at least 15 passengers. Even more gruesomely, some residents are believed to have been were burnt alive by the Indian troops. The Independent (UK) reports the tribulation as follows:

"The Border Security Forces sprayed a public coach with machine-gun fire, killing the driver and more than 15 passengers, said witnesses. Three other cars were also fired on, and then the paramilitary forces set the vehicles ablaze. Next, they began herding the native Kashmiris into shops and houses, said witnesses. Then the security forces shot them, splashed paraffin over the bodies and set the buildings alight."

The Sopore massacre forced into the open an issue that the Indian government tried to sweep under the carpet. But due to the widespread publicity of the incident, they couldn't just sweep it under the rug. Initially they claimed that the high civilian casualties were only the collateral damage on account of an intense gun battle between the BSF soldiers and militants. However, the government was later prompted to initiate a judicial inquiry into the matter that suspended several BSF officers.

Funnily enough, two cases stand registered in the matter with Police Station Sopore which were referred for investigation to CBI Delhi, but as of 2013 the fate of the cases is unknown to public. The files might have simply been closed and fed to the office dust. And today sadly those martyrs go unsung.

Following the massacre there was an immense protest from the local people. Thousands of Kashmiris defying a government-imposed curfew, protested against the actions of the BSF soldiers on the streets . The then Prime Minister Narasimha Rao, ordered state governor  Girish Saxena to visit Sopore and announced a compensation of £2,275 for the relatives of the deceased. However, this political cream called as compensation could not heal the wounds that were too deep. And now, on every new year, the wounds just get more afresh and deep. 

RIP #SoporeMartyrs.  

References:

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sopore_massacre
2. http://www.greaterkashmir.com/news/2014/Jan/6/revisiting-sopore-massacre-65.asp  
3. http://bloodiedrivers.blogspot.in/2011/01/sopore-massacre-1993the-memories-of.html 
4. http://www.kashmirlife.net/sopore-massacre/

Of Malgudi Days And Kashmir

ABDUL WAJID

It was late February in wintry Kashmir. The mercury was dipping down to subzero and the cold was harsh enough to arrest me in my warm cozy place. Everything around was catching the snapping cold. Life was freezed like frozen waters. The dark shady sky overhead was warning of bombarding more snowflakes, making people lazier because of the winter-blues. I was also a part of this lazy routinely chore. I started my day late and ended it early only to add more laziness to my sluggishness. 

This routine of me was making me dumb, consuming my aptitude day by day. However it was only after I received my appointment letter from L&T InfoTech where I had applied earlier, my life changed drastically. Funnily enough, I wished for a little warmer place and I got the warmest, Chennai, the place where I am posted. Ah! And now here I am in Chennai a.k.a. Madras.

At first Chennai turned me ill at ease. I had never been to a south Indian place before. I knew nothing about Chennai except ‘Dosa’ and  Rajnikanth. From last six months, I was like hibernating in my place but now this was the wakeup call for me. Although it was a promising opportunity but the trouble to bother was that I had to travel from an extremely cold place to an insanely hot and humid place. “Kashmir to Kaniyakumari”, responded everyone in bewilderment.   

As I stepped first into Chennai, a chain of trees(read as coconut tress) welcomed me. Interestingly the architecture around reminded me of RK Narayan’s lifework Malgudi Days narrating stories that are weaved around intricate streets, modest houses and men in their ‘loungi’. It was feeling like the characters from Malgudi Days have turned live to entertain me. 

Well for many people, Chennai won’t seem to be a very interesting place as far as the expectations from a “metro” city are concerned. Minus some of the good beaches and few glittering malls, a commoner cannot find anything more entertaining. But that’s okay. Modestly is what I really admire about Chennai. The Chennai people, as I inferred, are very modest in their behaviour and attires accept some “inflexible” guys who strictly confine themselves to the five letters of ‘TAMIL’.

The widespread use of the local language is something that I found very peculiar about Tamilnadu. The Tamil people literally don’t give a rend cent to the “national” language.  Hindi influence hence the Bollywood is very negligible as compared to Tamil and hence the Kollywood. Not a very good example of “Abhin Bharat” (integral India), I must say. However, a food for thought for Kashmir where the local language is slowly getting a part of history. Although language is a big barrier here as the Hindi speaking crowd is apparently nil but I hope to follow it soon.

Food is another big problem after communication for the north Indian people, specially Kashmiris (excuse my assumption of kashmiris being Indians here), who find it difficult to gulp down the south Indian food. I couldn’t find any restaurant for Kashmiri Wazwan although non-vegetarian stuff is quite flourished specially Biryani that rules the roost.

