SAFR: A Journey to Roots

"A Tale of Hate, Love, Friendship and Exile and the search for roots in the Disputed Land of Jammu Kashmir"

By Qazi Shibli

Significant Inter religious violence shivered Jammu Province in 1947. Pro Indian Hindus and Sikhs hammered Muslims; Pro Pakistan Muslims harmed and massacred Sikhs and Hindus in retaliation. Although Indians and Pakistanis have largely ignored this violence, the evidence of the same is broadly found.  A UNCIP report of the sub-committee on western Kashmir stated that “Many Muslim refugees have lively recollections of the Jammu Massacre of 1947”. Newspaper coverage of Anti Muslim activity began on 26 September 1947. CMG published a massive report “Exodus of Muslims from Jammu”. On 19th October 1947, CMG began reporting of violence incidents on regular basis particularly in Poonch area of Jammu division.  Of the specific incidents as reported by CMG on 18th December 1947 involved a massive loss of lives and a mass exodus. “8000 Muslims were killed near Kathua and 15,000 at Akhnur Bridge. 14000 were sieged at Sambha in Jammu and Muslim Women were taken away by State troops, 25000 were murdered at maogoan”   Massacred people numbered to 2, 37,000, a report published in The times on 10 August 1948. There were countless incidents of Loot and arson, rape and murder, hangings and tortures. Commoners fled to safer places, some of them crossed over to the other side of the border into Kotli, Muzaffarabad, Most of them failed to do so, while other managed to.

That 21st October, the troopers raided an attractive house positioned amongst a cosmos of tall trees. The Three storied house was an apt reflection of rich cultural heritage of Kashmir. A large lawn parallel to the house had chicken coops, three of them, in fact, which gave shelter to dozens of chicken. Besides, the chicken coop stood tall a gigantic chinar tree. The house was fenced high to escape the threat of thieves and wild animals. The House built in mud which gave shelter to hundreds of tiny beautiful sparrows. Outside the house surged a small stream where women from the nearby houses used to wash clothes and utensils. The house stood on a foothill and the track to the house was flanked on either side by knee- high grass and speckles of white and bright yellow flowers. The same track sneaked uphill and led to a flat field where poplars and apricots grew in clusters. The whole village could be sighted from the roof of this house. Master Nazeer Ahmed from downtown, Srinagar, the owner of the house desolately looked at the stream from his window pane

The place that once used to a gossip centre for the happenings in the village had now been pushed to silence, the silence; yes it was the silence that had taken over to the gossips and the happening conversations.

               The Dogra forces scrambled the tall walls into the lawn of the house, Kicked and broke down the door. Master Nazeer Ahmed had been teaching in the village school for the past many years now. He pleaded for Justice as the troopers neared him. The mercy plea went unheard. The troopers started beating him ruthlessly. All the raiders who once used to be his students did not give an ear rather beat him mercilessly, and then there was a cry from outside, something severely horrifying. The men flashed out of the house to chase the voice. Nazeer drank a glass of water and ran, ran till he found an armored vehicle laden with some more Muslims knowing not what life had in its bag for him.  The vehicle was dark inside and humans inside had a sturdy time breathing.

The next day, the vehicle stopped and people were asked to come out. Nazeer sighted this board at a distance “Akram Khan Tailors, Peshawar” Nazeer was taken aback. He started arguing with the Bus driver. But then a flashback, what had happened the other day made him thank the driver. This was the reality now. In the middle of a Refugee camp he stood, thinking about his own house. It took him days to accept this harsh reality. As soon as he did, He started teaching at the Refugee camp and was soon posted to a High school in Lahore, then the University of Peshawar. Nazir had always dreamt of helping and serving his homeland, Kashmir. But..

Sunlight peeps through Curtains

Like a sleepy child, nodding in- out

Yet you sleep, the wave of pre- dawn

Passion remaining, lost childhood dreams

It was September 1986, Faeeza, 4, at a distance spotted a paper machee shop and got instantaneously fascinated to visit it on the famous St. Stephen Street, in Edinburgh of Scotland.  The shop read in bold letters “The feel of Kashmir." Her Parents frisked her away from that fascinating sight and boarded the car to the Drummond Street where her father, a professor in Middle East studies owned a small house.

