In a State of Violent Peace: Voices from the Kashmir Valley

By Meera Khanna

Literature on Kashmir tends to focus on politics, the army, border skirmishes, on India and Pakistan. The very real human beings - whose lives the alternately raging and simmering conflict has an inexorable hold on - are often relegated to the background. In a State of Violent Peace is an attempt to humanize the conflict through lived experience and it provides an insight into the complex situation in Jammu and Kashmir.There are the stories of Surayya Ali Mattoo and Khaleda Begum, the daughters of Sheikh Abdullah; Krishna Misri, who was literally hounded out of Kashmir by militants; writer and academic Neerja Mattoo, who chose to stay on in Kashmir despite the dangers; Bilal, a former militant; Asmat, the wife of a militant; Brig. Sher Jung Bahadur of the Battle of Skardu; Naseer Ahmed Shah and Girija Dhar who braved threats and attempts on their lives by militants, and several otherss.These are tales of compassion, courage and faith in Kashmiriyat to counter the broader focus of conflict reportage. The shifting perspectives and contradictory facts in these histories assert that there is no singular narrative for the people of Kashmir.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Collins India
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9789351364832

Meera Khanna

A social activist and freelance writer, Meera Khanna has been working with militancy-affected widows and children in Kashmir for over a decade. She is the trustee of the Guild for Service and helped found the Women's Initiative for Peace in South Asia. She has written extensively on gender-related issues and conflict, including poetry on and about Kashmir.

Book preview

IN A STATE OF VIOLENT PEACE

Voices from the Kashmir Valley

MEERA KHANNA

For the generosity of the Kashmiri spirit that entrusted

invaluable memories to me

‘We must recognize the chief characteristic of the modern era—a permanent state of what I call violent peace.’

—Admiral James D. Watkins

CONTENTS

Introduction

THE BATTLE OF THE BORDERS

1. The Spy Who Came in from the Valley

2. The Raid of Grace

3. This is Kashmir

4. This, My Paradise?

5. The Siege of the Brave

THE WAR OF THE SEDUCED SOULS

6. Where Have All the Boys Gone?

7. The Saffron Fields of Guns

8. It Could Have Been …

9. A Daughter Grieves

10. Duty Demands … You

THE STATE OF HALF THIS, HALF THAT

11. Two Sisters Reminisce

12. The Courage of Choice

13. I Belong to You, My Kashmir

14. Holding the Head High

THE HISTORY TO THE STORIES

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

The history of the Kashmir Valley and its conflict is almost always understood in terms of political events, wars fought over the territory, border skirmishes, militant attacks, grouping and regrouping of terrorist outfits and political parties, and the many round-table discussions. But the human stories behind these events are never the focus, or are quickly consigned to collective amnesia. The alternately simmering and raging conflict has had an inexorable hold on the lives of the people. Kashmiri lives have influenced and been influenced by the conflict. In the plethora of literature on Kashmir, this vital human element gets relegated to the background.

This book seeks to explore the insidious ways in which political events change human lives forever. It is an attempt to humanize the Kashmir conflict.

This is not a collection of stories in the strictest term. These stories are neither born of my imagination nor are they fiction. They are based on real-life incidents that have had a catastrophic impact on the lives of the protagonists. At the same time, they present a cameo of the different dimensions of the conflict that has held the Valley in an almost claustrophobic grip. In a sense, these stories are actualized fiction, or fictionalized facts, depending on the view one takes.

The collection covers a spectrum in terms of time, from pre-1947, when Kashmiris rose to throw off the political structure of monarchy, to the first decade of the twenty-first century, when militancy as a tool of revolution was failing.

The fourteen narratives in this collection are a window into the lives of the ordinary Kashmiri caught up in the violence spewed by the myopic policies of two nations which bring their national egos to every negotiating table. These are the stories of people caught up in the tide of events not of their own making.

These are the stories that underlie history.

THE BATTLE OF THE BORDERS

‘… it strikes her, as she walks, that borders, like hatred, are exaggerated precisely because otherwise they would cease to exist altogether.’

—Colum McCann, Zoli

1

THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE VALLEY

‘B ismillah al Rahman al Rahim.’ The grim-faced soldiers on the newly etched border between India and Pakistan listened to Naseer Ahmed Shah, a medical student, reciting the verses from the Koran. Once his Muslim credentials were proved, Naseer was allowed to enter Pakistan. Naseer hailed from a family of Syeds who were revered as saints, but for him his identity had always been based on his nationality, profession and worth as a human being. Religion had always been a personal space, and here he was being forced to flaunt his identity as a Muslim publicly so that he could travel ahead.

