by Anam Zakaria
‘I had to go to the railway station that day to buy a ticket to visit home and my friends convinced me to come with them. They said that after the protest we’d go and buy the ticket, so I tagged along. When we reached the office of an Indian airline, which was located in Pearl Continental Hotel, the students jumped out of the bus that we were riding in and started throwing stones… then we went to the Indian embassy, where they continued to throw stones. But I didn’t get out. I was very scared and refused to take part. It was only when a tear-gas shell fired by the police landed inside the bus that I jumped out. I was naive and didn’t know anything about protests. I just ran out and stood with the other spectators on the footpath… I could hardly see anything because of the tear gas. Suddenly I felt someone lift me in the air from the back. The guy started walking, with me hanging in the air like a bloody shopping bag. I was small… not very tall… It was only when he started walking towards the police pick-up van that it suddenly occurred to me that he was taking me to the police! I jerked and freed myself and ran back to where he had picked me up from and just stood there.’ He laughed at his sheer innocence before continuing. ‘This time that guy came and picked me up from the front and threw me in the police van and the policemen in the van started to beat me up. I was beaten really, really badly. There were four policemen inside the van and three of them were hitting me, swearing at me, humiliating me. They said, You Kashmiris do this, you Kashmiris do that. I kept saying I was not for independence but they weren’t listening. They demanded that I shout Kashmir Banega Pakistan and I did that instantly, thinking that they wouldn’t hit me again, but they continued. And then one big blow flattened me on the floor. I was still not unconscious but I pretended to be so, in the hope that they would stop beating me. It was then that a Sindhi policeman, who was standing to the side and had not hit me, quietly said, Baba isko kyun mar rahe ho? Ye mar jayega. Saeen, isko thaney le chalo (Baba, why are you hitting him? He will die. Saeen, let’s take him to the police station.) After that they kicked me on my side once more while I was still lying flat on the floor and then they stopped. They took the money from my wallet, took off my watch, but I didn’t care about anything. I just wanted them to stop hitting me… After maybe 30-40 minutes they took me to the police station, where there were other arrested students too. That was the day I started thinking of these things: Why did this happen to me? What was this? Before that, whenever my roommates would talk of independence, I would say no, forget it, but after that day I started asking questions… that was the day the unlearning process started and it has never ended. I later moved to the UK and joined the JKLF… that’s how the journey began.’
***
Wanting to interview people in ‘Azad’ Kashmir in person, I requested my local Kashmiri friends to arrange a meeting with any pro-independence individuals that they knew of—and they seemed to be few. A meeting was arranged in a hotel lobby in Muzaffarabad with representatives of two organizations from ‘Azad’ Kashmir: the National Students Federation (NSF) and the National Awami Party (NAP). Both NSF and NAP are said to be nationalist organizations. The NSF has traditionally been a prominent voice for independence from India and Pakistan in the region. In comparison, the NAP was recently formed and is smaller in scale. Though historically the NSF did have popular support, over the years it has lost its standing among ‘Azad’ Kashmiris—perhaps because of the layers of Pakistani hegemonic control described by Shams Rehman above.
When I met the two individuals in Muzaffarabad, I told them I would be happy to quote them as anonymous sources. I made this offer to everyone I spoke to for this book. Given the heavy censorship in ‘Azad’ Kashmir, there was a fear that our conversations could provoke backlash from the state once they were published, especially in cases where people were critical of state narratives. Most people keenly accepted the option of speaking on condition of anonymity. However, these two were among the first Kashmiris I met who insisted I use their names in the book. ‘You can also take our pictures. I am Fazal Mehmood Baig, advocate, and this is my friend Kamran Baig, who is also an advocate. We have no links with any secret agencies. Whatever we say, we say in front of everyone. We are not scared.’ I nodded and that is how our conversation began on a cold winter morning, in the hustle bustle of the hotel lobby.