Faeeza, a notorious kid, did her schooling from the St. Howard’s; it was perhaps that time when Faeeza got used to smoking along with other girls at the school.  During schooling time she had a couple of boyfriends, both Scottish. Considering the fact, that Faeeza was bright with studies, her parents recommended her to study Literature soon after she finished her schooling, but she desired to study International Affairs. All the way since her schooling, she never chose to call herself a Muslim. She was convinced by the theory of Islamophobia.

                Faeeza applied for Admissions at a few places but choose to move to the University of Durban in South Africa. For the first few months, she rented a house. Syed Zehra, a classmate of Faeeza from Iran used to wear Hijaab to the university. Everyone including Faeeza ridiculed her "pathetic" attire. This still and calm girl though never resisted. On the contrary she used to smile at Faeeza and others. She was a staunch follower Imam Ayatollah Khomeini had been labeled as Islamic Extremist like all Muslims in Faeeza’s school.  All Islamists were Extremists and terrorists to Faeeza.

It was during her first year in Durban University that she fell in relation with a William who had his roots from Palestine, an Israeli as he would call himself. After a strong relation of a few months she chose to live in with him. A cool morning in 2005, shortly before Faeeza’s 23rd birthday, the sky was translucent gray, and gusts of clammy, cold wind kept flustering the screen door. That day in 2005, the west bank was bombed by Israel. Discussing the same, resulted in a ghastly brawl with William. Not able to defend Palestine, she felt agitated, banged the door and stormed out of the house to go out for a walk. Drenched with tears amid vigorous showers, she ran and ran to a place where the crowd fades away and peace unfolds. Shivering with cold now, she sat down on a miniature bench on this silent street, faeeza sat down

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action: and till action, lust

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;

Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight;

Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,

Past reason hated, as swallowed bait,

On purpose laid to make the taker mad

She spotted a brawny man of fair complexion, self satisfied, immense demeanor as he arrived closer and closer holding something in his hand. Growing in suspense, she somehow felt acquainted to the man who was wearing a green baggy jacket, his neck covered with an Afghani Muffler and a round thick clothed alien cap. He sat down besides her on the highway street and instantly asked her “Daughter, Can I invite you for a cup of Tea?” Faeeza initially refused, but amidst the cold and the kind gestured tender polite man who seemed more in his 50’s, she considered. They sat down for a cup of tea in Rammy’s café on the Lake Street Avenue, Durban. Shabbir Ahmed told her that he sold shawls and he was from Kashmir. The place was alien to Faeeza but being a student of International Affairs, she felt briskly fascinated to know more. Shabbir had been in South Africa for many years but his roots are from Kashmir, “The paradisiacal land occupied by alien rulers since 1586” he said. Faeeza said she was born and brought up in Scotland; she had been Scottish by birth. Now she has been in South Africa for the past two years. Her words were the tale she had been told since her childhood. This was the first time perhaps that she had conversed with a Muslim. The conversation ended on a positive note and Shabbir gifted her wrapped “Something”. Faeeza moved back to her apartment to hear William bid her a farewell.”You bloody terrorists, you all are the same. We will neither spare you nor let you live in peace”.

Shabbir and Zehra’s perpetual sobriety and William’s hatred partially changed her downbeat perception partly towards Muslims.