Another interesting factor added to my experience as I could draft a similarity between the tamils and Kashmiris. It is the liberation fight going in the northern part of Sri Lanka by Tamils against the Lankan atrocities, wining the sympathy from the Indian Tamils and some Kashmiris. After interacting with some of my Tamil colleagues, I could hear some praise for the slain chief commander of LTTE, Velupillai Prabhakaran. The same opinion is not true for my north Indian colleagues who feel otherwise like many countries including India that listed Prabharkaran as a chief terrorist. “One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter,” that’s what I inferred.  Well the same parallelism between Tamils and Kashmiris speaks for a good reason for the recent visit of JKLF boss, Yasin Malik to Chennai.  

Keeping the politics apart, many Kashmiris have find their home in Chennai. Although the environment and the other parameters in Chennai are altogether different as those in Kashmir but for many Kashmiris it is a breeding ground to run their business specially the handicrafts. Interestingly there are market places in Chennai like Mahabalipuram and Spenser’s Plaza, where there are more than hundred Kashmiri shops in one place.  

During my last six months in chennai, I have met many Kashmiri fellows who have almost been settled permanently in Chennai. Muhammad Ayub from old city is one such person who is settled in chennai with his family. Running emporium shops in various parts of Tamil Nadu, Ayub has spend almost three decades in chennai. His typical old kashmiri face and a long white beard speaks of his experience. Abdul Rehman is another Kashmiri whom I met in a mosque. Rehman says he came to chennai some two decads back, married a local tamil woman and hence got settled there. “Following on his food habits also changed from Noon-chai and Kander Czout to Idli and dosa,” he said with a smile.      

A good reason for this settlement can be that south India is much safer for Kashmiris if we talk of the politics against Kashmiris like in rest of the states in India. But sometimes it makes me wonder for how many more years Kashmiri people will be forced to leave their homes in pursuit of a “better” living. And now when I am living in my new home of scorching sun and humid air, I wish for change again. Needless to say this time to a colder place, Kashmir.

[P.S. This piece was first published in kashmirlife ]

Emergency Call

and my heartbeats started to pump up out of the rhythmic 72 per minute...[FICTION]

   ABDUL WAJID

 “Flushhhh!!!!!!”, down goes the flush of the toilet as I got relieved of my waste. “Hooooohh!”, I exhaled a sigh of relief and took a deep breath before the mirror in the rest room of my office. Watching myself relaxed into the mirror, I smiled at my reflection and came out merrily, whistling and humming random songs with myself, “laa la la laaa”. 

Quite casually I stepped out of the rest room and started moving towards my desk that a loud bam of emergency announcements thudded my ears with thumping sounds of “Fire Fire!!!…Pomp Pomp!!!”. The same iterated for few more times turning me nervous. “Wallah! What is going on?” I questioned to my astounded self. Few more minutes passed and some earsplitting noise from sirens resonated to add to my annoyance and more to my surprise.

It sounded as an emergency call and I turned too scary looking around chaotically to see how the people react. Period! Couldn’t see anyone around, now my fear started getting aggravated and my heartbeats started to pump up out of the rhythmic 72 per minute. The worry on my face was visible from the rush of sweat running down my face in response to the hormones that instinct fear.

Running for my life, I rushed to the lift that was shutdown in emergency. This added more to my uneasiness. In no time, I ran towards the stairs and moved down hurriedly panting like anything. I was out of breath, running for my life that seemed running away from me fearing some mysterious danger. I was feeling as if I am the Will Smith from I am legend looking for a trace of life in an alienated and outlandish world.

While descending the stairs, I was struggling at every step to see the open air and a safer zone.  Finally after stumbling and tumbling, I landed on the ground floor throbbing and panting for air. All drenched in sweat, I took a pause and leaned forward, with my hands touching my knees and my head hanging down to ground, to catch hold of my losing breath. Ho!! I lifted myself up and as I looked around, I was dumbfounded. 

My,Oh,my, I could not believe what the reality presented to me and my eyes protested back in surprise. I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to see the reality more.  Again, I was spellbound. My mouth was wide open, short of words, with the wide-eyed me, watching people relaxed, chatting, gabbing and laughing. “Oh My God!!” I uttered to my break my surprise. It was an enumerate crowd of people, all relaxed and all busy with their respective circles, rejoicing their complimentary time thanks to a mock drill that was going on. “A damn mock drill”, I ridiculously murmured to myself before I rested my broken self on the parapet.

Finally, I took a deep breath to comfort my puffed breathing. I smiled and I laughed… Ha-ha! Soon my cardiograph jotted down to normal 72 per minute and I smiled at the people around. I looked up into the air and smiled again for the reason unknown.         

Well, as of now when everything seems safe and sound, I feel next time even if the real calamity bells the emergency whistles, I would rather be catching Z’s on my desk and dreaming for a good life than chasing for a mock.

P.S. Mock drills are important exercises awakening people about the various security measures to be followed for safety. But the more important thing is that the mock drills should really serve its purpose at the time of a real calamity. Because everyone knows the story of the boy who cried wolf :D