When Al Qaeda "liberated" Kashmir

Dark Helmeted, scary looking men all laden with dreadful automated weapons in horribly terrifying attires and long black gruesome shoes arrived near the house of Ali Mohammed Thukroo, in a forbidding cloud shield of their own exhaust. Then a tall dark shadow emerging from that huge huddle made an announcement through a heavy megaphone sling on the top of an armoured vehicle dented with stones. The announcement declared “Curfew has been imposed, anyone violating the Army orders shall not be spared, people defying the curfew shall be shot at with bullet and if someone survives the first bullet, he will be hit with the second”

The next morning I woke up to the sore cries of the shrunken looking women, probably from the next locality who had gathered nearest to the shop of Gul Mohammed Khan, a man who sold Kangris and samovars. They assembled in circles, the scarlet rose bush in front of the house had budded hundreds of serene fresh buds that looked like small red crowned birds. Half of the women across the street were terribly weeping and the others were consoling them. The devils who had dictated people not to come out the other day had left by now, which provided the people of the locality freedom to come out, which was very rare those days.  I accompanied by Papa, who asked Gul Khan to accompany him provided water to these women, who did not say who they were or why they were weeping. All tears drenched in sorrow and pain. Most of them were pale, wearing traditional dresses and scarves tied across their heads. From their appearance they seemed curiously feeble, almost departed.  Yes, it was the faces, wan, dried of the entire colour as if someone had squeezed all their blood. Papa waited for them to finish with drinking water and when they recognized my Papa, they narrated their tale of sorrow to him. And I looked at the woman who spoke; her eyes were hollow, sunken, scared, dry and lifeless. The women, more than 50 in number,who  first spoke in a hush reflecting their anguish and fear, now spoke in unison, “Do not turn us away. The alien forces have forcibly thrown us out of our houses; they come to our houses, beat us, torture our men, arrest them and kill our dear ones.They stole our jewelry; they shot men at their legs, dragged women and raped them. The whole village of ours has been turned into karbala and the forces, Yazidist forces, They have leveled chaos and fear among people. Do not turn us away dear brother”

 In a span of about 10 minutes, the cries, painful story of these women reverberated in the entire locality and within no time, in the whole town.

Men from the entire town gathered to be addressed by Papa. “Salutes to the fervent bravery of those, who still come out against tyranny, despite Indian state committing heinous crimes against our nation. With every Anti Oppression voice being Muzzled I salute those who come out for raising the flag. With Indian army in each and every locality and on every street and every second dreaming man booked under some fake charge, it’s not their might that can stop us, because it’s a better tomorrow that drags us to the streets. It’s the cause for which we have sacrificed thousands of people and we will not hesitate to sacrifice thousands more till we achieve our goal. I mean, I will not hesitate to sacrifice mine.

The next week passed on peacefully till Friday evening.

A distant chilling voice utterly pierced the entire town. Nearer and nearer, the voice grew. The street dogs ran for cover, so did the birds. Then those devils, the dogs ran from had arrived in their gypsies. Parking their vehicles near the house of Ali Mohammed Thukroo, these dark looking devils barged into his house. Ali had two daughters and a son Ansar Ali who had recently joined the rebellion. Ayesha, the mother of Ansar who had seen these dark devils approaching her house hastily locked down the main door, like the most of the people from the locality. The Army men hundreds in number first kicked at the door and then fired at it, then finally burnt it down.  Dust from the street swayed upwards towards the window panes of the houses.  The animals, all of them shouting in fear and the moon, it hid somewhere in the dark clouds, the distant hoots of the owl muted, the cries of the child far somewhere, which were clearly heard earlier, now vanished away, akin to jovial leaves in the fiery autumn.

In my part of the world, they hear the fantasy sounding tales of William Wallace, Francis marion, Fidel Castro, Che Guevara and when I say these great names, I do not mean the William Wallace from Scottish Revolution, neither the Marion from American war of independence, we have all of them here in every second household. All these men live and breathe here, on every narrow street of the dazzling vale. They struggle and resist for our cause. Men from all races, all generations sacrifice. They fire with handsomely manufactured Kalashnikovs and weighty stones.

Its 2017, Dust from the desert through which Kashmris had travelled to seek sanctuary still clung to the clothes of refugees. And they were the lucky ones – the ones who had just arrived in ‘waadi’ refugee camp in Pakistan. Eight miles south of the Pakistani border, the camp is distant enough to be safe but close enough to still hear the sounds of shelling between oppressive forces, Kashmiri rebellion groups, and the Al Qaeda. It is a constant reminder of the reason they left and what awaits them if they return. The refugees, who had arrived that night when Islamabad fell to Al Qaeda, were given water before receiving medical and administrative checks and joining the 100,000 others clustered in what is now the largest refugee camp in Asia. The fragile desert surface was dissolving into a fine dust through the sheer number of people walking over it as well as trucks carrying equipment.  It is like walking on talcum powder. You would be caked in dust up to your knees. But because of the shortage of water, dampening the ground is not an option so gravel is supplied to the refugees who shoveled it over the ground themselves.

