Timez of Kashmir

Kashmiri meme

2012-02-21T20:30:00.000+05:30

Zoi: A Weapon of Mass Destruction

2011-12-29T00:09:00.000+05:30

Zoi: A Weapon of Mass Destruction

Twitter Rules

2011-11-27T00:31:00.001+05:30

Kashmiri Dictionary

2011-11-21T01:07:00.000+05:30

An Excerpt From the Collaborator by Mirza Waheed

2011-02-08T19:54:00.000+05:30

I saw my first dead body, before the population of dead bodies I deal with now, in that breezeless dry summer of last year. The fact that it was someone I knew made it more momentous, more shocking somehow.

After the brief encounter with the curfew mothers, Baba suddenly seemed older. His beard appeared tired and elderly, rather than well trimmed and prosperous. He dressed more untidily, his large bearing somewhat unkempt, and his temper was turning jittery too. As usual, he took out most of his anger on his hookah; the pouches I brought from Noor Khan got heavier and heavier. For the first time ever, he seemed uncertain, not in control of things. He was used to order—things around him moved more or less according to his wishes, not just inside his own house but outside, in the village as well. People came to him for advice, loans, judgements, and he relished every bit of it. Ever since I could remember, I’d seen Baba like that—corner seat in the living room, two round cushions squashed behind him, small trunk by the window sill, and a pregnantlooking copper hookah in front of him, always, like another character in the room. But now, things seemed to be slipping from his hands, it was beyond his grasp.

He was losing his village, his people—even I could see that. Although I’m not too sure if even I could sense it fully then, that this was the beginning of the end. The incident with Gul Khan’s older brother, Farooq, was the first. What followed thereafter didn’t let up until it brought the end: the cessation of life as we knew it, as Baba knew it, as his elders had imagined and created in the small village in its tiny beginnings in 1947, a year of partitions and pogroms and general ruination. The discreet border hamlet nestled in the hills was about to end its brief life as a community.

The day the curfew, women had come begging, Baba had emptied Noor Khan’s shop of all its milk-powder tins and handed them to each of the women and blessed them, saying, ‘Have faith in Allahtaala, He will make it easy soon, God bless you, it’s just a test, it will pass, all of us face a test at some point or other in life.’ And they had walked off in the same manner as they had appeared in the street, with the same young woman leading them out. Baba and I had looked at their receding forms and then gone home together. He kept nodding his head and sighing all the way home. It was a Saturday and I assume all of us spent the rest of the day, and the next, thinking about the women.Who were they, where had they come from, why, how? Only Noor and I discussed it at some length the next day. Noor said they must have been sent by their men, because it would have been far more dangerous for them to be searching for food, amidst the new Governor’s curfew. I wondered if perhaps they didn’t have husbands any more. Noor said that wasn’t possible.

THE ARMY JEEPS ARRIVED on a Monday morning, screeching through mini storms of dust, and sending vagabond hens fluttering high in the air. It was two weeks after the women had come and gone. A full caravan of vehicles, with LMG-mounted windowless jeeps at the front and a menacing, dark grey tank-like truck at the rear.

We’d surely become news now.

Noor had been right: how long could it stay hidden? After all, four of our boys had left to become militants, to wage war against the mighty Indian Army, four boys, and that too from a small, nondescript village near the LoC, under the very nose of the Bharti Fauj.

I’d come to see Noor a little early that day, and had just opened the ledger and drawn a bold line under the Choudharys’ previous monthly total—Rs170 in all, they were poor indeed—and started a fresh page for them, when we heard an approaching grunt and hum, and soon, too soon, we saw the green front of a customized army Gypsy hurtling on to the street.

