by Anam Zakaria
‘And what would you like them to talk about,’ I ask. ‘Would you want an independent Kashmir or would you like it to become a part of Pakistan?’
‘We have economic ties with Pakistan. Delhi is too far away. There is no connectivity. The economic and geographic links between Jammu and Kashmir and what became Pakistan have always been closer.26 In 2.5 hours you can drive to Islamabad, so why think the other way around or think of independence? But I can tell you one thing. If India and Pakistan prolong the Kashmir issue for much longer, it will only become more violent. You’re from Punjab; why don’t people like you realize that if there is a chasm between east and west Punjab, that is also because of Kashmir, that the conflict in Kashmir needs to get resolved if India and Pakistan want peace? People have already started to pick up guns again. This is very dangerous. There will be no peace, there will be no diplomatic recourse, it will only become more bloody, if things continue like this,’ he warns sombrely.
For a few days after the interview, it is these words of admonition that ring loudly in my ears. In 2016, when Kashmir plunges into violent conflict after Burhan Wani’s death, the LoC is rife with ceasefire violations, and both India and Pakistan are on the brink of war, it is the same words that I am reminded of again and again.
4
A PEOPLE THAT TIME FORGOT
Refugees who yearn to go back, but can’t
By the end of 2014, Kashmir had gripped my imagination entirely. My two trips to Neelum Valley that year had been instrumental in this but they were not the only reason that I was so completely pre-occupied by it. In the winter of 2014, Haider, a Bollywood adaptation of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, released. The movie depicts the conflict in Indian-administered Kashmir, portraying a tragic story of deceit and bloodshed from the Valley. The screenplay of the movie was co-written by Basharat Peer, a Muslim Kashmiri writer who had published a memoir on his life in Indian-administered Kashmir called Curfewed Night. After watching the movie, I rushed to the bookstore to get a copy of the book. I finished it within two days; I was hooked, unable to put it down even at work. I then began to pick up other books on Kashmir. A Kashmiri friend recommended Mirza Waheed’s fictional accounts of the conflict. Waheed’s novels, set in Indian-administered Kashmir, drew me in immediately and within days I had read all his works as well. But, my thirst still unquenched, I continued to anxiously search for more material on Kashmir. The more I read, the more I wanted to read. It was then that I saw someone recommend Our Moon Has Blood Clots: The Exodus of the Kashmiri Pandits, by Rahul Pandita, to a friend on Facebook. I quickly searched for the author and the book on the internet and instantly knew it was going to be my next read.
As I delved deeper into the book, two aspects stood out for me. The first was the similarity between the experiences of Basharat Peer, a Muslim, as related in his memoir, and Rahul Pandita, a Hindu Pandit, as stated in his book. Peer’s life was altered by the effects of militancy in the Valley and the resulting crackdowns by the Indian forces. Pandita had suffered at the hands of the Islamic extremists who took out their anger at the Indian state on ordinary Hindus, seeing them as synonymous with the army and the establishment. On the outside, it would seem as if both Peer and Pandita had had entirely separate experiences, that one’s friend was the other’s enemy. After all, extremists from the same religious community that Peer belonged to, a community that had to face severe backlash as Indian forces resorted to curfews, arrests and interrogations to suppress militancy,1 were the cause of violence and grief to Pandita and his community. However, at a human level, it seemed to me that both of them were living parallel lives of insecurity, threat and bloodshed. Both Peer and Pandita grew up at a similar time in Indian-administered Kashmir; they both saw the insurgency of 1989, they witnessed the rise of militancy and they suffered its consequences first-hand. Precious lives were lost due to the conflict, peace and tranquillity of childhood were snatched away, and vulnerability and fear became constant companions. Yes, the perpetrators were different, as were the causes of violence and loss, but the impact felt by both men and the religious communities they belonged to was as severe, as uprooting. While Peer would narrate stories of persecution at the hands of the Indian forces during the 1990s, Pandita would speak of the cruelty of Muslim neighbours and old friends towards Hindu Pandits in the same decade. When Peer would discuss the excesses of the security forces and the innocent relatives and friends who had been killed in Kashmir, Pandita would write about the loss of his cousin and best friend. It seemed to me that at some level, regardless of religious affiliations, the sense of displacement and terror rampant in the Valley affected everyone, whether Hindu or Muslim. The agitators may have been different but the impact of aggression was the same: utter anguish.
