And Kashmiris Continue To Suffer….

Guest Post By: Samreen Mushtaq

Sitting comfortably at home with a “Pheran” and Kangri to protect me from this chilly winter, a look at the calendar makes me realise that my vacations are just about to end. Four more days and I’ll be back to the artificial world of Delhi. The thought of being away has made Kashmir more dearer than ever to me. This vacation has certainly been a memorable one. What do I tell my roommates when they ask about how the vacations went? There’s a lot that happened, a lot that shouldn’t have happened.

Never will I forget the ‘Zoi se Zaalim’ controversy, when JK Police registered a case against the JK Board of School Education on the grounds that the picture of ‘zaalim’ (oppressor) shown in the Urdu text book of primary class was that of a policeman (well, they thought so). Never will I forget that I need to forget there exists a letter called ‘zoi’ in Urdu, afterall who wants to be booked?

How will I forget what welcomed Kashmir on the new year – the killing of a young student in Boniyar, Uri, in district Baramulla. The reason for the killing was, as usual, completely unjustified. He was killed just because there was a protest going on in the region against erratic power supply and the forces opened fire to disperse the unarmed protestors. Is this reason enough to kill someone? Is human life so cheap? But then, such things are bound to happen when the forces are most powerful and least accountable. Thanks to the draconian laws that protect them and hurt the commoner! Even though the Chief Minister promised swift action, it’s a secret to none that it is going to become another forgotten story for them, another terrible incident added to our memory and for the boy’s family, it’s a nightmare that they’ll live with every day…every night for the rest of their lives. Same is true about all those who lost their dear ones, about the families of the disappeared, about orphans, widows and half-widows. I’m reminded of these lines from Mirza Waheed’s The Collaborator - “I am aware that these bodies, these remains of our ‘disappeared’ boys, might serve as evidence one day…for someone to make a shocking discovery…for someone to write a front-page story…for someone to order a judicial enquiry. But then, who actually cares or does anything in the end? No one is ever punished here. It will only ever be a story.”

How can I forget how beautiful the valley looked when the white flakes danced in the air, how I again fell in love with my Kashmir as the snow draped it, how I wanted to keep looking at it all the time- at its’ snow-capped mountains, at the land and trees… Kashmir looked breath-taking. And then there was the ‘dark spell’, Kashmir was without electricity for three days at a time when the snow and icy winds had made winter even more harsh. Abundance of resources and still living in the ‘dark ages’.. And if you protest, you’ll be greeted with a bullet – Yes, that’s my Kashmir.

When my vacations had started, I came with the hope of seeing no more blood spilled, of seeing no family devastated, of seeing no flower of this vale wither away..but the contrary happened. As I prepare to go to Delhi, I know I’ll miss Kashmir but leave with the same hope and prayer – peaceful Kashmir.

"Come on My Brothers" - By Lonesome Kashmiri

Come on my Brothers we have work to do.
What do you see in the skies when the sun rises? Do you see the beauty of the dawn or do you see the crimson blood of our Martyrs? What do you see when the dusk approaches? Do you see the ebony beauty of the dusk or do you see the black shadows of India? What do you see when you see the bright yellow Mustard flowers blossoming in the fields? Do you see the golden beauty or do you see the endless graves of our brothers resting peacefully? What do you see when the waterfall glimmers in the sunlight? Do you see crystals dancing in sunlight or do you see the tears of a violated sister? What do you see when you see the snowcapped mountains in the distance? Do you see the peace it exuberates or do you see the shrouds of children Killed by our enemy. What do you see when the spring announces the arrival with fresh leaves decorating the branches of the walnut tree? Do you see the innocent and charming display or do you see the forthcoming Islamic revolution?



What do you hear when frogs croak in the yards? Do you hear nature’s symphony or do you hear the cries of a mother who lost her son? What do you hear when the winds play music in the night? Do you hear the melody or do you hear the shouts for freedom? What do you hear when the birds play their mesmerizing tunes? Do you hear the songs of harmony or do you hear the painful cries when a sister was raped? What do you hear when water gushes through the canals of Kashmir? Do you hear the nature laughing or do you hear the sighs of a brother in prison? What do you hear when the cricket plays its amusing song? Do you wonder at the nature’s mystery or do you hear the boots of the soldiers. What do you hear when rain falls on the window panes? Do you hear the perfect sync or do you hear the sound of bullets whizzing past by you. What do you hear when the hooves of the horses create miraculous harmony? Do you marvel at the strength in the legs of the beasts or do you think of the great warriors of Islam?

What do you think when you start eating the food you mother has cooked for you? Does it remind you of the ones who do not have anything? What do you think when you sit in the exam hall? Do you think of the marks you will get or do you think of the examination on the day of the Judgment? What do you think when you buy new shoes or new clothes? Does it remind you of how smart you will look or does it remind you of the brothers who lost their legs and arms in a protest? What do you think when you start writing on the Notebook or typing on your PC? Does it even remind you of the obligations that you have towards the Islamic Revolution? What do you think when you leave for College in the morning? Do you think of the ones who left everything back home to fight for the sake of Allah? What do you think when you leave for work in the mornings? Do you think of the ones back home who have no one left to earn a livelihood? What do you think when your daughter hugs you when you come back from work? Does it fill you with joy and love and then do you remember the daughter of a Mujahid who has not been to home for so long?

