Between the Great Divide

by Anam Zakaria

  When I ask him if he feels the crossing over of mujahideen is the root cause of firing, he says, ‘Yes, firing happens when they cross over but not many go across now. After the 2003 ceasefire, some camps remained operational. They mostly consisted of people from Punjab. But after Nawaz Sharif came to power in 2013, they were shut down. Now a handful of mujahideen may still be crossing over but they are negligible in number. Yet the firing hasn’t stopped. Sometimes our army retaliates but even then the damage is ours because on that side too, there are our Muslim brothers.’

  It is nearing sunset and we still have to begin our work. After we are seated in the car, Sharjeel says, ‘If a hundred people crossed over before, now only one or two do. I spent a week here last year and I can tell you that firing is just tit for tat. It is not about crossing over anymore. They fire, we fire; we fire, they fire. The Indian forces also hit areas where crossing over cannot even take place, so how can that be about infiltration?

  ‘We don’t understand why India hasn’t changed its tactics. I am not saying that one or two mujahideen crossing over is not a problem but they need to change the intensity of their operations. I witnessed people dying while I was reporting from Nakyal Sector in Kotli last year, homes being demolished, livelihood being destroyed. It makes people angry, it makes them more susceptible to extremism. Why doesn’t India understand that?’ Sharjeel points his finger across from us and continues, ‘Do you see that village? It was hit by mortar shelling last year. Fifteen innocent men and women died… Why did they deserve it? What did they do?’

  As we drive towards another village, to conduct interviews with families that are affected by the firing, Sharjeel says he saw the villagers leaving in large numbers last year. ‘People were displaced, they had to flee their homes to escape the firing. The road we are driving on now didn’t have any place to walk. It was crowded with people and animals. My colleagues from the BBC and Al Jazeera and I couldn’t even go beyond this point to report on the firing because of its sheer intensity. Do you see that green mosque up ahead? We crouched by it for hours, as there was no other safe place to go to. The locals brought us food to eat so that we could survive.’

  He asks us to stop the car for a moment so that he can buy some water to break his fast in a couple of hours. We park beside the green mosque and Haroon steps out. I open the car door and hear the wind gushing. ‘Isn’t this one of the most soothing sounds in the world?’ Haroon asks me, and I nod. It is a beautiful area, quiet and serene, surrounded by lush forests and makkai fields. The grass is green, ripe for the cutting season in two months. It is in this very grass that the mujahideen hide as they attempt to cross over, if I am to believe the keeper of the guesthouse.

  ‘Imagine if firing started right now,’ Haroon says, interrupting my thoughts. For a minute I try to envision the scenario and can feel my heart race. What would we do? Where would we go? One minute I am enjoying the tranquillity and the other I could be struck by a mortar? What would that uncertainty do to one? How did the locals manage? The sheer unpredictability could drive one insane.

  Sharjeel returns and we sit back in the car, driving towards the village where we are meant to conduct the first interview. I can see young boys playing cricket on the road that was crammed with displaced civilians last year. Up ahead, there are women sitting by the river, chatting amongst one another. We slow down and Sharjeel asks them if they can point us towards the house of the woman who died last year. Without hesitation, they point us to the left. We pass a small market where shopkeepers are busy selling goodies right before Iftar time. Sharjeel laughs and says, ‘You can see people today. Last year when I came I couldn’t see a single person in the market. It was an abandoned area… all the stores were closed. Do you see the holes in those shutters? They were caused by the splinters.’ As he says this, I notice the small holes that gape at us as we drive by. I wonder if they will meet the same fate this August. Will the firing resume with the same intensity?

  Before I can ask Sharjeel, he tells us to stop the car. He points towards an elderly man walking on the street ahead of us and says, ‘It’s his house we are looking for. He lost his wife to firing last year.’ We roll down our windows and Sharjeel greets him. I step out of the car and meet the elderly man, telling him I’m very sorry about his loss. Shaukat (the name has been changed to protect his identity) says he is humbled to know that we came all the way from Islamabad to enquire about his wife and insists that we come over to his house and meet his daughter. ‘She will tell you everything.’