What also moved me about Pandita’s book was its depiction of the situation the Pandits found themselves in after the exodus of the 1990s. Pandita vividly described the conditions in the refugee camps scattered across Jammu, as well as the small homes Pandit families rented at exorbitant rates from the locals: ‘It was barely a room. Until a few months ago, it had been a cowshed.’2 There was also a limit to how many people could live in such rooms, so that there wasn’t too much pressure on water and other basic resources. Members who exceeded the quota would be forced to live in refugee camps, such as ‘the Muthi refugee camp, set up on the outskirts of Jammu city, on a piece of barren land infested with snakes and scorpions’.3 After a visit to one such camp he writes, ‘I remember being confronted with the turgid smell of despair emanating from the people who waited for their turns outside latrines, or taps. New families arrived constantly, and they waited at the periphery of the camp for tents to be allotted to them.’4
Pandita also shared a snippet from an interview in an article in Open magazine. The woman tells him: When we became refugees in 1990, our lives became restricted to eight-by-eight feet rooms.5
The damp crowded rooms the Pandit families continue to live in almost three decades after the exodus were left entrenched in my mind long after I finished reading the book. The conditions sounded suffocating, and I read that water and power shortages in some settlements had only made things worse. Little did I know that a replica of these camps was situated on the other side of the LoC, in the centre of Muzaffarabad, the capital of ‘Azad’ Kashmir.
According to a Human Rights Watch report from 2006, 29,932 registered refugees crossed over from Indian-administered Kashmir to the other side of the LoC between 1989 and 1991.6 A 2013 report by Al Jazeera puts the total number of registered refugees at 34,812.7 Many more unregistered refugees (approximately 5,000, according to the Human Rights Watch report)8 continue to live on the side of the LoC administered by Pakistan. In September 2017, the prime minister of ‘Azad’ Kashmir, Farooq Haider, claimed that as many as 40,000 refugees had poured in from Indian-administered Kashmir since 1989.9 Some of them, such as Ashfaq, came to join the militancy movement, while others sought respite from the arrests, curfews and persecution in Indian-administered Kashmir10 since the escalation of militancy in 1989. Just like the Pandit community, many of these refugees moved in with relatives on this side of the LoC, or rented homes in villages and towns. Others shifted to refugee camps, thinking of it as temporary accommodation before they found a long-term solution, hoping to return home in a couple of months. Close to three decades later, they continue to live in the cold and damp camps, with no release in sight.
***
On a cold November morning in 2015, Haroon, Sharjeel and I make our way to the Manakpayan refugee camp, located on Srinagar Road in Muzaffarabad. We park on the side of the road after about a 20-minute drive from our hotel and get out of the car. On our right, tall mountains surround us. On our left, the Jhelum flows at our feet, at a sharp descent from the narrow road we have parked on. Standing on the edge of the road, Sharjeel points across the river towards mountains dotted with colourful sheds, and says, ‘The camp is on that side. Hundreds of refugees live there.’ It is estimated that prior to the 2005
earthquake, 2,720 refugees resided in this camp, making it the largest refugee camp in ‘Azad’ Kashmir. More recent figures are not available.11
There is no road connecting the two sides and I look at Sharjeel, confused, wondering how we are going to make our way there to conduct interviews. Before I can ask, he explains, ‘There is no car route. The 2005 earthquake destroyed part of the road. We will be using that to go across.’ He points opposite the river stream, near the mountains, and I squint to follow his gaze as the sun pierces its way from behind the mountains. I can see a wire connecting the two sides with a small chairlift. I turn towards him to check if that is what he means and he nods, ‘Yes, we’ll be using that. This will be an adventure for you,’ he says, chuckling.
I certainly don’t mind an adventure on a Saturday morning. In fact, I’m quite fond of chairlifts and love any opportunity to sit on one but I wonder how the residents of the camp feel about this ‘adventure’? How do they carry heavy belongings to the other side? How often does the chairlift run? Is it safe for the children to travel in? Is it functional at night? The questions race through my mind and I turn towards Sharjeel for some answers. ‘It is quite a difficult situation, especially if someone is sick. There is no way to take them to the hospital. Women in labour have had to face a lot of difficulties too. Someone has to carry them to the chairlift and then rent a car from this side. It creates a lot of problems for the refugees.’
