I belong to the 90’s generation, a time when struggle for independence of Kashmir was passing through its bloodiest phase. A few months before it all started, I was enrolled in a prestigious school in Srinagar, but my education started at home. As one of my former principal writes in his memoirs , which appeared in the school magazine a few years later, we had only 60 working days that year, the rest of the year was consumed by curfews, crackdowns, and strikes. Living in a posh colony shielded me from the outside world; I couldn’t see what was happening outside my fortified home, but even walls couldn’t stop the voices of freedom pouring into my life. Like any child who recites nursery rhymes, I recited my own, “Hum kya chahetay Azadi”, “Sarhad paar jayenge Kalashankope layengay Bharat ko bhagayenge”, I asked my father what a Kalashankope (Kalashnikov) was, he pointed towards a pressure cooker, I used to wondered why we would have to go to distant land to get a pressure cooker. Time passed, my home became my school and my parents became my teachers. I learned English words before I learned the alphabets, grenade, bomb, curfew, and crackdown became part of my lingo. In May 1990 my mother was expecting my younger brother, while accompanying her to the Lal Ded hospital with my grandmother; I saw blood for the first time. A blast had occurred just outside the hospital, the injured were ferried into the maternity hospital, blood oozing from their bodies, and I cannot forget the scene.
The battle outside became bloodier while my battle had just begun. Bomb blasts, rapes, firing, killings, I struggled to understand why this all way happening till I gave it up. My parents shielded me from the outside world; politics became a big no in our house. Nobody talked about daily happenings, this disconnect, between reality and the small world that was created for me was filled with television. It successful separated the outside world from the world within me. Television became a part of my existence; it became my reason to live. My world was isolated, but occasional search raids, crackdown or an encounter in the distant neighbourhood disturbed the calmness my parents were able to construct.
Reality hits you hard: It was late 1995 immediately after the inferno at Chari-Sharief, when the shrine of the most revered saint of Kashmiri’s was gutted by security forces as militants were hiding inside. We had shifted our home from the city to a suburb, living in a colony where neighbours hardly cared to know about each other. Mother was not at home, nor was my younger brother; it was a chilly day, overnight encounter at a house two streets away forced Farooq sahib, father’s close friend to stay at our home. A loud knock at the door, woke us up, Papa went outside, eyes half close and I followed. He opened the door, immediately, 10 men dressed in traditional olive green of the security forces pounced on him, slapping him till he fell on the ground and followed by kicks and hits by gun butt. I was a couple of steps behind him, stopped, taken back, the moment seized me and I was rendered incapable to act by such a sudden turn of events. Farooq Sahib rushed out of the house only to be met by the same fate. Blood was oozing out of his nose as he was dragged inside the home. I tried to follow, but one of them caught hold of me, I didn’t resist. I realized I had become deaf till I heard the cries of pain from inside the house. I felt like I am the loneliest person in the world. It continued for hours, if don’t know how many, then they left and our lawn was filled with neighbours. Papa put up a brave face as he was being removed from the house, carried by three men. He pointed his finger towards me and signalled something to the next door aunty, who was holding my hand by now. She cuddled me and I moved my face towards her, putting a hand on my head and moving my eyes away from the scene. Papa was moved to a nearby hospital, and his stay was not too long. Only recently he revealed how he was tortured, beaten mercilessly, unclothed, water was poured all over his body and electric shocks were given. All this torture because they alleged that a militant had passed through our compound and crossed over to the other side of the colony, an incident over which you have no control. My father has been a law abiding citizen all his life, highly educated he worked for the State Electricity department, he retired recently as a high ranking officer.
Coming of age: Time doesn’t fly when the sole purpose of living is just to save your life. It was early 2000; the hype around the Y2K bug had died down. I had started reading newspapers, the stories of grief and death filled them. I was growing, in Kashmir growing up comes with its own set of problem. When people are seen as enemies, a young 13 year old is seen as a potential enemy. There were security forces all over, ogling at women, passing lewd remarks; nobody dared to raise his voice. Fear of life is the greatest fear, and I was there, caught in the web of uncertainty. “Identity card kahan hai”, he demanded, and I responded negatively. Abuses were hurled at me, a hit from a bamboo stick, and I was made to hold my ears while going up and down. I was made to run, I ran as fast I could, time had stopped; it was a race for life. Next day I got my Identity Card made and it became a part of my life. Air, food and water are needed to survive; in Kashmir an Identity card is more important than the rest. Every time I stepped out of the house, mother reminded me to carry it, only recently has she stopped. Like all the other things this piece of paper also became a part of my life. It lies in my wallet as an unwanted necessity.
The final blow: Internet came in 2006; I began reading everything I could. All these years there had been a severe disconnect between me and Kashmir. Kunanposhpora where 100 women were gang raped by security forces, protestors were fired upon at Gaw Kadal killing 57, the whole town of Handwara was burned to ashes by the Indian security forces, 10000 people are still missing after being detained by security forces. Then came 2008 and it began all of a sudden, people were protesting against the transfer of land to the Amarnath Shrine Board. Then the communal forces in Jammu did something unbelievable, they imposed an economic blockade and huge protests erupted. A protest against the transfer of land was now a full blown revolution. It was back to the nineties, but there were no guns, only bullets from the security forces. One after another protestors fell to their bullets. I was angry, they were people of my age, protesting peacefully and bullets were showered on them. I couldn’t sleep at night; I wanted all this to end. The killing of innocents is still continuing. I have lost the count of the dead; everyone has lost the count of the dead. Which country showers bullets on its people? I came to realize that India only wanted Kashmir, not its people. Kashmiri’s were just unwanted addition to the piece of real estate they had acquired. Nobody cared about the people, it doesn’t matter if they live or die. Even small kids are not spared, Sameer and Milad were both 8 year olds, were they a threat to a great nation of billion people, the worlds largest democracy.
I don’t feel like an India, and why should I. Security forces have killed my people, raped our women, 10000 people are still missing. Independent sources put the number of dead between 70000 and 100000, nobody know how many got injured, how many were disabled for life. The government figure says 20000 people got killed, that means more than two innocents were killed every single day for the twenty one years.
Still I am not an anti Indian, common Indian have no role in our sufferings. In fact they have more in common with Kashmiri’s than the corrupt Kashmiri politicians in the government. I don’t throw stones at the security forces, my upbringing never taught me so, I will fight but I will not hurt you.
Kashmiri’s also want peace, development, jobs but above all they want right to life and dignity which has been sinfully denied. Azadi may sound Utopian but it is the only option left to save Kashmir and Kashmiri’s. Some may argue if independent Kashmir is viable, it is surrounded by three nuclear powers. My answer to them is that even if Kashmir is independent even for a day, that day would be more precious than a thousand years lived under such a brutal repressive regime we are currently living under. A day when our land will be truly ours, the air we breathe would the free; the winds would bring the songs of joy and freedom.
I am hopeful
Wande tchali sheen gali, beye yie bahar
If the winter comes, can the spring be far behind?
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