At Hussein’s feet lay huge makeshift bags fashioned out of curtains in which the family had carried their belongings. Hussein is an elegant young man, face turned pale, eyes blur. He sweeps a refugee camp based on the spiteful hilly terrains of Pakistan. Hussein like thousands of other Kashmiris fled from Indian Occupied Kashmir after Al Qaeda’s intervention in Kashmir. Hussein was a fierce rebel earlier constantly resisting the Indian occupation for 14 lengthy years till 2014 He had a contentedly large house in Indian Occupied Kashmir. Though the Indian army had illegally occupied the same, Hussein found it comfortable living in a small rented house. His father was a huge supporter of JKLF’s Independent Kashmir and his grandfather was stalwartly associated with “Tehreek I Rai Shumari” (Struggle to self determination). His family had given enormous sacrifices for the just cause of independence. “I always heard the word refugee but I never imagined I would be one. I heard of Iraqi refugees, Syrian refugees but practically speaking, for me to be one? I could never imagine it until it happened, it is too hard for people to live in these sandy camps, the enormous heat, Kashmiris were unused to. Yes, it was the temperature that is inapt. Dust and dirt everywhere, ugly skies, Dull land, untidy water, mucky air. There is one tiny hand pump from which we have to take up water for drinking, we enormously miss our Lidder, the Jhelum, and we’d water there in bulks. The brisk Chinar shades, yes, it is awfully humid here. We have thousands of Kashmiris here, but that spirit of Kashmiriyat, generosity and hospitality is missing, they snatch food from each other, they go crazy, when the food trucks from Pakistan and Afghanistan come” he narrates.

“Kashmir has turned into a battle ground, in diplomatic terms for larger Global powers or state and Non state Actors, but for ordinary Kashmiris, for whom Al Qaeda allege to be resisting for, have been solely concentrated to rigid misery and resilient chains, no different from Indian Army. I remember they heartlessly blasted the illustrious shrine of one Sunni saint cum guide, Hazrat Sakhi Zain ud Din Wali on the footsteps of a small mountain in Aishmuqam after they took over the city of Islamabad and the irony is they call our beloved city as ‘Anantnag’, Many Shia colonies were blasted and Sunni scholars killed in the name of JIhaad Fi Sabi Lillah. But the Jihaad on a Global context is taking place between Extremism and Non Extremism (which does not necessarily mean moderatism) or you may say Kashmir has been converted into a battle field for Russians and the Americans and the irony was many Kashmiris earlier thought of welcoming Al Qaeda to liberate our valley” Hussein weeps out.

Hussein explains how their home on the outskirts of Islamabad had been destroyed by Al Qaeda for his religious beliefs shortly after they took over shortly. Nearly a quarter of the total population - desperately trying to avoid the constantly shifting battle zones, Finally decided to leave the country, but with vast stretches of the border too dangerous to cross they had to head west towards Pakistan. He along with his neighbours traveled for four days in a truck with 100 other people wedged in so tight they all had to sit with their legs and arms tucked in. They moved by night and hid by day.  At times they were shot at by fighter jets – an elderly woman motioned with arms outstretched how they would throw themselves to the ground when attacked. The family’s escape was a reminder. That particular night 250 people arrived. Earlier in the year the number peaked at 3,000 arriving every night.

On average, 20 babies are born in ‘waadi’ every day. The youngest refugee to arrive was two days old, and the oldest a 105 year old woman who had never left her village. In the summer temperatures rise to 45C and in the winter they drop below zero.

There are a few people who have been traders all their lives. So it is very natural for them to set up shops. It is very logical for them that anything they touch they transform into business. They use electricity which they take by illegally attaching cables to the lighting grid. All the people here have seen something horrible. They have been hiding and running, they have experienced killing and torture, spying and betrayal. These people don't trust anybody any more. They are anti-government since birth and to add Anti Al Qaeda whom some of them used to take as Messiah’s earlier.

The concept of home sweet home is becoming very important. So a lot of people are now investing and setting up structures. They will set up a fountain which for them is an expression of breathing, relaxation and reminds them of home. There will be a birdcage; there will be a flower, a plant that is growing.

The camp that stretches to about 10 Kilometers accommodates nearly 1, 00,000 refugees. The whole area is full of sand soaring in all directions from east to north and south to west. The whole place looks akin to that terrible desert where life is dreadfully difficult. There are no trees around. No essential Medical aid is provided, Food supplies come once in a week. Children from these camps come out early morning eagerly searching an empty place which is rare to be found with new refugees landing every day as Al Qaeda captures more and more towns. Playing football and cricket wearing green jerseys with a crescent and a star, children pass their time. The Youth involve themselves in discussions and arguments. Older Folks pass their time in the Masjids expecting Allah to come down and solve their problems. The women particularly younger ones campaign for equal rights in these refugee camps, they ask for equal food to be provided to them.

Meanwhile the outside world campaigns for Kashmiris to be provided essential medical supplies and Food.