                The next day she apologetically went to Zehra. Zehra after a brief conversation invited Faeeza to move in with her. She accepted without any hesitance, as she had no other options.  Faeeza  moved to her apartment, packed her belongings and atop, she placed the wrapped “something” shabbir had gifted her. From that night, Faeeza and Zehra did their chores together, they sat in the kitchen and rolled dough, chopped onions, minced garlic, offered bits of cucumber to each other, they discussed about their cultures. Zehra had her roots in Afghanistan, but after the Russian occupation they had moved to Iran. They used to converse a lot, discuss, argue, as Zehra always used to be Pro Islam finding Faeeza seconding everything that was Pro Muslim and that's what connected them strongly to each other. “Arguments are lessons, arguments can make us love, if the aim is learning, not defeating”

Faeeza slowly grew accustomed to this tentative but pleasant companionship. She was eager for two cups of “Doogh” that zehra loved to make for Faeeza . They used to share and discuss international affairs in the yard. In the mornings, Faeeza found herself looking forward to the sound of Zehra’s Prayer in the early dawn. When Faeeza spotted Zehra her eyes always sprang open. Faeeza sprang her arms open to hold Zehra, Zehra in return used to give blessings.  But Faeeza forcibly pushed Zehra and hugged her. Of all the earthly pleasures, Faeeza's favorite was lying next to Zehra, so close that she could watch her big pupils dilate and shrink. Faeeza loved her fingers over Zehra’s pleasing soft skin, over the dimpled knuckles, the folds of fat at her elbows. She lay on her belly and her eyes staring at nothing, and let her mind fly on. Yes, she let it flew distant until it found a place, sound and safe, calm and peaceful where the barley fields were green, where the water ran clear and the cottonwood seeds danced by the thousands in the air, she thought of a place which was red akin to an aflame sunset, she saw an alien house, three storied built in some Martian place, in a strange manner. A stream flew outside that house, where she dip her feet beneath an Acacia tree where women folk gathered near the lake and then it was zehra who always transited her back to life. That day Zehra told her of the Russian invasion and the American interference in Afghanistan had unwillingly pushed her father to leave Afghanistan and settle down in a distant land. Faeeza was all blank. She knew her father and an old age grandfather who hardly used to talk. Zehra’s roots got her immensely curious to know her own ones.

                The course was done. With wet eyes they bid farewell to each other. Zehra moved back to Iran whilst Faeeza got selected in an International Human Rights firm.

Considering the fact that she had a gap of One month to join the office, she flew home to Edinburgh. After a brief rest, she talked to her grandfather, a man who wore the same kind of shawl, that Shabbir had gifted her she was taken aback. The Grandfather who used to sit on a chair was a gaunt, stooping old man with a toothless smile, blue eyes with curly hair and plain shaved. He twirled the beads of his Tasbih rosary as he talked and in his quivering voice he answered the question of Faeeza .

                The 12th of July, 2014, I met this appreciably gripping honey haired lady on a Social networking site, hair falling down over her shoulders , 6 Feet tall, blue sharp eyes, face designed to perfection, She was so beautiful that my 3rd grade vocabulary can’t put it in words. Just the mystical Words of a Persian legendary poet

“Aariz ast een Ya Qamr, Ya Lala e Humras Een.

Ya Shua e Shams, Ya Aaena e Dil Haas Een”

“It’s impossible to figure out if I am the complainant, or you are the moon or you are the pearl in a deep ocean, I feel you are akin to sunrays, No it’s just the mirror of my heart that reflects you as such”

“I clearly loved the fall, but what should one do, so full of love and admiration, when a striking girl like her is in front of you, and if she walks into prastical parlor or a Saal or a drug bar and everyone’s reaction will be ‘ is that an Angel’. Yes, she looked ideally Angelic”

The first day we talked alike all the creatures do it the first time, introducing ourselves and something, the fact I was from Kashmir fascinated her, I reasoned International Studies as the fact, But it was something else. We talked about Palestine in the identical tone, discussed our diverse cultures, our fascinations and desires, likes and dislikes. Perhaps, Kashmir was the sole reason that she loved talking to me frequently. I tried to explore the facts and then one fine day, she told me the reason. I lasted to talk to this lady, and more than her beauty and appearances now,  her delightful talks and wit used to fascinate me.

Earlier tracing her roots, her grandfather had quoted Jahangir.

