Atrocities ???

Please be careful with the links. Might contain disturbing videos…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkQCmf-K60o&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nXZ4MRAxcow&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klKAOSF7BcY&feature=related

… and many more…

And they die…

[This story, though not true, is lot similar to what happened years back with people in kashmir and is still happening. Coming out to work, but never returning back alive. Falling prey to the grenades and the bullets, coming from nowhere]

This is a tale of three people. Three people with different ways of living, different motives from life, brought together by an unfortunate twist of fate to share a similar END.

Ahmed, a 19 year old, was jubilant as he scrolled down the list of candidates selected for REC, Srinagar. His friend had informed him that his name appears in the list. Keenly going through it, wearing a smile of triumph. There he spots it. 155 points, not far from the topper. A sense of pride fills him as he tries to search for the names of his friends. It was a well deserved success.

Just six months back, he was on the verge of breakdown. The fact that he was the best in his class wouldn’t console him, the fact that he was the most hardworking wouldn’t either. Anything could have happened on a bad day. But on the day of exam, it was a good day. A lucky one because he had fallen ill the night before and barely managed to reach the examination hall. He, despite not in his senses, managed to answer most of the questions. And it was rewarded, finally, with his name in the selection list.

Ahmed, being from a poor family, was aiming at this selection since his childhood, the only goal he had. His father had somehow managed to bear the expense of his studies. A small shop, selling grocery, and managing a family of 7, it was not easy for Ahmed’s father to support Ahmed’s education. At the time when so called professors would charge anything between 200 to 250 rupees for a month long tution. A month filled with hartals and curfews.

But, it was his day. He did it.

His friends already started addressing him as engineer saahib. And he was enjoying it all.

It was a week after the results were declared that Ahmed was preparing to board a bus at Lal chowk for REC Srinagar. With all the certificates in his hand, and good wishes of his parents, he started off to get his admission done in REC. Being the only brother to his 2 sisters, he received all the love and good wishes from his sisters. An ailing mother, and Old grandfather, who could barely see, he was the hope of his home. His parents looking forward to his completion of degree and getting a job which could get them out of this misery. The marriage of elder sister to be planned, education of younger, health of mother. But everything is going to be fine soon, he thought.

Anil, like ahmed, was waiting for the bus in Lal chowk. Lost in his thoughts, he was wondering whether he should stay put. All his relatives were leaving for Jammu. The death of a pandit in his neighbourhood the previous day had brought shivers. It was not worth taking a risk, staying put at the time when death looms all around. Nobody seems to be safe. With a mother to look after, and two kids to take care of, he must take a decision. Probably, thinking of leaving that night. All he needs to do is pack the essentials and move in the middle of the night, without getting noticed. After all it is just a matter of months, after that he will be back to his home and live happily with his friends and neighbours. With all these thoughts going through his mind, he was finding it difficult to make a decision. In his forties, it was not difficult for him to move his small family, the only concern however was his small kid, 1 year old. He was hoping to do it without problems.

Standing by his side there in the lalchowk was Bashir. A guy who would hardly be noticed in a crowd. Not a feature which could distinguish him from the rest. People unaware around him of the small piece in his pocket. He was going to accomplish what he had been asked to.

Three months ago, he approached the area commander and asked him if he could join the tanzeem. Area commander, self styled area commander of tanzeem, had looked at him a long time. Sensing Bashir’s zeal for Tahreek, he asked him to join, but cautioned it is going to be a risky affair. Bashir knew most of his friends were already enjoying the responsibility. Atleast, that is what he felt. A pistol in a pocket, they felt no less than a hero. Once a while they would show the bulge in their pockets to indicate to the passerby that he is, what he is. Bashir was looking forward to the time when he could carry a pistol and show off. A week’s training in one of the villages of automatic weapon and bombs, made him a part of a tehreek. He was feeling on top of the world. Waiting for his pistol, which was yet to reach him. His area commander had promised him as soon as he does a successfull “action”, he will be rewarded one. It was after two months that he was asked to do an “action”. “Action”, as it was commonly called, firing at a bunker, lobbing a grenade at security forces.

Bashir was waiting for his kill. Nervous, sweating, and conscious. He could feel moisture developing between his fingers and the bomb he had in his pocket. He was ready for attack, clutching the bomb tightly. All he had to do was throw the thing at the gypsy passing by.

Ahmed, Anil and Bashir, were lost in their repective thoughts. Ahmed, wondering how it would look entering the college. Anil, busy planning his escape to jammu and Bashir, nervously waiting for the gypsy. They were not the only ones waiting there. There were others, who were busy with their thoughts.

As the gypsy started to appear far ahead in the road, Bashir started to panick. His grip on the grenade began to get loose. The sweat started to make it moist. His heart started pounding fast. It was not supposed to be like that, he wondered. All he had to do is throw it at the gypsy, as it nears. He started shivering, with the bomb in his pocket. As the gypsy was nearing the area, he took out this deadly piece of iron from his pocket. And BOOM!!!, it went in his hand. Smoke all around. Pieces of flesh thrown all around, pool of blood. People crying for help. People running for shelter. This big blast was followed by shots. Shots coming from gun. The soldier in the gypsy, in response to the blast shooting in all directions. The panic had taken better of him and he started shooting in all directions.

Bashir, with his arm torn apart, lay their in pool of blood and flesh. Ahmed beside him with his certificates colored in red, dead as his eyes stare at the sky. Perhaps, asking god, as he dies, to give him a chance. With loads of blood coming out of the chest, Anil looking desperately for help. Cries of help coming from all the directions, and not a single soul coming forward. Everyone trying to save his life.