It was 29 September 1947. As he travelled from Kohalla to Rawalpindi, Naseer was shocked at the catastrophic changes overtaking the subcontinent. In July, when he had gone home to Srinagar from medical college, he had travelled from British India to the kingdom of Kashmir. The scratching of a pen on a map, by unknown faces sitting in New Delhi, had created two nations overnight, but the fate of Kashmir hung in limbo. Naseer was confident that Kashmir would not be in a stagnant political state for too long. Inspired by Left ideology, Naseer had joined the National Conference, convinced that its leader Sheikh Abdullah would usher in rule of law based on equality, something that was unthinkable in the feudal structure of monarchy. Kashmir, having acceded neither to Pakistan nor to India, was holding on to its tenuous independence.

As the bus jolted over the potholed road, Naseer thought of the day when he had applied for admission to the newly established Balak Ram Medical College in Lahore. He was denied admission since it was funded by Hindu religious institutions. For Naseer it was another brush with the dark side of fundamental ideology. He reflected on the irony: once, admission to college had been denied to him because he was Muslim, and now entry to the country of his college had been granted because he was a Muslim. Naseer continued to study in King Edward’s Medical College and was now travelling to complete his final year. He was looking forward to going home to Srinagar soon.

Unknown to Naseer, fate was to keep him away from home for a long time.

Rawalpindi station was in a shambles. It was pitch-dark and, as Naseer walked up the platform aided by the flickering torchlight, he tripped over a sleeping man. He apologized profusely, but got no response. To his absolute horror he realized the man’s head was practically severed from the neck. Naseer felt sick. He saw that the platform was filled with bodies of refugees from across the border. Partition had come to the subcontinent accompanied by mindless bloodshed and a huge exodus of Hindus and Muslims. The stench made him puke on the tracks. At a little distance away, he could see the body of a woman holding on to her small child. Both had a gaping bloody gash across the stomach. A single violent stroke had severed mother and child from life and from each other. He sat down on the platform surrounded by mutilated corpses, numbed by horror, only to spring up in terror as a hand touched his shoulder.

They were some medical students from Peshawar. ‘Don’t be afraid. We are also stuck here in Rawalpindi and we want to go to Lahore.’

Naseer surreptitiously wiped his tears, thankful for the dark. ‘I am studying at King Edward’s Medical College. But how can we reach Lahore? My classes are beginning within a day.’

‘I don’t think classes will resume so fast in these troubled times. But we can meet the stationmaster. He should be able to guide us.’

The stationmaster was a harassed man. But to his credit he gave the medical students a hearing. He had an intelligent and practical suggestion. ‘You can take a ride in an engine that is going up to Wazirabad to bring back some bogeys. From Wazirabad you can walk or take a bus to Lahore. But you will have to wait for three to four days since the tracks at Lahore are submerged in water.’ Naseer fingered the hundred-rupee note in his pocket—all the money he had to stay in a strange city with no friends and for an indefinite period. The stationmaster read the sheer desperation on the boys’ faces. ‘You can live on the platform and I can offer you tea and one meal. In return, you will inoculate the long lines of refugees coming in from India. We don’t want a cholera epidemic in the city.’

Naseer wiped his forehead with a filthy handkerchief; it only made his face dirtier. It was four days since he had come to Rawalpindi, and he had not bathed or changed his clothes. The lines of weeping women, hungry children and sullen men went on and on. Everyone had a tale to tell, each more traumatic than the last.

‘Doctor sahib, I am the only survivor of my family of nine.’

‘Doctor sahib, where will I go? My husband and father-in-law were cut down in front of me.’

‘Beta, how can I find the house of Aslam Mohammad? His widowed daughter is with me.’

With one needle and syringe, Naseer inoculated hundreds of men and women against the dreaded disease. The doctor in him revolted against this unhygienic procedure. But the human in him realized that this gesture gave the refugees an iota of reassurance that they would be cared for in a strange city.