Fazal Baig and Kamran Baig were clearly agitated by the policies of the Pakistani establishment, their voices ringing out across the lobby. They spoke of repression of pro-independence leaders, of economic grievances, of political silence on critical issues. They spoke so openly that I became afraid that we might be heard, that I might be questioned about my intentions of meeting people who could be construed as anti-state actors. However, I recognized the importance of the issues they were raising, for overtly or tacitly, these had been mentioned in between hushed silences by other Kashmiris during the course of my research. One of the first issues we spoke about was the electoral process. I asked them how much support their nationalist cause had and Kamran Baig answered, his tone sombre, his Urdu crisp.
‘There are about thirteen organizations that speak about independence and I would say they are as relevant as any other organizations. But in order to gauge the support of a political organization, one needs to contest elections and let people vote. People who are nationalists cannot participate in elections unless they swear allegiance to the Pakistani state on the election papers. Doing so nullifies our slogan for independence, so how can we participate? The result is that many people leave the National Students Federation and end up joining mainstream political parties, letting go of the nationalist struggle. There is no other choice if they want to be involved in mainstream politics or be a part of the government. But some of us refuse to budge and continue to struggle, though we remain on the fringes of society.’
The Jammu and Kashmir National Students Federation was formed in 1966 in Mirpur, ‘Azad’ Kashmir, influenced by the left-wing National Students Federation operating in universities in Lahore and Karachi at this time. Initially established as a platform to work for students’ rights, over the years it has fought for Jammu & Kashmir’s total independence from India and Pakistan and for the right to self-determination. Fazal Baig, who served as the NSF’s president and is currently a part of the National Awami Party, tells me, ‘The NSF has always asked India and Pakistan to remove their armies from the region and leave the state as it was, based on its geography in 1947. Maqbool Bhatt, our Quaid (leader), always said, jo jiska ghulam hai, woh uske khilaf jidhojehad kare (the oppressed must struggle against the oppressor)…’
‘Despite being a students federation, the NSF has always served the role of the opposition in this so-called “Azad” Kashmir,’ Kamran added. ‘In the late 1980s, when a proxy war began in Kashmir, we started a movement and in thousands flocked the Chakothi border, chanting, “Kisi ke diye hue hathiyar, kisi ki di hui bandook aur kisi ke diye hue asle se azadi nahi milti,” (no one gains freedom by using the ammunition and weapons given by somebody else). We have always opposed the jihad, the proxy war facilitated by the Pakistani establishment.’ Added Fazal: ‘We see that the “switch” of this jihad is in the hands of the Pakistani establishment, which turns it off and on based on its own agenda. It is not genuine. The National Awami Party, also created by people who left the NSF, has been trying to play the role of an opposition as well but our voice has always been suffocated, particularly by prohibiting us from contesting elections based on our ideology.’
The election form for the AJK legislative assembly elections requires all candidates to agree to the following clause:
…in particular I solemnly declare that I believe in the Ideology of Pakistan, the Ideology of State’s Accession to Pakistan and the integrity and sovereignty of Pakistan.5
For nationalists like Fazal Baig and Kamran Baig, this clause is a grave impediment in their struggle for independence. ‘There are serious economic consequences if you are vocal about independence,’ added Kamran. ‘First, in order to apply for any governm
ent job, you have to sign a similar clause, and if you don’t, you will find yourself jobless. Secondly, the establishment keeps tabs on everyone who adheres to the pro-independence ideology. They do not let you start a business or take up a government job. Even as a lawyer, we cannot stand in the race to become a judge despite our qualifications and experience. No pro-independence lawyer can ever imagine becoming a judge because of this political stance. So the options become very limited for people like us. That is why we often lose support. If we don’t fight elections, how will we represent our independence movement? How will we make it stronger?’