There were 11 Gypsies in all, green and gleaming, some of them open-topped with black-cat commandos standing by the side bars with their machine guns hanging loose, toy-like, from their shoulders. The guns were smallish, metal grey, and seemed very sophisticated—I had never seen such weapons in my life, not even on TV. The men wore new dark green uniforms, overalls, and had tied their black scarves in a way that made the fabric form tight skullcaps on their heads, as the rest of the material flew about behind their backs. From a distance, from the angle we were looking from, they looked like a pack of animals—creatures different from ordinary people. At last I understood the name they had been given: black cats. They stopped at the mouth of the small lane leading to Gul Khan’s house on the left of the street, parked their vehicles, criss-crossed on either side, and rushed in quickly—most of them—leaving only a handful behind. Dust from the street swayed upwards in short-lived clouds. We could hear the drum of hurried footsteps. The house stood there, imposing, even from behind the thick wall of willows, poplars and keekars lining their front courtyard. There was another rude flurry of steps and then I heard three or four loud quick blows. I guessed they were tearing the main door off its hinges. It first creaked mournfully, then cracked, and then fell with a sharp, painful sound. Birds flapped away.

For the next two or three minutes, Noor and I just heard screaming and shouting from the house. A low, stretched wail emerged from behind the trees. We stood nailed to a spot in front of the shop; the occupants of one of the machine gun- mounted vehicles watched us from a distance as they closed off the lane with their backs towards it, their eyes gazing towards the shopfront and the street beyond. I felt weak. The shouting became more frantic now, as if desperate to stop something, but, at the same time, as if also aware of its own inefficacy in the face of inevitable disaster. Noor looked terrified. And soon, we saw the commandos bring someone out, with coils of rope tied around his neck and arms. His face was covered and he was stuttering forward. The wailing picked up after a brief hiatus. For the tiniest of moments, I hoped it might be Gul himself brought out of long hiding in his own house. But it was Gul’s brother instead, his big brother Farooq, the bully of our childhood, the peevish inquisitor of his younger brother; even though he was covered with a sack-like tunic over his head it was unmistakably him. It happened so quickly. Almost without drama, except for the low crying coming out of the house. They hurled him into one of the Gypsies in the middle, waited for the men who had taken positions at the mouth of the street to jump into their respective jeeps, and then screeched off immediately, as quickly as they had appeared, once again sending a few hens off into laborious flight. We had no time to take it all in. Gul’s mother came out with hands raised to the skies, crying. She was a short, stocky woman and, looking into the receding vehicles, gave a piercing cry beckoning them to stop. Gul’s father, Sharafat Khan, stood motionless near her, gazing at the storm of dust from the departing military vehicles. Noor Khan turned to me. He looked sick.

“What can I do, Chacha?” I swallowed and somehow managed to pick myself up from the shop floor and jumped into my nylon slippers. I walked towards Farooq’s stunned father and drew close to him, but not too close. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run to Baba, to report what had just happened, to ask him if he could do something, anything, and was still trying to make up my mind and will some life into my senseless knees, when he himself appeared from the other end of the street along with Lassa Kaka.

Farooq had been taken.

No one, not even the Sarpanch himself, knew what to say, what to make of this, what to do about it, what to do about anything. Nowgam had become known, and we hadn’t realized it until that moment. Ferocious-looking military men had arrived and taken one of us with them. A few weeks earlier, when Noor Khan had tried to convince me of some mysterious nocturnal activity in the area, I had been sceptical. He had believed there was traffic through the street at night. He had heard vehicles, he said, and seen traces of sand and red brick dust here and there in the mornings until it disappeared as the day progressed.

Later, it became known that the Army had briefly questioned Farooq’s parents, before taking their older son into a separate room and shouting at him—“You want Azadi, right? We will give you Azadi, come with us, we’ll give it you!”—and then re-emerging with him bound in ropes and a black sack thrown over his head. I felt guilty for ever having made fun of him.