  As we drive to his house, he tells me, ‘I was praying at night when I heard the firing. I told my family not to step out. The next morning, the firing started again at about 5.20 and went on till 9 am. Then it completely stopped. Eid-ul-Azha was round the corner and we had tied the goats for slaughter outside. When the firing stopped, my mother and wife went out to make sure the animals were okay. Right then a mortar hit the goat and split it into two; the top half of the goat was just sliced off. The splinter from that mortar hit my gharwali’s (homemaker’s) face. Firing continued for two hours after that and we just held her as she bled. No one was willing to give us a ride. People were asking for lakhs of rupees just to cross the road amidst the firing. Finally someone agreed to take us to Nakyal Hospital in the city (Nakyal is a tehsil—administrative unit—of Kotli district). The doctors there told us to take her to the CMH (Civil Military Hospital) in Rawalpindi for proper treatment but she died on the way.’ His voice breaks and for a moment we are all silent; the only sound is of the engine vibrating as we drive up the steep road. Then he says, ‘We were lucky the firing stopped the next morning and we were able to hold her funeral in peace. It started again at 6 pm but at least we got to bury her properly…’

  We park our car and walk out. He guides us through the wild landscape towards his house, telling us to step carefully as there might be snakes hiding in the grass. Petrified of reptiles, I hold my breath as we walk through the thick undergrowth. The route is steep and we have to make our way through rocks, wet mud and thorns. I wonder how difficult it must have been for Shaukat to carry his injured wife on this route, especially during the firing. Walking ahead of us, Shaukat mentions in passing that during the Kargil conflict, a bomb fell right here, crushing four young children from his neighbourhood.

  A small open space, surrounded by trees, greets us at the entrance to his home. ‘Do you see those holes in the trees? That’s where the splinters hit. The goat was tied to this tree.’ He bends forward and removes a rock from the foot of the tree. Underneath it is a sharp rusty piece of metal, the splinter that had hit his wife. This is the first time I am seeing one and Haroon and I lean forward to touch it. He quickly tells us to move back—‘It’s poisonous!’ he exclaims. I wonder why he has not thrown the lethal piece that killed his wife, especially given that he has children in the house, but he tells me he keeps it well hidden. Perhaps it serves as the last reminder of his wife, one he is unwilling to let go of.

  We have to climb a small rock before we enter another open space. On the left I can see a few rooms. A couple of young girls, presumably his daughters, are busy making Iftari in a long hallway in front of the rooms. They come to greet us and drag a couple of chairs out on to the verandah. One of his daughters comes and sits with me. The girls had a number of reporters come and interview them last year about the incident and seem to have become used to answering questions surrounding one of the most traumatic events in their lives. She was fifteen and completing her matriculation when the incident took place. ‘I had to leave school and take care of the home after my mother’s death. I couldn’t complete my education.’ She assumes I am a reporter from one of the news channels and speaks to me with a straight face, her emphasis on making sure I understand and convey her demand for a hospital and better roads to the government (she says her mother could have been saved if there had been a good hospital in her area). She almost seems to have been hardened by the loss of her mother, by having to give up her educat
ion (so as to look after her siblings), by living amidst the firing, year in and year out.

  She tells me that she has heard firing ever since she was a young child. In school, the headmaster would tell the children to huddle together and hide until it stopped. At home, her father would tell them to rush inside. The uncertainty, the constant state of emergency, the loud explosions, have shaped her childhood and now her adulthood.

  Just then, her father speaks up from the side. ‘The firing started when she was five or six years old, about ten years ago, a few years after the 2003 ceasefire. They fire anytime now. There is no ceasefire in this area despite the 2003 agreement between India and Pakistan.’ He tells me that last year, when his wife passed away, the major firing had begun on 14-15 August. ‘The Independence Days of Pakistan and India become a headache for us in this area,’ he says with frustration. ‘Kashmiris celebrate Pakistan Day on 14 August37 and observe a black day on 15 August to protest against Indian rule in Kashmir.38 They chant pro-Pakistan slogans and Pakistani flags are hoisted39 on both sides of the LoC. The Indians don’t like this and they begin to fire.’ He tells me that the few mujahideen who operate in the area try to take advantage of the patriotic fervour and cross over during the same month.