According to the Human Rights Watch report, published in 2006:
Though azad means ‘free’, the residents of Azad Kashmir are anything but… Under Azad Kashmir’s constitution, which Pakistan imposed in 1974, election candidates are pre-screened to ensure that only those who support Kashmir’s union with Pakistan can participate. Anyone who publicly supports or peacefully works for an independent Kashmir is persecuted. The Human Rights Watch has documented incidents of torture… while militant organizations promoting the incorporation of Indian-controlled Jammu and Kashmir state into Pakistan have had free rein to propagate their views, groups promoting an independent Kashmir find their speech sharply, sometimes violently, curtailed.6
Fazal told me that he would soon be representing a friend’s case in the high court. A resident of Mirpur, his friend had asserted on the election form that he believed in an independent Kashmir. His papers were confiscated and he was barred from contesting. ‘Pakistan went to Simla, to Tashkent, to Geneva, and itself decided that we would have our own constitution, that we—including Jammu, Kashmir, Ladakh, Kargil, Poonch, and Gilgit-Baltistan— have a right to join India or Pakistan. Phir kis buniyad par woh elections forms pe ye likh sakte hain keh agar aap alaq-e-Pakistan ke haami hain to aap tab election lad sakte hain? (then on what basis can it write on the election forms that only if you adhere to the ideology of Pakistan and swear allegiance to the state can you contest elections)?’ His voice became even louder, his body language charged. I could see people turn and look at us and I became self-conscious, but the two individuals sitting across me seemed unaffected.
‘A lot of people from the NSF have been killed for their politics,’ Fazal told me, and a list of the dead individuals rolled off his tongue, his frustration clearly increasing as he uttered each name. ‘Sardar Fahim Akram was killed in Bagh, Arshad Billu was killed in Mirpur, Shakeel Rathore was killed in Muzaffarabad, Hamad Qamar was killed in Bagh. This has been the cost of our struggle. In 2007, we organized a march from Muzaffarabad to Gilgit-Baltistan on foot. Because we were travelling at a height of 14,000 feet and the weather was very harsh, two of our comrades—Raja Bizad from Muzaffarabad and Sardar Amjad from Rawalakot—were martyred. We picked up their bodies and carried them to Kel (in Neelum Valley) on a charpoy borrowed from the locals. From Kel we put them on a bus to Muzaffarabad. But if you look at Geo News (one of the leading Pakistani news channels) from 14-15 August 2007, it is claimed that one person died… we say martyred, they say dead… and that the army helicopters helped lift the body. Had the army helped, wouldn’t we have brought our martyrs back in an ambulance? Why would we carry them on a charpoy? They didn’t even give a painkiller to the injured but look at the image they project, that of saviours. This is how news is fabricated.’
I asked Fazal more about this march to Gilgit-Baltistan. Though the region comes under Pakistan-administered Kashmir, many people have told me that Gilgit-Baltistan has formed its own identity over the years. On our Skype call, Shams mentioned that though a significant demand in the Kashmir Valley in Indian-administered Kashmir and among pro-independence activists in ‘Azad’ Kashmir is for the reunification and independence of all parts of J&K, not everyone in Jammu, Ladakh and Gilgit-Baltistan shares this desire. ‘The resistance movement in Kashmir Valley over the years has not been able to engage the wider state. It has very much focused on the Valley and increasingly, Kashmir has come to mean Kashmir Valley, seen as the repository of Kashmiri culture and language. Slowly this has meant that other regions have become detached from the Valley. That is what has happened in Gilgit-Baltistan too. When Azad Kashmiris signed the Karachi Agreement with the Pakistan government in 1949,7 they reduced Gilgit-Baltistan to a small area which could be administered directly by Pakistan. No one consulted them while making that decision. So a process of alienation from Azad Kashmir started right from the beginning and has continued… Although there are people in Gilgit-Baltistan who recognize that they are part of the Kashmir problem—because Gilgit-Baltistan too is still a disputed territory until a final decision is made about the state of J&K—they say they are not a part of Kashmir. Some will say “we are a part of Pakistan,” while others will say “no, we want our own state.”’