FAROOQ RETURNED AFTER THREE WEEKS. Tortured, he became a tourist site. Everyone came to see him. I never talked to him about his stay with the Army, but theories abounded. Some people said he was not harmed at all and he readily gave all the information about Gul and the others, and that’s why he was let off so soon. Others said he was tortured day and night by Kashmiri Pandit police officers, bent on revenge after their tragic exodus from the valley, and he had no choice but to tell them everything he knew. (What did he know?) Some even elaborated on the methods of torture used on Farooq Khan. He was made to pee on an electric heater while they threw ice-cold water over him; they pierced a red-hot knitting needle through his penis and then gave him electric shocks; they stuffed a bamboo cane with hot chilli powder and thrust it up his anus and then broke the cane; they made him drink their collective urine after keeping him thirsty for days; they ran a cricket roller over his feet and knees; no, they let loose their big dogs on him and that was the point when he broke, for he had always been scared of dogs . . . At the time I had no way of confirming if he had suffered in this way— ways which had become lore in all of Kashmir. I know now, but I felt terribly, terribly sorry for Farooq. Guilty even. He looked broken, his voice had changed; he spoke like a small girl now, in a low, squeaky whimper. The man who would walk through the village with a cassette player around his neck, often singing along loudly in his rakish manner to his favourite songs from the film Qurbani, now spoke in an almost-inaudible low voice. I went to visit him with Noor Khan one Sunday afternoon but couldn’t manage to say a single word.

“How are you doing? I hear you’re going to college; very good thing you have done, really,” he said to me, smiling meekly from his mattress. There was a stink to him, or to the mattress, or to the whole room. Without our asking, or indicating in any manner that we were curious, he lifted his kurta up and showed us the area above his groin. There were small, etched black pits all over his pubic area.

I didn’t know what to say. He just kept holding his kurta up and stared casually at the ceiling. I guess he had become so used to showing his bruises and injuries that he didn’t wait for us to ask. Just get it over with, he must have thought. “You want to see what they did behind . . . ?” he whispered, almost with anticipation.

I couldn’t say yes, I couldn’t say no.

Noor Khan intervened quickly and said, “No, no, beta, it’s all right, we know, we know, your father has told me everything. You don’t worry, son, it will all be fine, just takes time.” As if he knew all about third-degree interrogation methods, their after-effects and how long they took to heal. “Just take lots of rest—and anything you need from the shop, please send someone, all right?”

Compounder Chechi came and gave him penicillin injections. I looked at the kehwa-coloured liquid swinging inside the slender glass vial as he broke its tip against the edge of the tobacco box lying nearby. Noor Khan took out an envelope and left it by the mattress. Later, he told me it contained some money; he’d heard that Gul’s father had had to spend every single penny he had to get Farooq out.

Does that happen?

Of course, anything can happen now.

For three weeks, Gul’s house became a shrine. Every day somebody came to visit, to see the boy returned from army detention, to see what had happened to him, to check his torture marks, and then to sigh loudly and wish him all the best of health, while also secretly thanking God, I guessed, that it hadn’t been their son. The only person who didn’t visit, or the person I noticed by his complete absence, was Hussain’s abba. People from Farooq’s extended clan spread as far as Rajouri near Jammu—even they came to see him, but Khadim Hussain didn’t. The azans had dried up too.

While Farooq was home—and he didn’t step out of the house even once after he was released—it gave an air of excitement to the streets. Yes, people talked about the horror and terror of having to go through torture, and prayed nobody would have to meet such a fate again, but something about having a young man of theirs taken and returned in a compromised state brought some kind of self-recognition as well: We too are a part of it all.

I never saw Farooq walk after that.

AT HOME BABA, as I said, pondered endlessly, and smoked. Occasionally, he eyed me with some kind of an inquisition.

See what happens.

One night, after we had eaten and Baba had left the kitchen to warm up his hookah, Ma came to sit beside me. She just sat there for a long, long time. We were both silent. Then she slowly ruffled my hair and hugged me, quickly. “Would you like me to make some tea? I won’t put too much milk in it, all right?” she said, gently touching my hair again.

“Okay, Ma. Why don’t you have a cup too . . . ?”

“Yes, yes, me too . . .” She paused now, in that familiar manner of hers when she has something else on her mind. “I was thinking, beta, that maybe you shouldn’t stay up so late. I know you have to study, but you know, Baba was saying . . .” She paused again to look at me.

I decided not to betray any signs of irritation, “What was Baba saying, Ma?”

“Oh, nothing . . . Nothing much . . . He was just, he was just saying that maybe it’s not very safe having your room lit up like that all night.”

Why didn’t he say so himself ?

Are you now going to send me messages through Ma? What have I done, Baba?