“Agar Firdous Bar roi Zameen Ast

Hamein Asto, Humein Asto, Humein Ast”

If there’s paradise on the earth, it’s here, it’s here.

Continuing his talk, Nazir Ahmed told her that he had a family in Indian Controlled Kashmir. He used to have a house which used to stand incredibly tall; he had two sisters and a brother. His Father used to be the president of Mohallah committee in Koker Bazaar area of Kashmir’s capital Srinagar.  “My Mother was loving and Kind, smart and resourceful, outrageously competitive and utterly maddening, she was a mind reader too. She was my biggest fan as a child. My ‘Boba’s’ delight for the most mundane of the family gatherings was something to be savored. She derived her pleasure from all of us being at one place together. She was honest to a fault while this honesty sometimes made me wince. My Mother, My Boba. She was the most fastidious person I have ever met. She was the one who with her fascinating talks and her strong honest character used to bond the family together. Sitting besides the DAAN, she told us fables of the old dates, the Jinns and the Paris.”

                He told Faeeza of the childhood fables, the friends he had and the Shikara ride that cost them 50 Paise those days. “You know the Dal Lake is one of the most beautiful Lakes, The Whole lake freezes in winters, we used to play Hockey on the Frozen Lake, What should I tell you my child, But yes, it is the land where the sun and the moon envy the Land, the moon wants to stay there and the sun wants to spread its splendid charm over the snooty  mountains to make itself look more stunning. Jaleel, me and Farooq used to be cronies till I was posted in Poonch area of Jammu Division, You see my child, Kashmir is one, But they just to oppress filthier, they have divided it into three divisions, named Ladakh, Jammu and Kashmir. I was 21 years when the Dogra King, Hari Singh unveiled a reign of Terror of people of Jammu who resisted against his imperialistic approach. I left my family behind, never looked back.”

I can’t remember

Skipping rocks on the pond

My childhoods forgotten,

My Childhoods Lost.

Going to the lake,

Sitting under the Chinar

Playing with Friends or

Dancing in the snow

“In winters, It Snows and then we have the kangris, the earthen fire pots, we have the long woolen jackets, phiran, we have handsomely knit shawls, the one I wear now, the children yearn eagerly for the snow and so do the old, making heavy preparations, the temperature never exceeds ZERO. In Springs then, we would Chant, SHEEN GALE, WANDIH CZALIH, BEY YIYI BAHAAR, The snow will melt, The winter will fade away and the sun will come out, the season of Spring, the birds will come out and chirp to gleefully welcome it. The snow on the mountains starts melting down and the frozen waters start to gush again, The summer is perhaps the finest season, the beauty returns, the colourful valley shines day and night, the flowers grow and then the callous autumn, we find it amusing too, the roads you never find them, they are all covered with leaves of trees, That’s Kashmir my Child. That’s where I belong. The people there they do not rustle to the shoddily changing scenario of the world, they are hospitable and admiring, loving and sound, intelligent and caring, and you know as a human it’s all you need. That’s what we grew up with” Nazeer Ahmed said.

                He also expressed his protracted longing to visit his dwelling place. He asked his daughter to show him some photos of Kashmir on the internet. The notebook was turned on. www.Google.com/images. Here you Go, Grand Pa. She instantly turned to her grandfather to find him drenched in tears weeping glumly. Seeing the repulsive sights Faeeza ran to her poignant grandpa and hastily hugged him. “Grand Pa, I will find you your family and take you there” I promise.

That night in her bed, she realized, her dream was about the house her grandfather talked about. She now knew, it was all about Kashmir, that fascination to that paper Machee shop in Edinburgh, the man whom she used to meet frequently in Durban who had given her a Shawl, the girl in her University, the boy whom she liked in the University and that man she loved to talk to, on the highway street. It was all related to her roots. She did not sleep that night, in fact a choking noise came up her throat. Her knees weakened. Faeeza suddenly wanted, needed to grope Zehra’s arm, her shoulder, her wrist, something, anything, to lean on. But she did not dare. She did not dare move a muscle; she did not dare breathe or blink even. It was just a mirage shimmering in the distance, a brittle illusion that would vanish at the slightest provocation. She leaned erect revering those arctic shades under the incredible Chinar, the NUN Chai from fine-looking Samavaar, the voluble stream that flowed besides her ancestral abode, the mesmerizing Dal Lake. A rigorous headache made her sleep that night.