Although Shams personally advocates the reunification of the state of J&K and a return to its pre-1947 status, he told me in our call that he realizes this would be difficult to implement in reality, not least because the people of Jammu, Ladakh and Gilgit-Baltistan don’t necessarily identify with Kashmir nor the Kashmir conflict any longer. They were excluded from that process and gradually have formed their own aspirations. There is also no statewide organization, apart from JKLF, to represent them. (He mentions, however, that one thread that still ties the state of J&K together is the state subject rule, which defines the citizenship and distinct identity of the people of the state. Even in Gilgit-Baltistan, Ladakh and Jammu, where association with the Koshur-Kashmiri identity has weakened, the demand for state subject remains strong. The state subject remains deferred in Gilgit-Baltistan since 19748 but the demand for its restoration continues, he says.)
Meanwhile, a common perception in Pakistan is that given the choice, Gilgit-Baltistan would like to become a part of Pakistan, for this would mean that it would become a province and enjoy the benefits the rest of Pakistan does. It is also commonly assumed that Gilgit-Baltistan has its own distinct identity—cultural, religious and political—and hence, it does not associate with—not is it willing to participate in—the Kashmiri struggle for self-determination. For Fazal, however, the reality is different.
‘Ever since Jammu and Kashmir was divided after the tribal attack in 1947, it was agreed that because of lack of adequate resources, Pakistan would take care of Gilgit-Baltistan until we were able to decide our own future. However, over the years the greatest injustice has been that people from this so-called “Azad” Kashmir have been discouraged from going and talking to the people of Gilgit-Baltistan, to discuss matters, to talk about our future. People have been stopped from doing that, arrested, prohibited from going across. They want to keep the people divided so that there is misunderstanding and hatred between the two sides, so that they can usurp Gilgit-Baltistan. They tell them that “Azad” Kashmiris don’t care about you… you should become part of Pakistan. But if that happens, the entire Kashmir issue will be nullified because India will use the same logic to absorb makbooza Kashmir. We want to go there, talk to them, tell them we want autonomy for them as we want it for “Azad” Kashmir, that we wish them well, but they make these conversations so difficult. They have closed the traditional routes between Neelum Valley and Gilgit-Baltistan. And then when we try to go there despite these geographic obstacles, they keep tabs on us. Some time ago, Colonel Wajahat Hassan Mirza, Nadir Hassan Mirza, Professor
M.R.K. Khaleeq, late Sardar Arif Shahid and I, along with many other people, reached Gilgit-Baltistan for a political programme. At night, the agencies raided the government guesthouse that we were staying in and picked us up, only releasing us the next evening. Needless to say, we missed the event. Then they gave us a letter that we weren’t allowed to enter Gilgit-Baltistan for three months. That’s how adamant they are in making sure that the people of the state of Jammu and Kashmir can never unite again. They try to create distance and hatred between us. Today, Pakistan is trying to convert Gilgit-Baltistan into a province because of China’s pressure. P
eople are starting to understand that they are being used. They are realizing that for all these years Pakistan has kept them in a deplorable condition and not given them their rights. They are starting to call for independence, for self-determination. It is becoming a big movement. Whenever our natural routes open up again from Neelum Valley and we are allowed to travel freely, you will see that we will unite once more and rise as a strong force.’
Arif Shahid, chairman of the All Parties National Alliance (APNA), which advocates independence from India and Pakistan, and also the president of the Jammu Kashmir National Liberation Conference (JKNLC), who accompanied Fazal on this trip to Gilgit-Baltistan, was later shot dead near his home in Rawalpindi. According to a leading Pakistani academic, Dr Pervez Hoodbhoy, ‘Family members, and others close to Arif Shahid, say that he had long been under observation and books that he had authored were seized.’9 In my conversation with Dr Hoodbhoy, he further explained: ‘Kashmiri nationalists on the Pakistani side are resentful of the fact that Kashmir is essentially run from Islamabad… they think that Kashmir must seek equal distance from both Pakistan and India. They also see Pakistan’s support of religion-based militancy as dangerous. This is why the Pakistani establishment has sought to muzzle their voices, and to dispense with them if they don’t obey. This is why the assassins of Arif Shahid have never been apprehended nor has there been an investigation.’