“He’s just concerned, beta, don’t get him wrong, he was just saying people could be wandering around at night; you know how it is these days, and if they see your room all bright . . . ? That’s all.”

Ma grabbed the kerosene stove by its twiggy brass legs and pumped life into it with a few quick shoves of the well-greased pump. The thing soon glowed with an arc of orange and blue light.

Who the hell was going to circle our house in this wilderness at night, looking for a candlelit room?

“No, Ma, no, I understand. You’re right, it is not very safe. You don’t worry, hmm, what I’ll do is cover the window towards the mountain with that thick blanket Baba bought for me last year, and I’ll not study until too late, all right?”

She smiled from her chowki and pumped up the kerosene stove again, this time to a buzzing cusp of azure. Her face glowed white in the stove’s light. Ma looked pretty, as always, cheeks blushed red with regular work, two long braids dancing about on her back, and the sleeves of her pheran rolled up to reveal her strong, round arms.

She had started spending more and more time with me now, and checked with me every time I left the house. Farooq’s state, and fate perhaps, hung heavily in the crisp frown lines on her otherwise clear forehead. She was scared. And the truth is, I was very scared too. ‘You are not going anywhere else, beta, other than the shop, right?’ She also hugged me more often in those days, fed me more, made me an extra choutt for breakfast, waited for me on the balcony at the end of the day and beamed on my return from Noor’s shop, or when I’d just been hanging around the street, down in the village, alone, or sometimes hopelessly trying to chat with young kids.

Every time I left, though, she sighed a sad, suppressed sigh. Months ago, when Hussain had left, I had stayed in the house for more than a week, not even stepping out once. I had then gradually started going out again, and my parents lived with it. That’s how it had worked out then, and that’s how it continued after Farooq’s captivity and subsequent release as a living martyr. People visited him for days, just like you visit someone who returns after the Hajj.

But that was not all...

Kashmir in the 1990s: anonymous burials, real and fake encounters, ID card terror, the fatal exodus of young men to Pakistan. The war has reached the border village of Nowgam and its headman’s son is forced to become an unwilling collaborator when his father chooses to stay behind instead of escaping to relative safety. For it is this teenage boy’s lot to count the casualties of conflict, under the direction of a drunken Indian army captain—a job that forces him to confront the corpses of his friends both in his dreams and, potentially, in a terrible reality. Heart-wrenching and searingly honest, Mirza Waheed’s The Collaborator is the first novel to tell the tale of a brutalised Kashmir

[Via http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=168367239876279&id=118342114878281&refid=7 ]

Wikileaks, Kashmir, India

2010-12-17T12:08:00.001+05:30

Kashmir, today featured on the whistle blower site. According to leaked cables US diplomats were given evidence suggesting India was systematically torturing civilians in Kashmir.

Read the full article here

Kashmir exposed

2010-12-06T19:13:00.040+05:30

A collection of known, little known, fake, funny and unknown facts about our beloved Kashmir.
Kashmir is located in the Himalayas bordering India, Pakistan and China
The world knows Kashmir for all things except the place. Led Zepplin- Kashmir, Rocket Brothers “Kashmir”, “Cashmere” sweaters made from the wool of Cashmere goats.
The capital city of Kashmir is Srinagar also was referred as Shahr-i-kashmir.
Area of Kashmir: India controls 101,338 km² (39,127 sq mi) of the disputed territory, Pakistan 85,846 km²(33,145 sq mi) and China, the remaining 37,555 km² (14,500 sq mi). (Wikipedia)
Kashmir valley is an important part of the state of Jammu and Kashmir which is divided into three countries
Population of Kashmir

Administered by	Area	Population	% Muslim	% Hindu	% Buddhist	% Other
India	Kashmir Valley	~4 million	95%	4%*	–	–
	Jammu	~3 million	30%	66%	–	4%
	Ladakh	~0.25 million	50%	–	46%	3%
Pakistan	Azad Kashmir	~2.6 million	100%	–	–	–
	Northen Areas	~1 million	9%	–	–	–
China	Aksai Chin	–	–	–	–

