Kashmir
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Kashmir
Asma Yasrib & The Sakooter Speaks Kashmir on protest…
caashurr This is a tale of three people
~ Kashmir ~ Kill A Kashmiri, Win 100,000 Rupees
Muzamil Jaleel ‘Rs 20,000 if you bring back my son’
The Sakooter Speaks
Asma Yasrib
Kashmir on protest…
The whole of Kashmir is
protesting.
on February 22nd, 2007
caashurr This is a tale of three people
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 a 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. His friends already started addressing him as engineer saahib. 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 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. Thursday,
August 10th, 2006
~
Kashmir ~
Kill A Kashmiri, Win 100,000
Rupees
Over the past
18 years in Kashmir, thousands of people — civilians, who had no arms,
vulnerable and weak — have disappeared. Many many amongst these have been
killed in the so called “fake encounters” where in lieu of promotion, pride,
power — men have killed men.
Muzamil Jaleel ‘Rs 20,000 if you bring back my son’
We need a kill, operations have
dried up January 30, 2007 at 0000 SRINAGAR, JANUARY 29 When 65-year-old Ghulam Rasool Padroo started his 90-km journey from home this morning to search for his missing son Abdul Rehman, he had left with a smile. His neighbours in a remote south Kashmir village had gathered in the compound of his two-storey mud house. A villager had heard his 35-year-old carpenter son’s name in a radio broadcast bringing hope to a family searching for its only breadwinner for 52 days after his mysterious disappearance in Srinagar. No one knew that he was dead, killed by the police in a fake encounter, dubbed a Pakistani militant and quietly buried, as The Indian Express reported today. No one knew that J-K Police had awarded its own Senior Superintendent of Police and his men in Ganderbal a cash prize of Rs 1. 2 lakh for his killing. No one knew that Chief minister Ghulam Nabi Azad was preparing to give a statement in the Legislative Assembly after the J-K Police’s own investigation had exposed a network of fake encounters in its own ranks, arrested two of its men and attached two senior officers. So when Padroo stepped into Rambagh Police station in Srinagar to meet Superintendent of Police Uttam Chand — who was investigating his son’s disappearance — he wept. “I have faith in God. I hope my son will return soon,’’ he said. Nobody dared to tell him the truth, not even the officer. “We are investigating. Bring the children of your missing son along tomorrow, we need to do a test,’’ Chand told him as a local schoolteacher accompanying Padroo translated. “I will give Rs 10-20,000 if you bring my son back,’’ Padroo pleaded, not understanding that the police officer was asking him to bring his son’s children to take samples for a DNA test. For a moment, Chand was dumb struck. Padroo spoke only Kashmiri and when Chand informed the schoolteacher that he was waiting for a magistrate’s order to exhume the body of Padroo’s son Abdul Rehman from a grave in Ganderbal — the order came later, the body will be exhumed today — he listened silently and walked away. Padroo stayed and prayed for the officer’s good health, saying you are a good man and God will reward you. This time the officer didn’t understand what Padroo said but he patted his shoulder, consoling him. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,’’ Chand had nothing else to say. The government had not bothered to officially inform the carpenter’s family about the outcome of their investigation. In fact, there is no such official ritual in Kashmir and the family is perhaps the last to know. Outside, the schoolteacher had already told other neighbours and relatives, who were accompanying Padroo. Now they slowly started breaking the tragic news to a father, who had started the day with a hope. “The police will open a grave in Ganderbal to see who is buried there,’’ a village elder, Ghulam Nabi Khan told Padroo. Padroo listened but he again hoped against hope. “For us, he is still alive,’’ he said and the villagers decided to rush to the divisional commissioner’s office to speed up the exhumation process. “This wait is killing. We want to see his body and take him home for a decent burial,’’ Khan said. The J-K Police had arrested two of its men in the case and one of them, Constable Farooq Ahmad, belonged to his village which opened a new dimension to the “fake encounter’’ and the killing. Said father Padroo: “My son worked as a carpenter for years in Srinagar but didn’t help us with money. Recently, I asked him why and he said he had paid (Constable Farooq, who is also a distant relative) Rs 75,000 to help him get a government job. He was pushing Farooq to return the money after he failed to deliver on his promise.” Sources said Farooq worked closely with SSP Hansraj Parihar, the officer who was attached after the expose. Farooq is said to have told investigators that he brought carpenter Abdul Rahman to Ganderbal Police after he was asked that “they needed a kill’’ in Ganderbal as “operations have dried up’’.
Democracy ahoy!
Democracy…
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