It was the fifth turn when my dad was picked by the Indian security forces during that dreadful night; the night I jumped from the window of my two storey house, for reasons unknown to our family till date. I was too young to make such a high altitude jump but I made it or call it the emotion which aroused me to take this leap, that could have been hazardous.
Ah! What a dreadful night it was. I was sleeping in between my dad and mom, getting affectionate warmth from both the sides in the chilly winter of Kashmir; I was having a sweet dream. But who could have known that a nightmare is about to start. A dreadful knock broke into my dream as wild hands snatched away affectionate warmth from my side. It were these dreaded hands that ironically represented the so-called largest democracies of the world. At least this is what we were taught from the text books supposed to be read by the government agencies.
After days of torture and interrogation that turned out to be in vain, my Dad was released. People dropped at our house in numbers. People came to greet our family on his release. Because nobody knows his/her fate in Kashmir once you are taken away by the security forces and its numerous dreaded agencies. Disappearance; Murder; custodial killing; Fake encounter; killed in cross firing or who knows what else! After serving special tea to our guests, I myself sipped two to three cups with my friends and went for playing. I was given some special kind of regard by one and all; probably because I was the son of a father who had been given a new life; usually people taken away by this army were not released so easily.
Coming back from play field, we had our dinner collectively once again. One by one all went to bed. Petrified, I was not able to sleep but was in bed peeping through my blanket and hearing the conversation between my mom and dad. In the meanwhile I had a glimpse of my dads burnt legs which Indian security forces usually do by using red hot iron rods during detention. In this dim lighted room , tears like diamonds rolled down my moms cheeks which I used to kiss to show my love. Is this what they called Interrogation? Is this the humanity what they teach us in our class rooms? Can such people anyhow be called as humans, security forces in real terms? Can these people be called as your protectors from Pakistani terrorists? Till date, I am unable to get answers to these questions. May be to them all is fair in love and war. Tears rolling down my yet chubby and innocent face, glimpses of my dads ironed, burnt and bruised body, my moms weeping face, my sisters shrieks, my brothers cries and that calling papa, papa in the darkness of that horrible night, my grandfathers blood oozing out from his head, struck by an Indian officer with his gun butt, is what turned this young lad into a staunch anti-Indian from his heart and mind. Now this kid who used to make V for victory sign at military convoys, gleefully, not really appreciating what it means, waving his hand and smiling upon seeing the Indian soldiers, has now turned into a rebel, who doesnt want to be with them, abhors and detests them till date and calls them oppressors. Those were the days when I was a sixth standard school going kid, nothing knowing about the history of Jammu and Kashmir. Those were the moments which turned this kid into a staunch anti Indian. And now I have reached high echelons of my life and in this voyage of life from a small school going kid to an adult young guy, this anti Indian faith grew more and more. Till the day came when I myself faced this wrath of Indian army, my oppressors!
It was a sunny morning, when I left my home not aware of the things decreed to occur; as nobody knows whats next. Especially in Kashmir, nobody knows whether he/she would manage to come back alive to see their loved ones once again or just as a dead body. Allah Hafiz (God Protect you) my mother uttered these words when I left for the morning tuition classes. Being in 12th standard, I was aiming to become a doctor to serve my country men who face daily tortures, ruthless beatings, scratches, with broken limbs and ironed backs besides all the commoners. As usual my routine was to go from Home to Tuition centre, from tuition to School and back home not to become a militant but to become a doctor. But on this fateful day, I was forced to change my routine timetable, simply to add one more subject and this subject was subject to ruthless beating. I was beaten to pulp for the reasons still unknown to me.