  ‘These mujahideen are outsiders, Punjabis and Pathans, not Kashmiris. They just want to create trouble. They go across and the Indian Army fires to scare them away. When they insist on crossing, then the firing worsens. It’s India’s way of telling the Pakistan Army to stop these infiltrators. There’s more peace these days because after the Pathankot incident, there is strict vigilance in the area (the incident refers to a terrorist attack on the Indian Air Force station in Pathankot in India in January 2016, soon after Narendra Modi’s surprise visit to Pakistan in December 2015. It is alleged that the Jaish-e-Mohammad, a Pakistan-based jihadist group operating in Kashmir, carried out the attack to thwart the peace efforts between the two countries). Nawaz Sharif has cracked down hard on them. But when they will go across again, then the firing will begin too.’

  He tells me that last year, another girl in the village lost her life. She had appeared for her FSc exams (Class 11-12), but before the results were announced she was killed. ‘This year, we are scared that instead of being able to commemorate my wife’s death anniversary, we will have to hide in our homes and pray that we are not hit. As soon as 14-15 August approaches, the firing will begin again. We don’t know which side will instigate the conflict but what I don’t understand is that if India wants to hit the army or the mujahideen why don’t they fire on the range? They should fire on Pakistan Army posts, why do they fire towards villages?’

  Having lost his wife to the firing, Shaukat is clearly furious with India. However, he also seems angry at Pakistan. ‘We are willing to sacrifice our lives for Pakistan… we consider Kashmir to be a part of Pakistan… but no one cares when people die here year after year. They discriminate against us. When my wife died I was given only Rs 3 lakhs. When someone dies across the working boundary in Punjab they are given Rs 5 lakhs as compensation. Why aren’t Kashmiris treated as equals? Why do the Punjabis get more money? Are their lives more important than ours?’

  Shaukat sees me as a representative of the Pakistani state and expects me to respond on its behalf but I have no answers. There is nothing I can say that can rationalize the state’s policies or lessen his pain of losing his wife. The call for magrib prayers from a nearby mosque interrupts our conversation. Everyone’s attention turns towards breaking his or her fast. The table in front of us is laden with watermelon, pakoras, soft drinks and dates.

  We stop talking and listen to the azan for the next few minutes. The cows moo in the background and the goats bleat. As I see Shaukat and his family break their fast together, I wonder how much he must have had to invest again to buy the animals—the sources of his livelihood—after the incident last year. Goats and cows do not come cheap. I can only hope that no mortar strikes them this time, no mortar chops them into two. When the azan finishes, Shaukat tells me he has repeated nightmares that his house is under attack again. ‘I woke up in the middle of the night last week and ran out of my house. I felt that the earth was shaking and we had been hit but it was all in my head.’ He tells me he feels he has become emotionally disturbed ever since his wife died. He is not the only one in the area. I am told that anxiety, depression and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) are common here.

  Yet, Sharjeel tells me that unlike Neelum Valley, the people of Kotli have not risen up in protests and rallies. Despite suffering casualties and the loss of livelihood, they have remained more passive in their demand for peace. When I ask Shaukat the reason for this, he says, ‘People become charged after such incidents but they lose momentum soon after. There have never been any major mujahideen camps here as there were in Neelum Valley. Across us is Jammu, where there is no Muslim support, so there has never been a point in training and sending large numbers of mujahids from here. Yes, a handful do go across but it is not as if India is only firing because of them. So we don’t have as many reasons as people in Neelum Valley do to protest. We are only upset that the government doesn’t provide basic facilities in the area like healthcare and hospitals. We do want to rally against India but how do we do it from here? Maybe in a few years more people will rise up but for now it seems pointless. We are just hoping that the Pakistan Army can fight on our behalf… that they can make us secure, that they can win us Kashmir.’