                A Few weeks later, she flew to New Delhi International Airport where Faeeza booked one more flight for Jammu. Hiring a Taxi, She reached the Poonch area. Poonch was a crowded, bustling place. When the taxi passes the shrine of Shadra Shareef, Faeeza cranes her neck to get a better view of its gleaming tiles and the famous orange tree, the minarets, all of it immaculately and lovingly preserved. She thinks of the monuments in Scotland, her own country, but she seconds that thought, this is my country, this is where I belong. On the way, she saw an Army camp. To Faeeza , it is a blur of yellow dust and black tents and scanty structures made of corrugated steel sheets.

                After crossing Poonch city, the path is rough, winding, and dim, beneath the vegetation and undergrowth. The wind makes the tall grass slam against the taxi on one side and on the other side of her taxi is a kaleidoscope of flowers moving with the wind, some tall with curved petals, others low, fan leafed,  few ragged buttercups peep through the low bushes. Faeeza hears the twitter of swallows overhead and the busy chatter of grasshoppers on the taxi window. Driving uphill, the taxi stops “Mam, This is your destiny.” She looks from a distance. This is the house she often dreamed of.

Faeeza opens the main gate, untouched, rusty now. Yes this was the place she dreamt about. The lawn is big almost four times the size of her house in Edinburgh. The Chicken coops are there, there was a wooden outhouse, she approaches towards the house, the door is gone. She can hear flies buzzing inside.

                To get in she has to take help of the driver who gets a candle from the nearby shop as it is dim inside. Faeeza has to give a few minutes to her eyes to adjust. When she goes in she finds the interior even bigger than what she imagined. The house is still in a good condition. The walls stand strong. The floor is still carpeted with torn “PATIJ” a Kashmiri flooring, broken bottles discarded chewing gum wrappers, wild mushrooms, old yellowed cigarette butts. But mostly the floor was full of weeds, some stunted, some springing impudently halfway up the walls. Faeeza leans against the wall. She listens to the wind flittering through the willows. There are more spider webs stretched across the ceiling. There’s a deserted bird’s nest in one corner and a bat hanging upside down in another corner where the wall met the low ceiling. Someone has tried to paint something on the wall, but much of it has faded away. Faeeza couldn’t initially recognize what was the language. She captured the same in her camera.

Faeeza sits down and closes her eyes awhile.

                Then suddenly the weeds begin to recede as if someone is pulling them by the roots from beneath the ground. They sink lower and lower until the earth in the house has swallowed the last of it’s spiny leaves. The birds nest disassembles and the spider webs disappear. The graffiti in some alien language is erased off the wall automatically. A Teacher is coming back from his duty tired takes off her shoes and a woman calls him for food. He anxiously runs, not for food but to see his mother who had travelled all the way from Srinagar to see him. Faeeza also sees two girls knitting sweaters and gossiping something. From the window she witnesses a boy feeding the chickens outside the house. Zehra is not there to wake her up. One of the girl leaves the sweater and goes to the kitchen where there is a wooden table, an iron stove, shelves along the walls decorated with utensils, pots and pans, a steel kettle, cups and spoons, the distant gurgling of the stream, which snaps her eyes open.

                Outside she looked for the stream, but an elderly woman from the nearby comes to tell Faeeza that the stream had dried up. She also told him that Nazeer’s family had been visiting the place often. They have given us their address with a hope that someday Nazeer will come looking for them. The old woman told her that Nazeer was a great teacher and people of the locality had great regards for him. The old woman was saddened to hear the news of Nazeer’s death who couldn’t make it to Kashmir due to his brief illness.

