Why I don’t feel like an Indian

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Omar Bashir takes us through a very powerful and thoughtful piece of writing which combines a personal testimony and highlights the alienation of Kashmir with India

I was born in 90s—a time when armed rebellion against New Delhi’s rule in Kashmir was passing through the bloodiest phase. A few months before it actually began, I was enrolled in one of Srinagar’s prestigious school but I had most of my studies at home.

As one of my former principal writes in his memoirs that appeared in our school magazine a few years later: “There were only 60 working days and the rest of year was consumed by curfews, crackdowns, and strikes.”

Living in a posh colony shielded me from the outside world in some way; it couldn’t, however, stop me see what was happening in the streets outside. The voices of Azadi (freedom) became a part of my life and like any child who recites nursery rhymes, I found myself reciting my own, ‘Hum Kya Chahetay Azadi (We Want Freedom)’, ‘Sarhad Paar Jayenge Kalashankope Layengay Bharat Ko Bhagayenge(We’ll Cross Over The Border, Bring Kalashnikov and Chase Away India)’.  One day I asked my father what a Kalashankope (Kalashnikov) was, he pointed towards a pressure cooker. I used to wonder why youth would cross over to Pakistan-administered Kashmir to get a pressure cooker. Time passed, my home became my school and my parents became my teachers.  I learnt English words before I learnt words, grenade, bomb, curfew, and crackdown became part of my lingo.  In May 1990, I remember my mother was expecting my younger brother and while accompanying her to the city’s Lalded hospital with my grandmother I saw blood for the first time. A blast occurred just outside the hospital. Dozens were injured. All of them were taken to the hospital and I saw blood oozing from their bodies—a scene that I can’t forget.

Soon the fight in streets became bloodier while my battle of understanding Kashmir conflict and its dimensions had just begun. Bomb blasts, rapes, firing, killings, I struggled to understand why all of this was 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, however, filled with television. It successfully 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 neighbourhood disturbed the calmness my parents had constructed for me.

Reality Hits You Hard: The year 1995 saw inferno of the Chari-e-Sharief shrine. Troops had set it on fire as militants were present inside the structure. Before the event, we had shifted from the city to a suburb colony, where neighbours hardly cared to know about each other. One chilly day, an encounter between militants and troops a couple of streets away, had forced Farooq sahib, my father’s close friend to stay at our home. That day mother was not home, neither was my younger brother. I remember a loud knock at the door woke up all of us. Father hastily opened the door. Soon almost ten troopers in olive green pounced on him. They slapped my father till he fell on the ground. It was followed by jackboot kicks and bayonet beating. I remember I was crying just few steps away. The moment seized for me. I was witnessing all of it and incapable to act. Farooq Sahib tried to protect him only to be met the same fate. He was dragged outside the home and soon blood had drenching his clothes. I tried to follow but one of the troopers caught hold of me. My frail body didn’t resist. I realized I had become deaf till I heard the cries coming from inside the house. I felt like I am the loneliest person in the world. The torment continued for hours till the troopers left. Our lawn was soon filled with neighbours who consoled the victims. The bamboo bashing had broken father’s several bones. But he put up a brave face when he was being ferried to hospital.  I remember, he pointed his finger towards me and signalled something to my aunt, who was holding my hand by now. She cuddled me. She kept her hand on my head and eyes till my injured father was taken away for hospital. My Father often talks about that day. Only recently he explained to me how he was tortured, beaten mercilessly, unclothed. He was water boarded and electric shocks were passed through his entire body. My father says that the troops wanted a militant who they said had passed through our compound and crossed over to the other side of the colony. My father often repeats that he has never harmed anybody but all this torment comes with the package for all those living in Kashmir.

Coming of Age: Time doesn’t fly away when the sole purpose of living is just to save your life. It was in early 2000 that the hype around the Y2K bug had died down. I had started reading newspapers with most of the material about stories on deaths and destruction. I was growing and in Kashmir growing up comes with the price. Men and children alike were seen as enemies even a 13-year-old teenager was taken for a potential enemy. There were troops all over the area, ogling at women, passing lewd remarks and nobody dared raise their voice. Fear of life is the greatest fear and I was always there caught in the web of uncertainties. ‘Identity Card Kahan Hai-Where is your Identity Card’, one day a trooper demanded in a street. I remember I had responded in negative to say that I don’t posses any. The trooper hurled abuses, hit me with a bamboo cane and ordered me to wring my ears and do ups and downs. Then I was told to run as fast as I could. Looking back, I was told, would mean a bullet in the back. I ran. It was a race for life. I had never run so fast before. I remember next day I got my I-Card made. Since then it became a part of my life. Usually people need oxygen, food and water to survive, but to me I-Card was a proud possession.  I would make sure that every time I step out of the house I carry my I-card with me.

The Final Blow: Internet entered Kashmir in early 2005 but became popular in 2006 and 2007.  I was soon reading almost everything about Kashmir conflict. Before these years I never read anything about Kunan-Poshpora villages where more than 50 women, regardless of age, were gang raped by troops, peaceful protestors were fired upon at Gaw Kadal in Srinagar killing 57, the entire town of Handwara was burnt to ashes. I never realised that more than 10,000 people are still missing in the custody of troops. Then came 2008. An uneasy lull in the first few months later saw a sudden spurt in dissent. People were protesting against the controversial transfer of land to the Amaranth Shrine Board led by people who didn’t belong to the State. The communal forces in Jammu did something unbelievable. They imposed an economic blockade on the valleyties triggering mighty protest demonstrations. The protests turned into a full blown revolution. Kashmir was pushed back to nineties, but this time there were no guns from people’s side. Just bare chests and stones. But the peaceful marches were scuttled by bullets. One after another, some 70 protesters, mostly children, fell to the bullets. I was angry. Because those who died were people of my age. They were protesting peacefully and bullets were showered on them. I couldn’t sleep many nights. I wanted to end all of this. I would be reminded of Indian leaders’ speeches that Kashmir was an integral part. But soon I realized that India only wanted Kashmir, not its people. An average Kashmiri was just a thorn in the flesh. No one was spared. Sameer and Milad were both 8, yet they posed a great threat to a nation of billion people and the world’s largest democracy.

I don’t feel like an Indian. But all these things didn’t make me anti-India as well. I guess a common Indian has no role in our sufferings. I don’t either throw stones at the troops. My upbringing never taught me so but that never means I stop demanding my rights from Delhi.

Kashmiris no doubt want peace, development and jobs but above all they want right to life and dignity which has been sinfully denied.  Azadi may sound an utopian idea but it is the only option left to save Kashmir and its people. Hope our land will be truly ours, the air we breathe would be free and the winds would bring the songs of joy and freedom. I am hopeful this bloodshed will stop one day. That day Wande Tchali Sheen Gali, Beye Yie Bahar (If the winter comes, can the spring be far behind?)
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Author is a student and blogs at www.timezofkashmir.blogspot.com