  It is starting to get dark and Sharjeel advises that we leave so that we can find a place to stay for the night. Shaukat guides us back through the vegetation, telling us to be careful to not touch any plants on the way lest any poisonous insect bites us. He also tells us to walk on the rocks and not the grass in case snakes have come out after sunset. I am trying to turn on my phone’s flashlight when I hear a sudden burst of fire. Almost letting out a scream, I quicken my pace but Shaukat tells me to relax. ‘That is probably just the Indian forces firing in their own area, just to let those across the LoC know that they are alert and watching.’ I am frightened that they may change their direction and fire on this side, even though it is only June. My heart is pounding; next to me, I can feel Haroon tense up as well. It is only when we reach the car and close the doors that both of us let out a sigh of relief. Sharjeel, however, is calm; he has experienced much worse. He tells me, ‘Last year, Shaukat’s was the only family left behind in the area. All others ran away. He didn’t have the resources to get away… that’s why his wife died.’

  We drive towards Kotli city, in search of the government guesthouse. Tomorrow we are to visit another village for interviews. When we finally reach, a small Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaaf (PTI) rally is taking place in the garden of the guesthouse. The party, led by Imran Khan, is trying to gather support ahead of the upcoming elections. They are promising change, an end to corruption. We manage to get rooms in the guesthouse and Haroon and I say goodnight to Sharjeel. On our way inside, I notice a picture of Muhammad Ali Jinnah alongside that of Chaudhry Ghulam Abbas (who became the ‘supreme head’ of the AJK government after his migration to ‘Azad’ Kashmir in 1947, also referred to as Quaid-e-Kashmir) and Sardar Ibrahim (first president of Kashmir and known as Bani-e-Kashmir, the father of Kashmir). A plaque outside reads, Kashmir banega Pakistan (Kashmir will become Pakistan). The government guesthouse seems to serve as a constant reminder to everyone who enters that Kashmir is an integral part of Pakistan. It does not matter whether Kashmiris agree or disagree; their fate is already sealed.

  ***

  The next morning we wake up at 6 to conduct more interviews. Sharjeel has warned us that the drive between Kotli and Islamabad is not very safe after dark and we must head back by afternoon. He says dacoits lurk in the way to rob well-off tourists from the UK who are visiting their families. We pay our bill, which is heavily subsidized, as it is a public rest house; it costs us less than Rs 2,000 for both rooms, including sehri for Sharjeel and breakfast for Haroon and me. The young boy who i
s looking after the guesthouse while his father travels has been kind enough to make us breakfast, something many guesthouses and hotels deny during Ramzan. They expect everyone to fast or at least pretend they are doing so. In 2017, the Senate Standing Committee on Religious Affairs in Pakistan approved the Ehtram-e-Ramzan (amendment) bill, under which hotel owners can be fined up to Rs 25,000 for serving during fasting hours. In addition, people who eat or smoke openly during Ramzan can be imprisoned for three months.40

  We drive through Kotli city and Sharjeel points towards Nakyal Hospital, the only hospital in the area. It is the same hospital that Shaukat had brought his wife to, but to no avail. Posters of Mumtaz Qadri are plastered on the walls nearby.

  It takes us over an hour to reach Lanjot village, where the Indian Army allegedly killed fourteen persons in 2000, a charge that the Indian government denies.41 A report on the incident in the Guardian newspaper of 26 February 2000 stated:

  Indian commandos have been accused by the Pakistani authorities of crossing the line that divides the disputed Himalayan territory of Kashmir and killing 13 civilians in a night raid early yesterday. Villagers laid out the bodies later in the day on wooden beds in a square near Lanjot village, in the Dabsi valley, on the Pakistani side. Three were decapitated; one man’s arms had been hacked off. Four of the dead were children, the youngest two years old. Three others were elderly men, one with a white wisp of a beard. There was no independent way to ascertain whether the killers—described by a survivor as wearing ‘army dress’—were Indian soldiers, or extremists from either side of the line seeking to destabilize the area or taking vengeance for some local act… New Delhi denied that any of its troops were involved and insisted none had crossed into Pakistani territory. Islamabad called the murders a terrorist attack.