On the basis of size it is larger than 73 countries in the world.
Omar Abdullah is the present Chief Minster of the state; he is a third generation from his family to become Chief Minister.
Armed rebellion against India was started in 1990.
70000 Kashmiri’s have died since 1990, that is more than 13 innocents were murdered every day.
Government puts this figure at 20000 that means 2 persons every single day.
Since June 2010 110 innocents have lost their lives after being shot by Indian security forces
Omar Abdullah is the grandson of Sheikh Abdullah also known as Sher-i-Kashmir
Presently Kashmiri’s are classified as parasites
Kashmir has its own flag; its own constitution and majority of Indian laws are not applicable.
Stone pelting was a major sport before the Dogra rule

Before the time of Maharaja Gulab Singh the different wards of Srinagar city used to turn out with slings and stones, and played a very earnest and serious game. (Walter Lawrence). It would result in broken heads and limbs and even death. (Knowles)

Cow slaughter has been banned since the time of the Sikhs. Anybody violating this was first put in boiling oil and then later hanged from a hook installed near Fateh Kadal (Dr. Ishaq Khan). The severity of the punishment has decreased over the years.
Abusing and swearing are two sports which we are good at. Recently stone throwing has notched up a few places.
Warning: On seeing yellow dyed rice being distributed a Kashmiri may get violent.
Kashmiri is the language spoken by the majority of people. Urdu is the official language. Pahari is the other main language.
The world is busy making missiles and nuclear bombs, Kashmiris are not far behind, we also specialize in mutton missiles (kebabs: vernacular) and cholesterol bombs (gustabas)
Gustabs have no fixed size and no mathematical formula has been derived till date to find it.
In 1846 the British sold whole of Kashmir, along with the people to the Dogra rulers, under the Treaty of Amritsar.
Kashmir was independent from 15^th August 1947 to 19^th October 1947.
River Jhelum is the main river flowing through the valley.

Stand up for 14 year old Mushtaq Ahmed Sheikh

2010-11-20T20:22:00.000+05:30

Mushtaq Ahmed Sheikh is 14 year old, presently lodged in the Kot Balwal Jail, Jammu. A resident of Nowhatta, Mushtaq is the lone brother among 7-sisters was the sole breadwinner of his family. He has been doing petty jobs ranging from a bus conductor to street vendor to support his family.

Relatives of Mustaq Ahmed Sheikh

The Amnesty International has demanded his immediate release or to be treated in accordance with the United Nation Convention on the Rights of the Child,

“Amnesty International has urged authorities in the Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir to release a 14-year-old child who has been detained without charge or trial for seven months, for allegedly taking part in anti-government protests. The authorities claim that Mushtaq Ahmad Sheikh was part of a large crowd which threw stones at police and security forces in the state capital Srinagar in April, as part of the ongoing unrest in Kashmir. Police say that Mushtaq Ahmad Sheikh is 19-years-old but his family claim that he was born in 1996 and is 14-years-old.

Prison records reportedly confirm that he is a child.

"Mushtaq Ahmad Sheikh must either be charged with a recognizable criminal offence or released immediately," said Sam Zarifi, Amnesty International’s Asia-Pacific Director.

"If he is charged, he should be treated in accordance with the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, held and tried in special facilities for children."

Mushtaq Ahmad Sheikh was first arrested in Srinagar on 9 April. He was released on bail after eight days in custody and rearrested on 21 April. His family was not officially told that he had been detained but found out about it through a local resident. Initially held at Udhampur Jail, Mushtaq Ahmad Sheikh is now held at Kot Bhalwal Jail in Jammu. Both prisons do not have special facilities for detaining children. Prison Conditions in Jammu are harsh with limited health care. In May, Amnesty International raised Mushtaq Ahmad Sheikh's detention at a meeting with the Chief Minister of Jammu and Kashmir and the State Human Rights Commission. To date, despite their assurances, nothing appears to have been done. Mushtaq Ahmad Sheikh is detained under the Jammu and Kashmir Public Safety Act – a law that allows the authorities to hold people for up to two years without any judicial review.

This year, at least 322 people are reported to have been detained without trial under the act. A number of them, including children, have been detained on similar grounds of stone throwing and rioting during protests against the Indian government.”

