by Anam Zakaria
‘And how did all of you hope to achieve this agenda of liberation? How and where did you get trained as a jihadi? How did it all start?’
‘There was nothing in the beginning. We had to set everything up from scratch. We would cross over the LoC and go live with the locals on the Pakistan side. They would open their homes to us, give us food, warm blankets. I came to Pakistan for the first time through Keran (the village where Haroon and I spent our first wedding anniversary) in 1989 and lived with some of my family members who were on this side. Then my colleagues and I set up the first training camps. That is how it began.’
‘So, Pakistan was involved and supportive of the insurgency from the very beginning then?’ I ask. ‘That is the popular version that we have all heard. That the Afghan jihad had just come to an end and Pakistan used the mujahideen trained to fight the Soviets in Afghanistan to wage a new jihad in Kashmir. Would you say this is true?’
‘No, no. In 1989, the movement was entirely started by the Kashmiris. There were no Afghans, no one else. That only happened later. What you people don’t realize is that there are millions of Kashmiris living all over Pakistan, in Karachi, Baluchistan, everywhere. It was these Kashmiris who got involved in the 1980s. Pakistan hasn’t pushed us into militancy. No one needed to push us into it. The Kashmiris saw this as the only way forward. What Pakistan has done for us, though, is letting us be, letting us do our work,’ he slides his chair back and holds up both his hands before continuing, ‘They have had a hands-up approach. They haven’t stopped us from doing anything but they haven’t sanctioned us either.’
While many of the interviews I conducted with Kashmiris (mostly in ‘Azad’ Kashmir and some in Indian-administered Kashmir, over email and telephone) before and after my conversation with Ashfaq would reinforce this line of thinking—that the insurgency was entirely crafted and led by the Kashmiris themselves—others would differ. The nationalists among ‘Azad’ Kashmiris (who want independence from both India and Pakistan) who I would speak to later would lay the blame entirely on the Pakistani establishment. They would hold them responsible for funding and fuelling the mujahideen, which they feel has only strengthened India’s case for crackdowns and more authoritarian control of Indian-administered Kashmir. Still others would have a different point of view to present. They would state that while militancy was homegrown, the nationalist struggle began to take on an Islamic colour during the early 1990s due to Pakistan’s involvement.17 No longer was the Kashmiri struggle about self-determination and autonomy, rather it was linked to the wider jihad, with the desire to establish an Islamic caliphate. Militant groups like Lashkar-e-Taiba—centred around Punjab in Pakistan—gained a stronghold in Kashmir18 as a result, not only fighting against Indian ‘occupation’ in the Valley but also waging a war against ‘infidels’. Lashkar-e-Taiba has become infamous for the 2001 attack on the Indian Parliament and the 2008 Mumbai attacks. It is alleged that the Pakistani state has played a significant role in supporting this outfit. According to some of the Kashmiris I spoke to on both sides of the divide, Islamic fundamentalist outfits like the Lashkar-e-Taiba were used by the Pakistani establishment to crush the nationalist movement, which could take Kashmir away not only from India but Pakistan as well. These people hold the Pakistani establishment responsible for much of the lethal backlash felt by Kashmiris on both sides as a result of the actions of such groups. As one ‘Azad’ Kashmiri I met put it, ‘It isn’t fair to label the indigenous Kashmiri movement for freedom as terrorism. It is a genuine cause.19 Organizations like Lashkar-e-Taiba, however, are in another category altogether. They are not indigenous, they are not composed of the local people. They have their own goals and have thus been banned, at least officially. They create a bad name for Kashmiris; in fact, instead of helping, they hurt the Kashmiri cause. Genuine freedom fighters get labelled as terrorists and are put in jail, tortured, and no one cares to give them justice because after all, they are just terrorists.’
I realize that there is no one narrative or explanation for the start or rise of militancy. Different people and groups have their own understanding of the events that unfolded after 1989. It is also not my aim to engage in investigative journalism and find the root cause of the insurgency. I am more interested in how the Kashmiris perceive the conflict and how they make sense of it. I thus decide not to probe Ashfaq further on his political views and standpoint on who funded or supported the militancy and rather turn the conversation back to his personal experiences of it. I ask him to tell me any anecdotes, any memories from that time. ‘What all do you remember? Once you got involved, what was it like? Were you ever scared of getting caught?’
‘I’m human, of course I was scared,’ he laughs. ‘There were so many times that I was saved by a whisker. Those were miracle moments. I remember once the army was in my village for seven days to find me. All of my family members ran away except one of my phuphos (father’s sister), who was eighty. Most of the other villagers ran away too. Those who didn’t, suffered at the hands of the army,’ he lets out a long sigh before continuing, ‘Another time, I was visiting a friend in a building next to the one I used to work in. While we were eating, the forces entered my office and got hold of another colleague of mine. They burnt his sides, his arms, everything…’ He pauses and strokes his right arm. In that moment, he seems to grow smaller, as if shrinking with the thought of the pain. I also squirm in my seat, thinking of being burnt and yet not killed, fully conscious, fully aware of the scathing, burning skin. I am thankful when he starts speaking again. ‘As soon as we got the news, my friend and I left our food and ran away. But the forces found out I was with him.’