I was waiting for a bus along with my friends holding some documents in my hand. Single gunshot, followed by a volley of bullets flying over our heads everyone running here and there, shouts, shrieks, cries, weeping, hiding to save lives; really painful moments. Surroundings reverberated with gun shots and sirens. Nobody knew what was happening and everyone was running away. I saw one of my friends holding his satchel running away and entering an old building. I decided to follow him. Upon entering the building, I walked right into a dark room. Nothing was visible. I was all alone, trying to find my friend who had entered before me. I got worried, till a heard some female voice weeping by my side. It was a tuition centre full of students; all weeping but silently. Suddenly there was a huge explosion outside, everyone shrieked with fear. Due to fear some girls started weeping but were asked to quiet down by the teachers and boys as if the security forces sensed a sound, then the boys would be beaten to pulp. Comments started about the explosion. Some termed it a mine blast, some a mortar shell which Indian army uses for houses in which militants hold position, to crash them to the ground. A few rounds more and lastly it stopped. Everyone felt relieved now but another fear took over us. Whispering followed by chats, discussing how many militants or security forces would have been killed? But the discussion came to an abrupt stop when there was a sharp knock outside followed by a harsh order Apne hath Upar karke, Bahar aajao (Come outside with your hands raised). Once again the weeping and shrieking started, but to no avail. The tutor got up, opened the door so he could explain to the army men that it is a class room and everyone here were students and not terrorists. Instead of listening to him was slapped and beaten ruthlessly. Why didnt you open the door instantly, you bastard?! The teacher was punished by the shameless, illiterate, gun totting security forces of one of the largest democracies of the world. I have been raised to believe that hose who disrespect the teachers of a society cannot be regarded as humans. Come out, you bastards; come out, one by one. another order was barked from outside. Card checking, frisking followed by beating with gun ***** and kicks by jack boots. Now the class room in which students were taught the Indian democracy and its constitution; human rights; Indian struggle for freedom, was now changed into an interrogation centre where all these rules, regulations, constitutions, rights somehow seemed to have changed. Every got the same treatment at the hands of brutal forces, the reasons of which I am still cannot comprehend.
Then came my turn to face my oppressors. Where did you hide the weapons? I was told to pull down my pants. Sodomy struck my mind, as I thought it is now going to happen with me. These bastards are going to sodomize me. Oh! God save me. I refused, and within seconds, kicks, abuses, gun *****, and fist blows were hurled at me. They tore my shirt away, put my head in a water tub mixed with salt and pepper, ironed my back, rolled my legs, burnt my face with hot iron rods and kicked me with their ****** jack boots. They made me urinate on an electric heater. High voltage inverted currents were passed through my hands and arms and fuels (usually diesel or petrol) were injected into my blood vessels. I was also sexually assaulted ,which is now a very common form of torture in Kashmir. Bastard where the hell you were at the time of firing? Why didnt you inform us about the presence of militants? Why did you accompany them? You Kashmiri bastards, terrorists, you support them; we will kill you all. These questions haunt me till date. I tried hard to find answers to such wayward questions, but failed.
I was unable to move. My first beating by democratic forces of India made me realize why Kashmir is not a part of India. Can your own security personnel beat you in such an inhumane way for no reason? This beating made me apprehend the difference between beating by an affectionate father and a cruel Indian army man. This torture reminded me of my dad who faced the same things by the same hands. I felt the pain of my dad, of those hundreds and thousands of Kashmiris who faced the same fate day in and day out from their oppressors. India is calling Kashmir as its integral part, but its claims are turned invalid through these episodes, by killing innocents, by raping our sisters and daughters, by harassing our elders, by putting our young behind bars.
Oh India! How many tactics will you follow? Dont you know that TRUTH cannot be vanquished by arms and charms? You were also under the British occupation once. Are you still? No. Same is our case. Today, we are under your occupation but not forever. Read the graffiti on walls of Kashmir; do not rub these lines to save yourself from embarrassment. Preserve them for future references.
Do you know whose voices these are? They are not just mine, but the whole of Kashmir. Of generations that have grown up here; generations that you have killed but failed to silence. They are no closer to accepting you as anything but a foreign occupying power.
S.M. Noor is a Kashmir-based freelance journalist.
My Life in Kashmir! | PKKH.tv