Prior to my trips to Kashmir, I had never heard or read about these refugees; most Pakistanis are oblivious to them. But here in ‘Azad’ Kashmir, everyone seemed to know about the community. The locals I met told me that several of these refugees had initially come here to get arms training and then go back and fight the Indian forces. However, once they arrived, some changed their mind and decided not to go back. Others were seeking refuge here because of their past militant activities and the threat of arrest if they were found in Indian-administered Kashmir. Ashfaq, whom I had interviewed earlier regarding his militant days, must have been one of these refugees as well. His profile as the leader of a militant outfit as well as his educational background probably meant that he was able to bypass the refugee camps and find work in the posh and prosperous federal capital of Islamabad. Not everyone is as lucky.
But not all of those who came during the 1990s were involved in militancy. The majority of them are likely to have been innocent bystanders caught in the middle of the conflict. Several others had never even seen Indian-administered Kashmir—they were born and bred in these very refugee camps.
Today, thousands of refugees live in camps set up by the Pakistani government in cities like Muzaffarabad, Bagh, Kotli and Mirpur in ‘Azad’ Kashmir. They are issued Pakistani identity cards, like all other Kashmiri citizens,12 and are given Rs 1,500 per person per month by the ‘Azad’ Kashmir government to survive on. (The government has since increased the allowance to Rs 2,000.)13 ‘The government also provides land for the twenty-four refugee camps that it operates, housing 22,773 people. The rest live in various areas and cities across AJK.’14 I am also told that there is a 6 per cent quota reserved for them in public sector jobs and that various NGOs have opened schools specifically for refugees. Electricity, gas and tuition fees are also subsidized for them.
In some ways, the refugees are culturally and linguistically different from those who belong to ‘Azad’ Kashmir.15 While several of the refugees also speak Pahaari and Gojari, which makes it easy to converse with the locals (many of whom speak Pahaari, Pahaari-Pothwari16 as well as Gojari), others only speak Koshur (commonly referred to as Kashmiri). Since Koshur is only spoken by a minority in ‘Azad’ Kashmir, it can be problematic for some of the refugees to fit in. Moreover, politically too, the refugees stand out. Many of them are secular nationalists, opposing Kashmir’s unification with Pakistan.17 They stand for an independent Kashmir. A lot of locals, however, at least on record, state that they would like to side with Pakistan. According to the Human Rights Watch, the establishment identifies and discriminates against anyone who is perceived as a nationalist, and therefore anti-Pakistan. Reportedly, refugees have been picked up for interrogations, arbitrarily arrested and beaten up because of these nationalist sentiments.18 The report also mentions that ‘though torture is not commonplace (in ‘Azad’ Kashmir), it is threatened often’, and when carried out, enjoys impunity.19
As we wait for the chairlift to make its way to our side, Haroon points towards our right and says, ‘Srinagar is right in front of us. This road would take us there directly.’ ‘Yes it would,’ Sharjeel chips in. ‘In fact, the point at which we are standing is where the bus connects people from both sides of the LoC. Azad Kashmiris sit on the bus that goes from here to Chakothi (approximately 52 kilometres from Muzaffarabad). It serves as the check-post for the India-Pakistan bus service. Then they cross over by foot to Indian-administered Kashmir to meet family and relatives they have been separated from. Similarly, Kashmiris from that side walk over to Chakothi after acquiring the required permit and the bus brings them to this part of Muzaffarabad. Trade trucks between both sides also come here, right where we are standing.’
This bus service between Muzaffarabad and Srinagar was launched in 2005. It was seen to be an instrumental step in bridging the physical and political divide between the two sides. Yet I am told it is not easy for everyone to get on the bus. One must have a ‘real enough’ reason to want to visit the other side. Countless forms have to be filled at one end and verified at the other. Additional documents and proof of family across the LoC is often required. For most Kashmiris like Sharjeel, the bus remains just a dream. I am told that the refugees who came during the 1990s are also unable to use the bus service, despite the fact that almost all of them belong to divided families. Many of them have the militant label associated with them, and even those who don’t, would be unable to travel across without being arrested and interrogated first to explain why they had left and whether they were associated with militancy in any way. This is the case despite a new rehabilitation policy initiated by the Indian state in 2010,20 which encourages militants who went across the LoC for training to return to their homes in Indian-administered Kashmir.
