This Unquiet Land: Stories from India's Fault Lines

by Barkha Dutt

  Five days after the slaughter, there was a dramatic announcement. In the presence of Union Home Minister L. K. Advani (who was also the deputy prime minister at the time), Anantnag’s senior superintendent of police, Farooq Khan, declared that the butchers of Chittisinghpura had been eliminated. An identical statement was released in Delhi by Home Secretary Kamal Pande. The perpetrators were revealed to be five terrorists from the Pakistan backed Lashkar-e-Taiba. According to the official account, a local milkman, Mohammad Yaqoob Wagay, had guided the killers to the homes of the Sikh villagers. Wagay’s arrest had led the security forces to the terrorists, said Kamal Pande, commending the forces on a job well done. In the Jammu and Kashmir assembly, Chief Minister Farooq Abdullah hailed the quick crackdown as a major success.

  If it weren’t for the torn scrap of a maroon sweater this may have been where the story ended. The sweater was how Raja Begum was able identify the charred body of her twenty-five-year-old son, Zahoor Ahmad Dalal. The body was recovered with 98 per cent burns. Zahoor had left home for a walk and never came back. In fact, it would transpire that Zahoor was not the only civilian who did not make it back home that evening. Within a five-kilometre radius of Pathribal in Anantnag, four others had also gone missing around the same time that the anti-terror operation was being hailed as a huge breakthrough. Agitated relatives spilled on to the streets of south Kashmir, with the village women leading the march, to demand news of the whereabouts of their sons and husbands. Compounding the escalating and entirely self-created crisis, the police and paramilitary shot at a procession of 2,000 protestors who were petitioning for an independent enquiry into the mysterious disappearances of five innocent men. Nine persons were killed even as the police maintained that the firing had started from within the crowd. Later, a judicial commission, headed by Justice S. R. Pandian, firmly rejected that theory, instead faulting the police for the use of excessive force and a failure to take the protests seriously. As public anger mounted, the Farooq Abdullah government was forced to order the exhumation of the bodies said to be of the five Chittisinghpura terrorists and order DNA tests to verify whether the killings of the five missing civilians had been staged to manufacture a ‘successful’ conclusion in the Sikh massacre investigation. If it seemed that the credibility of the administration could not possibly fall any lower, the worst was still to come. The forensic tests were fudged, the DNA samples had been tampered with. When the news of the manipulation came into the public domain, Mohammad Yousuf Tarigami, the only Marxist legislator in the assembly and an unfailingly polite, unflappable politician told me, ‘We talk of rebuilding the confidence of the people, but I am ashamed to say—forget that distant dream. Today, we have washed away their trust.’ A furious Farooq Abdullah, now forced to apologize for the botched investigation in the assembly, announced that the CBI would be taking charge. ‘I want justice. I really cannot understand why people don’t want the honest answers,’ Farooq told me in an interview.

  Twelve years later, in March 2012 when the CBI filed its charge sheet, it made for harrowing reading. The bureau wrote of the ‘tremendous psychological pressure to show quick results’ after the Sikhs were mowed down by militants in Chittisinghpura. It charged the security forces with plotting a ‘criminal conspiracy to pick up some innocent persons and stage manage an encounter…’ It listed in gruesome detail the mutilation of the five bodies, almost beyond recognition. So if Zahoor had died of burns, according to the CBI report, ‘Bashir Ahmad Bhat’s body was with half of [the] skull, face distorted and unidentifiable’. Some of the information was too incendiary to be used in real time reporting. The charge sheet said that ‘Mohammad Yousuf Malik’s body was without head, neck and upper one-third of the left side of the thorax’. The extensive burn injuries, it argued, were evidence that ‘the encounter was stage managed with a view to obliterate the identity of the killed persons’.

