When people talk about the effects of conflict on the psyche of youth in Kashmir, I recall my experience of life in conflict.With every murder of an innocent person, like the recent killing of Khalid Muzaffar of North-Kashmir Tral or the earlier cases of the Pathribal and Machil fake encounter, I ponder. I could have been dead like them or, maybe, could have ended up taking up arms to avenge the pain. So I write my story, a story of almost every common Kashmiri.
It was in the summer of 2007. I used to go for tuition in the wee hours of the morning at Karanagar, barely a few kilometres from Lal Chowk, Srinagar. Being reprimanded for coming late by my chemistry teacher, famously known as ‘Bashir Chemistry’, who teaches at Karanagar, I would wake up at dawn. On that particular day I got up in haste, forgetting my identity card at home.
Riding on my bike, I could feel the biting cold, the morning walkers on the roads and the Daroodi shareef on loudspeakers of mosques. I got lost in reverie as usual, till annoying and frightful barking dogs shocked me out of my relaxed state. I could never reckon that day I would experience what my relatives and friends had already experienced. They would often sit together and recall these heart-rending narratives of their daily encounters with government forces. In these 25 years of armed conflict, the old stories of Raja Rani or the fabulous tales of Kashmir or its history got replaced by these daily encounters of life.
Reaching the Nawab bazar Bridge, which is less than half a kilometre from the tuition centre, I was stopped by CRPF men who were stationed to keep a vigil on the movement of militants. My heart started beating fast as it would whenever intercepted by the government forces.
The gun wielded men stopped me and shouted, “Hay bike say uthar jawo, Card dikhawo”
In jitters, I put my bike on its stand. Realizing I have forgotten my card, I checked my pockets in pretence. I knew I was in big trouble, either it will cost me a flogging or I might get away with some choice abuse. There were eight armed personnel, and no civilians in sight. There was hardly any traffic, and that made it all the more scary.
I was trembling, and somehow mustered courage and spoke in a low tone, bowing my head. I said, “sir, I forgot the card in haste, as I had to reach my tuition centre on time. I am sorry, I will never forget it again.”
A tall, dark CRPF man with a moustache approached me and started searching my bag. “Why were you riding fast? What’s in your bag”, he asked.
I replied in a very low voice, “Books hain sir”. I’m in a rush because I have to go for tuition centre nearby, please let me go. The CRPF men barked in a harsh tone, “Gun kithay hay behenchod?” His spine chilling voice shot down my spine and left me quivering with fear. Showing him every corner of bag and opening every zip I replied “Look they are books Sir. I’m a student.”
In response, he slapped me hard, I could feel the tingling on my right cheek. I was quivering, my heart was beating fast. But I could now feel the anger rising in me and replied at high pitch, “May ne kiya kiya he, mujhe kiyon mar rahe ho.” I stared into their petrifying eyes, keeping my head high. I said that they should not use abusive language. They started abusing my parents. I lost my mind and began a heated argument with them. I was showered with kicks and hit with gun butts. I was trying my best to guard my head, I gave up resisting. A hit on my head left me unconscious for a while. They pulled my hair and dragged me towards the wall.
I could hear them abusing me more profusely. The fear inside me grew more after hearing one of the CRPF men---his voice still echoes in my ear-- say loudly, “Salay Ugarwadi ka encounter kar do”. They were raging, mad, looked so brutal. I thought it was the end for me.
In immense pain I became fully conscious. I started crying, ” Sir, I’m a student, please leave me”. One of the CRPF men kicked me hard in the abdomen. I screamed with pain “Aaay Mojay (Mother).”
At this point a woman passing by must have stopped, and seeing this started wailing,”ye bacha hai, bai’gonah hai, shareef bacha hai, mat maro , mat maro”. Thumping her chest, she screamed loudly,”Morookho Morookho ( Murder, murder)”. Her screams attracted some locals nearby. They surrounded me and one of the young boys helped me to stand up, I was stumbling and my whole body was aching.
The locals had a brawl with the CRPF men. More and more people were joining in. The CRPF men left. I can never forget that scene, everyone was looking at me, that time I cried a lot not because of pain, but because I couldn’t believe that I was alive. The joy of being saved alleviated my pain. One of the men was holding my bag. I still remember some men talking, “The boy is very lucky to have escaped death, otherwise, they would have killed him and put arms on his chest to show him as a militant”.
One of the men even came up with this idea of reporting it to police. Other people on hearing this replied,” Hata marnavoon chuwa army nish bachoov wani maras police (Are you going to get him killed? he was saved from the CrPF but you are going to get him killed by police)” .
This incident had a great impact on my life. However, I never told my parents about this incident, as my anxiety-prone mother would never have let me out of the home afterwards.
Many young youth left home and never came back. They were victims of enforced disappearances. Some parents were lucky enough to receive their dead bodies but most parents of the disappeared persons still toil to know the whereabouts of their ‘missing’ children.
My brutal experience made me psychologically sick. The incident remains with me like a deep scar and can never be erased from my memory. I was a changed man, it killed my dream of becoming a scientist, as I became directionless. It changed my behaviour.
The next day I deliberately chose the same route and this time, my day-dreaming was predominantly taken over by thoughts like, wearing a vest with explosives sewed in and blowing myself up, killing them all. Filled with venom, the urge for revenge was killing me inside.
Luckily I opted for the pen to fight injustice. Whenever I see men in uniform I freeze from inside. I feel insecure. The bruises I received from these outsiders in my own home, are yet to heal. Maybe, my knee will get better one day. However, the deep scar on my sense of dignity refuses to heal.
(Bilal Bhat is a Delhi based Kashmiri journalist, he is also the chairman of Jammu and Kashmir Youth Civil Society)