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
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