He claimed that in retaliation, they picked up his two-and-a-half-year-old son. ‘My friend was the local mujahideen commander of that area, you see. We were hiding in the jungle when we found out about his son. He kept insisting that he would give himself up to save his son. I told him to wait, and that if we had to give someone up, I would give myself up. Of course, I intended to do no such thing,’ he smiles, ‘but I had to pacify him or we both would have been caught. After a few hours, the forces let his son go. They sent him back on a tonga to his house. That was one narrow escape!’
‘So you never got caught then, during your entire time as a mujahid?’
‘No, I was very fortunate. There are two main ways that people get caught; either people tell on you or your get-up gives you away. But I wasn’t involved in any kidnappings, extortions, etc. Everyone was friendly with me, so no one gave up my name. And then, I used to travel in a three-piece suit,’ he smiles. ‘No one could guess that a mujahid would be disguised in a three-piece suit. When the time would come, I would take out my weapons and change my clothing but in broad daylight, no one would know I was a mujahid.’
‘And when did you move to Pakistan then?’
‘I moved here permanently in the 1990s. My supervisor told me I was needed here, that I could help train more people here, so I came. I’ve never gone back since. I can’t go back or I’ll be caught.’
‘Did you know you wouldn’t be able to go back when you came? Was coming here a conscious decision?’
‘At that time, I didn’t even know if I’d survive. Even then crossing over was very difficult. You had to make a decision about whether you were willing to cross over even if it meant you might die. You had to make this decision every time before you thought of going over the LoC. But of course, I want to go back. My wife and children are here but my parents, sisters, brothers are still there. For many months initially, I couldn’t even call them, tell them that I was alive. And I would get news from travellers that they had suffered at the hands of the army. They would beat them up to find out where I was but my family had no idea… I hadn’t told them anything before coming… Can you imagine how helpless it would make me feel knowing that they were getting hurt because of me? They were interrogated because of me, their education got impacted because of me and I could do nothing. But what choice did I have?’
‘Did they ever try to stop you from becoming a mujahid?’
‘They couldn’t stop me even if they wanted to. They had no choice but to support me. The cause was too great. Sacrifices have to be made,’ he shrugs in a matter-of-fact way but I can see his body quiver slightly. He seems overcome with emotion while talking about his family but is unwilling to cave in. Clearing his throat, he looks at me for another question, hoping that would divert his attention from the topic.
‘But now that you have left the movement, do you ever regret going into it in the first place?’
‘I have not left the movement,’ he says firmly, looking straight into my eyes. ‘I have left armed struggle, but I would never leave the movement.’
As he says this, I realize for the first time that the two are not synonymous despite how the media and popular discourse presents it. The movement for the end of ‘occupation’ is much larger. It is entrenched in Kashmiri society (the movement against ‘occupation’ is heightened in Indian-administered Kashmir but while conducting interviews, even those in ‘Azad’ Kashmir would repeatedly express their desire for freedom for their Kashmiri brothers and sisters across the LoC. News about violence in Indian-administered Kashmir escalates this sentiment in ‘Azad’ Kashmir every few months, often resulting in protests. As I write this in October 2017, which marks the seventieth year of the Kashmir conflict, anti-India rallies and demonstrations are being held across ‘Azad’ Kashmir to ‘condemn the invasion and subsequent occupation of the disputed Himalayan region by Indian troops’.20 At the same time, as discussed in the later chapters, some ‘Azad’ Kashmiris also view Pakistan as an ‘occupying’ force and demand an end to that ‘occupation’.) Militancy is just one act of expression of that movement. By equating the two, the movement is tarnished, undermined, rejected. It seems to lose its voice. No wonder Ashfaq finds it necessary to correct me at once.
‘I would never have picked up arms if there was any other option of securing freedom, but joining the movement was and is unquestionable. Every Kashmiri is part of the movement,’ he says. ‘A non-violent movement is always preferable but that is up to the occupier. India keeps pushing us into jihad. For the first time this year, we asked for permission to hold a march during Prime Minister Modi’s visit to Srinagar in November (2015).21 The Hurriyat leaders even said that they would take responsibility for any damage but instead of giving us that democratic space, the Indian government arrested people22 and made the security arrangements so tight that only puppets of the Indian government could come out. In the media they made it seem like Modi’s visit was a huge success, that people supported him and the government he represents, but that is far from the truth. Even today, a mujahid’s funeral would draw a bigger crowd than would the prime minister of India. Recently a mujahid was martyred. He had a huge janaza (funeral).23 One talk by Hurriyat Conference leaders, Geelani or Mirwaiz, brings all of Kashmir to a standstill. Modi cannot even come close,’ he stops to pour some more tea for all three of us before continuing. ‘We tried the peaceful method in the past decade, I am all for it too, but it hasn’t worked. The Indian Army remains as unsparing, the government refuses to demilitarize, so the youngsters just get more impetus to join militancy. You must have heard about the Burhan case?’ He asks me and I nod.