Naseer’s stomach grumbled as it had been doing for the last four days. He had spent most of his money trying to ward off hunger pangs. He even ate the cores of the small apples he bought. To a Kashmiri brought up in apple orchards, this was certainly a cruel twist of fate. On the fifth day, Naseer took the shuttle engine from Rawalpindi, waded the last one mile through knee-deep slush to Wazirabad, took a bus to Lahore and reached his hostel, weary, filthy, hungry and depressed, with pockets totally empty. He almost burst into furious tears when he discovered that some boys, who had assumed he would not be returning, had thrown out his luggage. Naseer struggled to get his room back and gather his scattered luggage. He was allotted a room of his own, once again after proving his Muslim identity.

Broke, frustrated, with no communication with his family, Naseer desperately tried to concentrate on passing his final term in medical college. He had very little idea what was happening in Kashmir. The newspapers in Pakistan were full of the ‘invasion of Kashmir by Indian troops’, while the BBC reported the accession of Kashmir to the Indian Union. Then why were Indian troops invading Kashmir? Naseer was confused. Rumours were filtering in on raids in Kashmir by tribal invaders, the Kabalis. But everything was half-truths, conjectures and doubts. The paucity of information irked him. He had no clue as to what was happening to his family. Every time someone came from Kashmir, Naseer tried desperately to ferret out information. He read every bit of printed material he could lay his hands on, even the paper bags in which he bought his groceries. But there was little authentic information.

Soon it was clear to Naseer that Kashmir was going to be a bone of contention between the two new nations. With a sinking heart he read Dawn which quoted Pakistan’s first prime minister Liaquat Ali Khan as saying, ‘We do not recognize this accession. The accession of Kashmir to India is a fraud, perpetrated on the people of Kashmir by its cowardly ruler with the aggressive help of the Indian government.’ Naseer’s own position as a Kashmiri Muslim in Pakistan was ambivalent. Some saw him as part of a traitorous community that preferred to accede to ‘Hindu

India’ instead of the Islamic State of Pakistan. On the other hand, many viewed him as a victim of a terrible conspiracy waged by India.

The standstill agreement signed between Kashmir and Pakistan was to be applicable till the status of Kashmir was decided. Under this agreement, Pakistan was responsible for communications in Kashmir. In an effort to force the issue, Pakistan had severed post and telegraph links. With no means of getting information, Naseer groped in the dark, vacillating between hope and despair for himself and his family. The money he had left in safe keeping before he left for Srinagar in July could not be accessed due to the troubled conditions. He had no way of wiring home for more money.

Fate intervened in the form of David Sunder Lal Madan.

David, a first-generation Christian who was studying for his master’s degree, said to him, ‘Naseer, come home and meet my family. You must be lonely here.’ Naseer promptly agreed, hoping he would get a meal in David’s house. The hostel food was never enough and he had no money to augment his diet. He was delighted to meet the family which had three attractive young daughters, Rose Manisha, Prem Krishna and Manju. But he found their mother preoccupied and worried, answering him in monosyllables. Gradually, probably reassured by his suave demeanour and courteous manners, she confided in Naseer: ‘We are terrified here. My husband works in the refugee camp and comes home rarely. Even though we are Christians, people around us think we are Hindus. Our names are going to get us killed.’

In the violent climate of the times, Naseer felt this was not an unfounded fear.

It was David who came up with a solution. ‘Naseer, why don’t you shift in here as a paying guest? You are a Muslim and that may be a kind of a protection for us.’ For one who rarely emphasized his religious identity, Naseer was now made to do so with a vengeance. However, he jumped at the offer. A clean room, good home food and the company of such charming girls—he felt life was finally taking an upswing. If he could now get information from home, he had nothing more to worry about. Naseer moved in immediately and the family took him to their hearts. What started as a give-and-take arrangement soon developed into genuine friendship, between a lonely Muslim boy far away from home and a frightened converted Christian family caught in communal politics. There in Lahore, with the pressure of examinations on his head, Naseer felt the bittersweet stirrings of infatuation. Rose Manisha Madan was two years his senior in medical college. Attractive and always clad in crisp white cotton saris, she seemed the epitome of perfection to Naseer. Often after college they used to walk home together. Naseer always looked forward eagerly to their tête-à-têtes.

It was the year 1949, when India and Pakistan had declared a ceasefire. Naseer was sitting in the library preparing for his final exams. Somebody touched his shoulder. ‘Naseer beta, how are you? Your family is very worried about you.’

Naseer turned and, to his delight, he saw it was the owner of Broadway Hotel in Srinagar, Tirath Ram, a close friend of Naseer’s family. ‘Tirath chacha, adab! How are you here in Lahore?’

‘I am on my way to Muzaffarabad to search for my mother and sister.’