Stand up take action

1. Write to President of India

2. Write to Chief Minister of J&K

3. Take Action (Amnesty International)

4. Write to UN Secretary General

The Honorable Ban Ki-Moon
Secretary General
760 United Nations Plaza
United Nations
New York, NY 10017

The week that was

2010-10-24T20:14:00.002+05:30

Twitter updates of this week ( follow us @Timezofkashmir )

23 Oct

Timezofkashmir

Kill Geelani, shoot him or let him die. But ask yourself a question will it stop people of #Kashmir demanding their rights.

23 Oct

Timezofkashmir

Masarat Alam finally arrested last week. This week somebody must be making a tough choice... Which car to get? ...Tata Safari or Honda City

23 Oct

Timezofkashmir

Geelani was about to join the league of extraordinary moron who were shoe'd before BJP laid the claim on the vacancy

22 Oct

Timezofkashmir

Action against Geelani for instigating sedition btw is the group of interlocutors coming here to fix the size of "gushtaba" #Kashmir

#Kashmir is the integral part of India: Madame Sonia. Is India integral part of Italy....Vande Mata'Rome'

22 Oct

Timezofkashmir

It is undemocratic: Omar Abdullah on the shoe hurled at Geelani ...*read* Shit why didn't they show it on TV

22 Oct

Timezofkashmir

Hurriyat--- Khoon ka Badla June main lenge. ( @irshadz8 )

20 Oct

Timezofkashmir

RT@thekashmiris Planning to build a device which will convert Indian hearts into Human hearts. #Kashmir #

19 Oct

Timezofkashmir

Dreaming the future: Part 2http://timezofkashmir.blogspot.com/2009/10/dreaming-future-part-2.html http://fb.me/vSfBLj94

18 Oct

Timezofkashmir

Letter from the farmer to CM Omar Abdullah http://bit.ly/b0Dslf #Kashmir http://fb.me/LyrT20FO

Kashmir: Tales of woe

2010-10-03T14:29:00.001+05:30

Curfewed days, my mind is blocked, my pen is frozen.

I wait for the free air to blow across my face, passing by the Dal. But, alas, the dreams are shattered when I see barbed razor wires, lying across the streets. The air too isn’t free anymore.

Between Pakistan and Hindustan lies an idyllic nation of Curfewistan (formerly Hartalistan). Lofty snow caped peaks, deserted streets lined with barbed wires greet you. Curfew is the national sport (P.S. It is not included in the CWG games currently), it is somewhat similar to hide and seek, and the only difference being that not only kids but adults also play it here. The game has been continuously been running from the past three odd weeks. In the end, they will declare the winner; the losers will be common Kashmiri’s (this part is fixed and is brought to you by the Pakistan cricket team [ADVT.]). The game begins

Scenario 1:- The government declares curfew, it is announced from loudspeakers atop police vans. If anybody dares to step out of his house, the Indian security forces tickle him with specially designed bamboo sticks and tell such jokes that the person dies laughing (Government version), don’t believe me read this .

Scenario 2:- The government doesn’t announce any curfew, but still if someone steps out of his house to get bread or milk or just for a walk, the security men begin dancing. Dancing over the body of the person, who is first respectably made to lie on the road, and as a precautionary measure all the bones in his body are broken to make it more flexible.

Like some other game shows shown on television, this show also has a lifeline™, it is known as a “curfew pass”. It is a piece of paper, square in shape, with bright colours and some magical text written on it, you can easily infer that because the policeman reads it from both sides. Then he tears it, and repeats what is done in Scenario 1 and 2.

Today was the third straight week of curfew, a couple of days were open and occasionally curfew is relaxed in the late afternoon. The food stocks are running low, medicines are out of stock, and baby food is not available. This is Kashmir, welcome to Curfewistan.