Anil started to find his pain subsiding slowly. Wondering how it could get better without doctors work. His eyelids started to close, as if a lead was placed on his lids. And soon, he finds himself unconcsious.

As the people start moving and trying to attend to injured, anil is put in a car and taken to hospital by some unknown. As he is examined on the stretcher by a doctor at hospital, he is declared dead. He couldn’t make it, says the doctor. Too much of blood loss.

In the evening news, people learn that 5 people died in the blast at lal chowk and 10 were injured. Among injured, was a 10 year old. Not all knew that he was with his father who was taking him to school as he had missed his bus.

5 people died, but 5 families devastated. Devastated, by a single stroke of fate. With all what ifs, the families will live their lives, but the scar will stay. The scar of missing brother, the scar of a missing son, the scar of a missing father….

Is this a beginning of a new life…

In the past one year, we have seen 2 major scandals coming to light. Lots of skeletons coming out of closet. It started with the infamous sex scandal, which was no less than a bollywood script with the involvement of High profile bureaucrats  to the Ministers and Senior Police officers. Then followed, few more scandals. And now this Fake Encounter. All of it, though was known to kashmiries, was far from truth for the people outside the valley, esp indians. It was just a figment of imagination of a kashmiri, for all the people outside kashmir (read Non Kashmiries). They(indians) still are skeptic about the truth behind and would prefer the version of truth which says Parihar was innocent and a pawn of big conspiracy. Yeah, version of truth, as the truth seems to have versions these days… One version, which is on the national newspapers and the other which is on our local newspapers. I always wonder which version should i believe in.

Coming back to the main subject, is this a new beginning and an end to miseries, pain and suffering. Has God finally tested us enough to finally provide us much wanted relief. I somehow feel so. May be i am wrong. But i hope i am right.

 It doesn’t feel good when you move out of your house in the morning and are casualty of a blast somewhere. You end up in a hospital with your leg amputated, or your arm amputated or worst, found dead.

Kashmiries have so grown in this state of uncertainity, that they have started to accept it as part of their lives. Death of a near one in his teens doesn’t come as a shocking surprise. I remember, when it all started back in 90s’, a death of a youth was mourned with the departure of a “Maharaaz” (Groom). Songs were said, which were no different from what were sung on the marriages. The grief was so deep, that it could loom on you for weeks.

Nothing of such sort happens now, because we have accepted it as part of our life.

I wonder, what if i wake up tomorrow and find everything normal. Not a single security man or a bunker on a street. What if we are sent in a time machine back to when it all started. But.. then.. we dont really know when it started. I wonder, if we are given a choice to start a fresh from a certain point in time, where would we like to start. Would it be ’89 or ’71 or ’63 or ’47 or … dont know where.

I wish i could wander around the streets of Srinagar at 2 in the morning without fear. I wish i could play with my friends the same way i did during the days without fear of a “security woul”. I wish we didn’t have to live in this fear. I wish we could see flourishing business-shikaras full of tourists, those tourists from all over the world.

I wish and hope this is a beginning to a new kashmir, a kashmir free of fear and injustice. A kashmir free from uninvited death at every nook and corner. A kashmir full of beauty and security. I wish.. this is it.. this is the time that god had chosen to take us out of this misery and pain.

Why should i care?

From the name itself, you might have guessed i belong to kashmir. Kashmir, known as heaven on earth. Kashmir, a place people would dream of. A place, people would like to spend rest of their lives. A place, which would drive people crazy by its snow clad mountains, and streams, and … I could go on like that forever.

But then, it all changed. It all changed too suddenly. And i felt it was changing for good, only to figure out, that it was worst… A beautiful place turned into one of the most ugliest. Heaven transformed into hell. Love into Hatred. Animosity…

But… .. . do i care???

The past 17 years have thrown ugliest moments at my face, and i have seen them all, watched them all pass by. And people around me have seen worst. Sons dying in cold blood, Sisters being raped and killed, brothers being tortured and murdered. And who is responsible for it all? My pandit neighbour says, I am, a kashmiri muslim. For all the wrongs that happened in this beautiful land, I am responsible. For all the killings, I am responsible. For the murder of my loving pandith neighbour, for the grenade blast that took lives of my brothers, for the rape by security forces of my sister, for the torture of my son in interrogation centers, for … for everything in the valley. I am responsible…

 But, i always wonder how?

My pandit neighbour says i should have spoken, spoken when it mattered most, spoken when i felt things are going wrong, spoken against the people who had gun in their hands, asked them to stop this madness, asked them to shun violence… But then, i felt it right then… I felt it right… Why??? Was that because of the rigging in elections? or was it because of the events that took place few decades back? Was that because we felt alienated, or was that because we were deceived by our own leaders. Was that because i couldn’t think beyond my two loaves of bread. Was that a moment of madness? I wouldn’t know, but what i know is that kashmiriat got killed… Kashmiri pandits being killed in broad daylight, those are my memories of the time. I would wonder, if all are mukhbirs… then muslim women getting killed, thought to be mukhbir…Every killing seemed justified.

 When i look back at those events, i feel i lost it all. We lost it all. Every muslim who raised his voice against the movement got killed as mukhbir. And that was the start of the never ending tragedy. After the mass migration of pandits, it was the time for muslims to die and die they did, in thousands and are still dying… Are they dying for keeping mum when they should have spoken, or can we justify the killings.

I would not know, but all i know, is that one day, walking along the street in a busy Lal chowk, I will hear a big sound of grenade, a deafening sound followed by a lul in the air. The pieces of flesh all around me, in pool of blood i see bodies around. And as i breath my last, i wonder, was it all i had to see of this world…

If that is going to be the end of me, then why should i care? Why??