By this time Burhan Wani, the commander of Hizbul Mujahideen, was a household name in Indian-administered Kashmir. Wani and his companions were referred to as ‘New Age militants’, who used social media to proudly put up pictures of themselves, holding up arms. This was in contrast to the mujahids of the 1990s, who would hide their faces. This new breed of militants seemed to have lost the fear of getting caught; there was a renewed fire in them to seize ‘azadi’.
‘You know why Burhan became a mujahid? He and his brother were going on their bike and were stopped for no reason by the army. His brother, who was studying in college, was made to lie down on the road and beaten up without any reason. Burhan managed to run away and told the forces that he would get back at them. Now he is seeking revenge and they call him a militant. There are boys who see no point in peaceful protests or stone-pelting anymore. They want to go all out. These youngsters have an even greater resolve than I did because they have seen much more, they have been tortured, they have lost family members. I grew up in an environment which was still relatively peaceful. These kids have grown up in the middle of the conflict.’
Over the years Wani garnered increasing support in Kashmir. When security forces would kill him in July 2016, his death would be mourned by lakhs of Kashmiris.24 The resentment and anger over his death would result in furious protests, spiralling into one of the most violent and prolonged clashes between civilians and security forces in Kashmir’s recent history. Internet and phone calls would be blocked and curfew would be imposed. By the end of 2016, approximately 145 civilians would be killed due to action by the police and paramilitary personnel. In addition, according to one Srinagar-based human rights group, ‘more than 15,000 persons (would get) injured in the state forces action with 4,500-plus injuries by the use of pellet shotguns, with 1,000-plus civilians receiving eye damage fully or partially.’25 But both Ashfaq and I would not know of this until late next year.
‘Let me rephrase my question then. Had you not had health issues, would you have left the armed movement?’ I ask, coming back to our discussion of how he feels about his militant past. I want to know how he views militancy today, especially while sitting miles away from his immediate family, knowing that he might never see them again.
He takes a deep breath and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table in front of him. ‘I probably would have dropped arms even if I didn’t have health issues. I was always different; I had a different thought process. I never wanted to hurt civilians or political opponents. When the jihadi organizations (referring to groups like Lashkar-e-Taiba and Jaish-e-Mohammad, allegedly backed by Pakistan, which gave an Islamist colour to the nationalist movement) came in and gave the movement an Islamic twist, I couldn’t bear what they were doing. Everyone was just furthering their own agenda. So yes, I probably would have left it anyway but I don’t regret going into it. I am a product of the armed movement, how can I be against it? The freedom fighters have played a critical part in the movement. They have allowed us to put Kashmir on the world map. No one cared about us till armed struggle rose in the area. Now the whole world gives us attention. You go to any conference in the world and Kashmir will be discussed. Yes, the armed struggle has its cons—I have suffered a lot because of it too, I had to leave my family behind because of it—but the biggest benefit was that the world knows about the Kashmir conflict now. Whether they do anything about it is a different topic but Kashmir has come to the fore due to jihad. That is a big achievement for us.’ Many others I would speak to would echo this line of thought. They would tell me that had it not been for militancy, Kashmir would have never become an international issue.
‘Some say that the Hurriyat Conference, which you are now a part of, is also a militant group. Can you say something about those accusations?’ His body tenses up immediately. ‘Why don’t we talk about India not withdrawing its forces? Why didn’t they remove the army when militancy reduced? Why don’t you ask those questions instead of these?’ he almost shouts at me. Realizing that I have upset him, I decide to quickly change the topic.
I ask him about Pakistan’s more recent role in Kashmir. It is said that after Pakistan became involved in the US-led War on Terror in the aftermath of the 11 September 2001 attacks on the Twin Towers in New York, the establishment came down hard on militants. While I would delve deeper into this in my later interviews with state officials in Pakistan, I wanted to gauge Ashfaq’s opinion. I ask him whether the post-9/11 era of politics affected Kashmir.
‘Yes, after 9/11, the mujahideen received a severe blow. Camps were dislodged and the financial networks of several armed outfits were dismantled. It has taken time and effort to regroup. But the positive impact of 9/
11 was that a discussion was started about what to do apart from picking up arms. That room for dialogue opened up again. However, India hasn’t appreciated that. They have kept the military presence as strong as before, the crackdowns haven’t stopped. They haven’t reciprocated our peaceful efforts. People are agitated, frustrated, as a result. They want to take up arms again.’
Our conversation is interrupted as his phone rings. I can tell that someone is waiting for him in the car downstairs and that he has to leave. I have taken up a lot of his time in any case. I ask him if he has any last thoughts he would like to share, particularly about India or Pakistan. He seems more relaxed now.
‘Well, honestly, the whole issue is because of a basic trust deficit between India and Pakistan. Naak ka masla hai (it’s an issue of ego). They begin to build trust and say they will talk about Kashmir but one firing happens at the LoC and it all stops.’