‘Search for your mother and sister? But why?’

‘They were in that part of Kashmir which is now occupied by Pakistan. The Kabalis came first to Muzaffarabad and Kohalla. I hope I find them. The tribal raiders abducted many women from Kashmir. God alone knows where and in what condition I will find them, if I find them at all.’

Tirath Ram’s eyes became moist. Naseer looked at him, aghast. Sitting in Lahore, he had very little idea of the magnitude of the horror perpetrated by the tribal raiders from Pakistan. He wanted to ask more but Tirath Ram was in a hurry, since he was accompanying Mridula Sarabhai, who, on behalf of the government of India, was searching for abducted women, victims of the Partition and the raiders’ cruelty in Kashmir. ‘Your sister has given me 1,500 rupees for you since she knows you are terribly short of money. Can you quickly write her a letter so that your family knows that you are well?’

Naseer tore a page from his notebook and sat down to scribble a note for his sister, reassuring her and confirming that he had got the money from Tirath chacha.

‘How is everyone at home, chacha?’

Tirath Ram looked at the eager face of the young man and rose up to the most difficult task in front of him. ‘Your two brothers have joined the militia organized by the National Conference to protect Kashmir from the Kabalis. They are working in coordination with the Indian army. Your father has passed away. I am sorry.’

Naseer sat for a long time in the library, staring blindly at his book. It felt bizarre to him. Despite the conveniences of quick communication in these times he had been kept in the dark about his family tragedy by the vicissitudes of politics between nations. He remembered little details: his father’s face as he left for medical college for the first time, his sense of pride when his son attended the Sopore Convention of the National Conference as a delegate. Naseer wondered how the women of the family were managing in these troubled times. He knew his sister Mahmuda was a strong and competent woman, and she would hold the fort. Naseer had never felt so helpless before. He wished he had had a little more time to write a line of condolence and support to his mother in the note.

Little did Naseer know that the note was to plunge him into despair very soon.

The final exams were over and one fine morning, Naseer was called to the principal’s office. He entered to see two suited and booted official-looking men waiting for him, their faces expressionless, yet somehow menacing. He felt a sense of impending doom when the officials told him that his sister was waiting for him outside. Naseer went outside and was soon hustled into a Humber car. Within the blink of an eye he was in the Lahore Central Jail. He was taken to a room where a police officer was sitting, reading Iqbal’s poems. The suited men left him there, saying, ‘I am handing the gem to you. Take good care of him.’

Naseer was left standing. The police officer went on reading. Nothing disturbed the silence but the ticking of the clock and the equally loud thumping of Naseer’s heart. When the silence became unbearable, Naseer, his throat parched, asked timidly, ‘Khan sahib, may I sit down.’ Even before he finished his question, tight slaps left his ears tingling. A few choice abuses in crude Punjabi followed. The officer mimicked Naseer. ‘Can I sit down? Bloody spy of the Hindus wants royal treatment.’ Naseer had no clue what he was talking about. He could only feel the stinging pain on his rapidly swelling cheek and ears. Naseer Ahmed Shah, hailing from one of the well-known families of Kashmir, son of a respected forest officer, medical student, beaten and bullied like this! Naseer felt his eyes smarting with the pain of humiliation and helplessness. Soon he was pushed into a cell in solitary confinement.

The next morning, one of the suited gentlemen came to see Naseer. His name was Abdul Hamid Bajwa and he was a suave Pakistan Intelligence officer trained at Scotland Yard. He asked urbanely, ‘Naseer, why don’t you make a clean breast of your activities and I will be fair with you. We will find out ourselves anyway.’

‘Mr Bajwa, I really have no clue what you are talking about. What activities? I am just a medical student finishing studies before going back home to Srinagar.’ Naseer tried hard to be as polite as possible, even though he felt like shrieking in impotent rage. Looking at Bajwa’s poker face, he despaired, because it was evident that he was not believed.

Naseer’s living hell began. He was in a tiny room, which had a small hole in a corner for a toilet. Through the skylight high above his head he could see just a strip of the sky. The stink of unwashed toilets and the stench of his fear and rage killed his normally healthy appetite. For a couple of days he could not eat the monotonous meal of thick leathery chapattis and bland pulses. On one of his visits, Bajwa advised him, ‘Doctor, this is good, wholesome food. Eat it. Starving yourself is going to get you nowhere. Since the jail can spend up to ten rupees on your food, I suggest you ask the cook to garnish your