                The next day she boarded a flight to Srinagar Airport and landed in down town Srinagar. The narrow bye lanes, no less than a maze, the unvoiced BUND, the evening barbeque, the captivating Dal lake, perhaps this was the Kashmir her grandfather talked of. She visited the old home of Nazeer Ahmed, her grandfather in koker Bazaa. She discovered that the sisters of Nazeer had died a few years back and his brother had been killed during in early 90’s during a search operation by Indian Army. It was here that she discovered how an entire generation had been victimized, reason given: Conflict. But that made no sense to Faeeza . She heard how her second cousins, three of them had been murdered as a case of Miss-identity.

                Ahmed accompanied her to the graves of the mother of Nazeer, her great grandmother and the sisters of Nazeer. They later went to Martyrs Graveyard, Srinagar where Faeeza found innumerable, thousands of graves, all killed, martyred by Indian Army.  “When Slaves are martyred they are relieved of all their pains, Sister, We are trapped here, But we do not rustle or bow, we resist and resist, till we free our lands from the alien rule, I do have the right to stand for my rights, if my rights are snatched away from me, I stand not a human, I stand a servant to some dictator, I resist for my rights, my identity” Ahmed said after seeing tears rolling down the eyes of Faeeza . This young boy remembered Faeeza of Zehra.

She stayed there for a week. On the way back to the Airport, the family accompanied her with wet eyes. They gave her a wooden box.

                On the 44th floor of her office in Durban, Morningside KZN, she looked down at the Umgeni River. There was a Kashmiri embroidery shop besides the river. She sat down to look at the pictures for the twelfth time at least. But this time she stopped on a photo that she had taken in Nazir’s house, their Poonch house, she now believed, The Graffiti that said something Alien.  With the help of an Indian colleague she discovered it was Hindi reading “Kashmir is our Land, it always has been, and we will not let Muslims rule or live here” The words were nostalgic and freshened the memories of William.

                She opened the box that her great grandmother had kept for Nazeer Ahmed, She found some amulet and a letter.

13 August, 1966

Asalamualikum

May you live long!

Hopes continue to be our breath. Long have we craved to sound your footsteps inside this house. Long have we longed to hear your melodious whimpers. Long has your mother lingered to hear the faults in her cooking. Long have your sisters dreamed for clumsy brawls over the pettiest of issues. Long has been the isolation. Long has been the separation.

                The sweater that your mother planned to knit for you is done now though it may not fit you anymore. You must have grown into a handsome man. We remember the sweet dimples of your plump cheeks. The lawn of Ashraf awaits you and your friends Jaleel And farooq. Jaleel has joined the mahaz I rai Shumari while Farooq is a school master. Farooq was imprisoned the last month after he publicly recommended that kashmiri history be included in school syllabi. My Son, the land awaits you, your talent and creativity. I still remember how your fiction used to amuse and entertain the greatest of writers of our locality. The nation awaits your talent, your skills.

                Your mother has wept her eyes out at the shrine of makhdoom sahib, tied knots on the shrines of all awliya from Chrar e Shareef to Aishmuqaam. She fasts on every Thursday in a protest against God and in your hope. She serves you food every day, your plate is still your. Come back, your mother, the empty rooms of the house await you.

Hope to see you soon

Allah Nigebaan.

Later in bed that night, Faeeza lying on the bed besides her husband thought about the graffiti. She thought “How her family had moved circles, from a small village in Poonch to a refugee camp in Karachi to Edinburgh Scotland and now Durban Africa. She crossed seas and continents, vibrant cultures, Infinite races, and something stayed though, the tag of being a Muslim, an extremist.

"I am not the only one, people all around the world have negative perception, prejudice, and discrimination targeted against Muslims" she thought. With so much Islamophobic rhetoric being used, in many cases by politicians looking to score points by feeding people’s fear, oppressed muslims have been pushed to live in Isolation. The world needs to give feeder to all races as all religions are crossing boundaries of race, culture, creeds and nations.

The world needs to be more tolerant, Lessons of tolerance need to be preached yet again