I See Kashmir from New Delhi at Midnight, by Agha Shahid Ali

2010-09-28T18:50:00.001+05:30

I am not a great fan of poetry, but this one is a must read

"Don't tell my father I have died," he says,
and I follow him through blood on the road
and hundreds of pairs of shoes the mourners
left behind, as they ran from the funeral,
victims of the firing. From windows we hear
grieving mothers, and snow begins to fall
on us, like ash. Black on edges of flames,
it cannot extinguish the neighbourhoods,
the homes set ablaze by midnight soldiers.
Kashmir is burning:

Read it here

Come, O Gardener

2010-09-25T13:32:00.001+05:30

Come, O Gardener!
Come to create the glory of a new spring.
A spring in which
the gul will bloom,
the bulbul will sing.

The garden is desolate;
the dew is mourning.
And the gul in torn robes
looks perplexed.

Come, O Gardener!
To rekindle the gul
To rejuvenate the bulbul.

Come, O Gardener!
Weed out the nettle from the flower-beds
And look at row after row of hyacinth,
Come and make a smiling garden.

Who can free a captive bird mourning in his cage?
You must bring your own freedom, O, Gardner!

Wake up, O Gardener, to realize that
power and riches.
Comfort and kingship,
all these are at your feet
only after you realize yourself;
O Gardener!

Come, O Gardener!
to awaken your garden,
to say goodbye to the strains of gul,
to say goodbye to the strains of bulbul;
And--
bring about an earthquake,
bring about a storm,
bring about a rumbling thunder,
bring about a tornado.

(Mehjoor)

Why I don’t feel like an Indian

2010-09-23T21:08:00.002+05:30

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?

We, the Kashmiri people

2010-09-20T19:55:00.001+05:30

Samar Halarnkar, Hindustan Times
Everyone I meet in Srinagar — doctor, student, taxi driver or separatist — has at some point been pushed around, abused, slapped or beaten; those who

leave the state often face unwelcome police attention or find it hard to rent houses because they are Kashmiri.
(Read More)

Kokar Tchuer

2010-09-04T12:22:00.000+05:30

From the Translators Desk: Kokar Tschuer: Chicken Thief

But what is new in this, Kashmiri’s are used to such things. In a recent Greater Kashmir article the then Chairman J&K PDC (Power Development Corporation) wrote that Kashmir is losing Rs. 20000 crores annually due to the Indus Water Treaty, which benefits Punjab. Isn’t that too a Tchuer

Why Kashmiris need to speak to Indians, not India

2010-08-26T20:40:00.000+05:30

Click Here

‘Quit J&K’ assumes form of 2008-type agitation

2010-07-18T12:04:00.002+05:30

SRINAGAR, Jul 15: Running into its second month now, current spell of turbulence in Kashmir valley today assumed trappings of 2008-type mass agitation as hundreds of youngsters on motorcycles fanned out in different directions and enforced Hurriyat-sponsored shutdown while checking photo identity cards, deflating tyres of the vehicles in movement, confining motorists for hours and organizing anti-India and pro-Azadi demonstrations at several places. With the tension intensifying on the eve of Hurriyat’s call of march to Batmaloo, Government has formed a Crisis Management Plan (CMP) in a desperate attempt to prevent the situation from further deterioration. Read More

In Kashmir, stone throwers face off with Indian security forces

2010-07-17T21:00:00.000+05:30

Must Read

Tax the axe

2010-07-16T12:48:00.002+05:30

The axe of the tax has fallen on the paid pelters with the government deciding to levy income tax on them. The decision was taken after the government failed to keep a check on stone pelting. Soon you may see the paid pelters queuing up before the Income Tax office. This descision has infuriated the paid pelter, “We are paid just Rs. 150 per day and that too not regularly”, they argued, “Our working season is very short, and we hardly get 4 months working period, add to it the Government enforces strict curfew which badly affects our business”, the President of All Paid Pelters Association of Jammu and Kashmir (Hawala Chapter) told Timez of Kashmir. He further argued that their yearly income is much below the taxable income of the common citizens, a point he points out that can prove crucial if the association decides to take the course of law. “Our legal expert team is looking into the matter and we will soon come up with a future course of action”, he added. One agitated pelter, having a strong knowledge of history commented “During Maharajah’s time prostitutes had to pay tax and it contributed to almost 25% of total income of the Government, but the times have changed”, adding he didn’t compared pelters with prostitutes. Almost all the peters were unhappy with the callous approach towards them, “ Chief Minister Omar Abdullah had, on the floor of the house said, that his will take every step necessary to rehabilitate the pelters, but noting concrete has been done”, the President quizzed. “Ours is the most risky job, there is a threat to life everyday, we appeal the Chief Minister to take the necessary steps required”