I reached out to Muhammad Mukaram, a Srinagar-based journalist who has interviewed more than a hundred people who went back under the rehabilitation policy, to understand the experiences of these returnees. Terming the policy a failure, Mukaram said that returnees were often ostracized and unable to avail basic rights, such as admitting their children in government schools or obtaining ration cards. According to him, ‘Many of the returnees claim that they were befooled by the Government of Jammu & Kashmir as well as the Government of India into believing that their fundamental rights would be given to them when the reality is far from it. Some of them even assert that they were better off not returning.’ Al Jazeera has also reported that ‘there has been widespread criticism of the programme by those who have taken part in it… mostly over the surveillance and strictures they are subject to once they return home’.21
One refugee who had returned to his village in Shopian in Indian-administered Kashmir told me of the difficulties he had faced, and continues to face, there. We spoke over a WhatsApp call that got disconnected over twenty-five times during the one-hour conversation. In bits and pieces, Sayar Lone told me about how he had come to Pakistan-administered Kashmir for arms training in 2001, only being able to return home over a decade later, in 2012. Below is a translated excerpt from our conversation, which took place in Urdu/Hindi:
We left for school one morning in 2001, and one of our friends told us he had met a mujahid who said he could help us cross over to Pakistan. We were seventeen-to-eighteen-year-olds… We had no idea what Pakistan had, what people did in Pakistan, what jihad was, but everyone wanted to go across. We all wanted to get arms training and come back and fight. My friends and I decided to go too. It took us three months to reach as we only travelled during the night… Of course we were scared, but when we realized that we
were too far ahead, that we couldn’t go back, we decided that there was no point in fear. I told myself that whatever happens will happen. Even if I die I didn’t have a choice. Once I made that decision, there was no more fear.
We eventually reached a Hizbul Mujahideen camp, where there were 800-900 other boys, all from makbooza Kashmir. There were two other camps nearby too, one in Mansehra (a town in Mansehra district in the Pakistani province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa) and one in Balakot (another town in Mansehra district). There were about 2,000-3,000 other boys like me in these camps. It was 2001, and the elders in the camps were informed that they had to lie low, that there would be no more attacks because 9/11 had happened and Pakistan was fighting the War on Terror and couldn’t be seen to support militancy. There were fences on the Line of Control by now and it wouldn’t be possible to cross over anyway, like it was in the 1990s. We were young and didn’t know much… It was the elders’ decision and we just listened to them.
I lived in the camp until 2006, but there was no arms training. We were just instructed to pray five times a day and had a one-hour Quran class in which we were taught about jihad. They told us that India was our enemy, is our enemy, and will always be our enemy. We had to fight against her, even if it meant losing our lives. They explained that jihad meant fighting against oppression, against zulm (cruelty). There used to be crackdowns every month in my village before I left. We had seen so much, so I began to understand the true meaning of jihad. But there was no ammunition, no activity in the camp and eventually it closed down. People left and got married. That’s what I did too.
I moved to Islamabad and somebody introduced me to the family of my wife-to-be, who lived in Rawalpindi. We got married in 2007 and had a daughter. I wanted to bring them back to my home and meet my parents. I hadn’t told them anything before leaving but at that time everyone knew that if the boy didn’t return by sunset, he had become a mujahid. When I spoke to them, three years after crossing the LoC, they began to cry on the phone. They had thought I must have died. They ached for me to come back. I wanted to see them, my father especially, because he was sick, but I was happy in Pakistan. I had an ID card. I got a stipend from the government every month as a refugee22 and I had a job in Metro Shoes (a well known shoe store in Pakistan) in Islamabad. Life was good. But my family kept insisting we come back, so we did in 2012. The Indian government had promised by now that under the new rehabilitation policy, those who had left Kashmir for training between 1989 and 2009 could return with their dependents. I thought this meant we would be safe, no one would bother us… But since there were no legal channels to cross over for us, we had to pay Rs 3 lakh (approximately US $3,000) to an agent to cross over through Nepal. And then, when we finally reached, I was initially interrogated by every agency. I was even arrested for fifteen days. Everything the government promised, all the compensation, the money for surrendering, was never given to us. No one even asked us how we were doing once they were done interrogating me. But I don’t care. I don’t expect anything out of the government. I am only concerned about my wife. We thought she would be able to visit her family in Pakistan whenever she wanted, but it’s been four years and they just don’t let her go.23