Be your own judge when you reply to the above questions. And believe me, my Brothers we have work to do.

"I weep for Kashmir from far away land"

Life seemed so perfect. Everything was falling in place. I was joined by a leading businessman seated next to me on a plane from Bombay to Srinagar. We had a conversation about market trends. How to start a business, maintain it and milk the cow for the rest of one’s life. It was a pretty educating insight as on my return home I wanted to start with a business.
I bid goodbye to the businessman as our plane landed at Indira Gandhi International Airport in Indian capital New Delhi.With nothing to do I plugged my ears with the latest ‘Creative’ headphones I had brought from Lamington Road in Bombay. I played Beatles – Tomorrow never Knows.
The plane took off once more, the rest of a journey was catalepsy of trance playing to my ears. I was coming back home after two long years and in this excitement time seemed to have paced up its speed.Unaware of the events back home, we landed at Srinagar. I alighted the plane waved at my dad who was standing there with a million dollar smile. We hugged and took a taxi back home. On the way, uptown Srinagar was calm considering the fact that last five days had been a curfew and today was a 'civil curfew'. A self imposed stay at home in which people impose curfew like restrictions on themselves to protest the denial of the rights to live.
For last sixty-three years Kashmir has been an occupation. Thousands of young Kashmiris have died, have been killed in the fight for liberation. An armed struggle which began when I was a kid went through different phases - from a popular mass revolt to a conventional guerrilla struggle.
Twenty years, after young Kashmiri boys crossed the border for arms training at the camp in Azad Kashmir, the struggle has passed onto another generation. My generation, my friends with whom I played cricket and rode a bike on the streets of Downtown Srinagar were fighting a brutal enemy. And this fight was unequal - my friends threw slogans at the enemy and the enemy responded with bullets. Taking away lives and silencing the dissent.As the taxi rode on the streets of Srinagar there was not even a single shutter or a road which did not carry the graffiti “Go India Go Back” , “We Want Freedom”.These words were written by a new generation who had choose the path of revolt against a sophisticated form of occupation, which unlike the one in Iraq and Afghanistan, is more cunning and more dangerous.
We enter Downtown. There was smell of burning tires near the Jamia Masjid. Groups of angry men and women faced the Indian occupational apparatus, some shouting for freedom, some carrying bodies of the injured and those killed by Indian Army, some pelting stones and others stuffing a ‘bag full of limbs’ which were scattered on the road.Women were showering the protestors with flower petals and dry fruits from the rooftops and windows. Others were singing folklores for the martyrs. Blood, tear-smoke and the spirit of freedom was all I could see.As we moved on the driver explained to me the events taking place here. How an old man who wanted to hug the dead body of his son was beaten to death, of how tear gas cannisters were aimed with an intention to hit the heads and how trigger happy the Indian soldiers were. How even the funeral processions of people killed by Indian forces were not spared and fired upon.How the dual rape of Shopian sisters took place and how the leading investigation agency of India, the CBI managed to fabricate the lies. They bestow ‘Chakras’ to the soldiers who rape women here, aid them to flee the country and evade law, said an old man I met at the Islamia College the next day.
I ought not to believe all this, not because I had not lived in Kashmir before but due to the fact that now I had spent quite a time in India, with people from India, with friends from India with whom I shared the food on one single plate, and how could I forget the taste of that crab cooked as per Maharashtrian cuisine -- it made me forget my religion.The jam-packed residential buildings had induced a spirit of secularism into me. We drove the same car irrespective of whom it belonged to, my language had a certain twist to it, I had started to speak Mumbaiya (combination of words from Hindi and Marathi).
This dual facet of India was hard to swallow. I grabbed the copies of all the newspapers from past thirty days. I wanted to see and analyze all this by myself. Page after page I came across the innumerous inhuman practices experimented upon the Kashmiri population. I came to know of the woman who was washing blood stains outside her home and how Indian media had edited the scene.I came to know of an eight year old kid with a toffee in his mouth was beaten to death, ruthlessly by the Central Reserved Police force. When his body was taken home, the toffee was still in his hand.I came to know about a neighbor mechanic, who as a kid used to play cricket with me and was a super fast bowler, who had his arm amputated when hit by a tear smoke shell.I felt an acute change taking over my being. It was time to free Kashmir from the shackles of slavery and chains of sufferings. A stone would come handy for most of my friends back home vouched for one.A stone in my hand and courage in my heart that is how we protest the illegal occupation of India at Kashmir, with bare chests and a desire to dance and die in the dust of Kashmir is how we protest the illegal occupation.
In the rain of bullets it takes courage for a mother to send her son out and fight the occupation. I salute the mothers of Kashmir who bid farewells to their grooms when they leave for their last journeys.

By Junaid S