From the Translators Desk

Bhatte Bhatte te Payde Paete

We ask for food

The soldiers want Tax

No title

2010-07-15T14:04:00.002+05:30

Inside out

2010-07-14T20:30:00.000+05:30

The cartoon says it all

[Courtesy Malik Sajad-Greater Kashmir]

Matyrs Day 13.07.1931

2010-07-13T08:04:00.001+05:30

Flash Back

[Courtesy Conveyor magazine]

Naseer A. Ganai responds to Praveen Swamy's Islamophobic assessment of Kashmir situation.

2010-07-12T12:10:00.000+05:30

Click here to read Praveen Swamy's assessment of Kashmir situation.

Click here to read Naseer A.Ganai’s response.

Problems for Omar Abdullah

2010-07-11T15:28:00.000+05:30

Stone pelters going berserk, hartals, “chalo” calls, CRPF don’t listen, police doesn’t care, if you think these are some problems our young and dynamic Chief Minister is facing you have got it all wrong. A more serious problem facing him seems more complicated and the damage it has done cannot be reversed. Don’t be scared even if you are a NC khadepench and please don’t send hate mail even if you want to abuse me.

This post found its inspiration seeing him on NDTV appealing to parents to keep their wards locked at homes. It is not difficult, if you had a keen eye and closely watched him on TV appealing to people to maintain calm, even when the police and CRPF were on a killing spree. For those who haven’t guessed till now, for those pea brains I am talking about Omar Abdullah, the young and dynamic Chief Minister has suddenly grown old.

Suddenly out of nowhere his hair has turned grey. Two years in office has taken its toll and he is showing signs of it. Being a Chief Minister of J&K is not the easiest job in the whole world, getting orders directly from New Delhi, not being able to work independently, people don’t like you and you don’t do any good for them.

Some members of the opposition parties believe that CM Omar Abdullah has himself directed his barber to dye his hair grey. But this theory has been discarded by the official hairdresser, Babloo who has been with Omar Abdullah for last three years.

[These pictures clearly show his grey hair, the picture on the left is from GQ magazine December 2009 edition, while those on the right are from this year, the last one is of July 2010 (CNN-IBN)]

But I think that it is a move by the NC ‘Think Tank’ to make him look more mature, though it has been a disastrous year for the ‘think tank’, failing to read peoples emotions as they did during the 2008 Amarnath agitation. So you have a senior NC leader Ali Mohammad Sagar publically claiming that the CRPF don’t listen to Chief Minister, a move that back fired. It created a political upheaval in New Delhi; they miserably failed to portray the CM as a victim. Even Abdul Rahim Rather, another senior minister, tried to control the damage but it was too late. After getting spanked by New Delhi, Omar Abdullah came out of his hibernation and took the blame for everything, I mean ‘Everything’, his famous words “the butt was on my shoulder” cleared it all. (P.S:- he wasn’t talking about anatomy, “butt” means butt of a gun”). He gave interviews to all news channels separately but interestingly he spoke the same on each of them, a few lines missing here and there.

Even though many people were very jubilant at the time of his election, comparing him to Barack Obama, he remained like any other CM, spineless. No doubt he is photogenic and tries to convey a good image of the state. He should stay like this, a brand ambassador for the state rather than a CEO. Someone compared him to a Barbie doll, cute but non-functional, a piece of decoration.

These lines might sound a bit harsh, but it is the ground reality, though I don’t mean hat he doesn’t try to work harder for the benefit of the people of the state, he does, par uska chalta nahi hai, to put it straight.

We do need a more mature CM, but he should be mature in the manner he conducts his working, not his appearance. So please get back to your young and dynamic ways.

Srinagar Weather Forecast

2010-07-07T17:36:00.003+05:30

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