  For years after the report was made public, the CBI and the Ministry of Defence were entangled in a legal battle with one pushing for penal punishment and the other arguing that the Armed Forces Special Powers Act provided for immunity against prosecution of soldiers engaged in security operations, unless specifically ordered by the central government. The army stood firmly behind its officers arguing that they had moved forward on intelligence provided by the police. It pointed to diary entries at the local police station which indicated that it was on the orders of the Anantnag SSP Farooq Khan that a team of the SOG was dispatched for a ‘secret operation’. But in his testimony Khan disassociated himself from the encounter by saying that though ‘police representatives had accompanied the army, they had not necessarily taken part in the shoot-out’. It was Khan who had first made the statement to the media that the militants responsible for the Chittisinghpura massacre had been eliminated. Asked how he justified the announcement, Khan told the enquiry commission that his comments were based on a briefing by the army, adding that ‘army operations are always led by their officers’. Khan, who had earlier received a president’s medal for gallantry, contested his suspension from the force, and once exonerated by the CBI report, was reinstated. The army officers were tried by a military court of enquiry, but in 2014, fourteen years after the CBI told the Supreme Court that the Pathribal encounter killings ‘were cold-blooded murders and the accused officials deserve to be meted out exemplary punishment’, the army closed the case against them, concluding that the ‘evidence recorded could not establish prima facie charges against any of the accused persons’. And that was that. By 2015, Farooq Khan, the police officer at the centre of the controversy, had joined electoral politics. The Pathribal case had been reduced to a footnote.

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  ‘It will have blood, they say. Blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.’ Macbeth’s tormented admission on being revisited by the ghost only he could see could well have been written of Kashmir’s cyclical violence that allowed episodes like the Chittisinghpura massacre to take place.

  Though an arrested Pakistani militant from Sialkot, Suhail Malik, told the New York Times in an interview from prison that he had been a member of the killer squad sent by the LeT to massacre the Sikhs, the staged killing in Pathribal, the manipulation of DNA samples—all these hurt India’s otherwise strong case on the carnage of Chittisinghpura. The state’s credibility was not the only casualty, conspiracy theorists were suddenly emboldened to question the official account of the bloodbath itself.

  Several years after the headlines had faded, Farooq Abdullah, now union minister in the central government, revealed that he had wanted a judicial probe into the massacre, ‘but vested interests scuttled the move’. With that hyperbolic flair typical of him he also said he was writing a book that would address what he believed to be the truth. ‘This should only be opened after my death,’ he whispered while addressing a Sikh group in Srinagar. No one knows if the book was ever written or whether that was merely a dash of rhetoric that Farooq was known for.

  XI

  The younger generation in the Valley has been shaped entirely by the harshness of two decades of turmoil and violence, growing up for the most part without exposure to a daily dose of religious diversity. An unintended consequence of this social change, combined with the impact of foreign terror groups like the LeT and the Jaish, has been the creeping ascent of radicalism among sections of the Valley’s young men. This radicalism has been largely uncommented on, there remains an element of denial about it. Of course their sentiments still remain firmly located within the context of ethno-nationalism rather than a global Islamic movement. And it is pertinent to point out that while the sighting of the odd ISIS flag in the Valley creates huge media interest, of the young Indian men who have gone to fight alongside the Islamic State in Syria, only one is from Kashmir—the rest are from cities like Mumbai and Hyderabad.

  But the radicalization is a real concern, and there has also been a simultaneous increase in social conservatism dictated by religious orthodoxy once unknown amo
ng Kashmiri Muslims. The reality is contradictory and confusing. At one level are the women who have defied the archaic stereotypes and judgements that imprison their gender in other parts of the country. In the Valley, divorce is not frowned upon, nor are late marriages. As a single mother to two daughters, Mehbooba Mufti has emerged as an extremely popular and dynamic politician. One of the city’s most beloved high-school teachers, Qurat-ul-Ain, has been a passionate advocate of personal liberty. She got divorced twenty-five years ago when it was still unheard of, bringing up her daughter single-handedly. She says people have offered nothing but ‘love and moral support’. When I first met Dr Hamida Naeem, a professor of English at the university, she introduced herself as ‘Kashmir’s original feminist’. ‘I got married late because I had one condition and it was that I would be marrying one person, not an entire family,’ she said, defiant in her rejection of the expectations that are made of women after marriage. All the Kashmiri women I have met, poor and rich, educated and illiterate, have remained strong and indomitable in the face of violence and tragedy.

  Yet, there was also a time when a shadowy militant outfit that no one had ever heard of—the Lashkar-e-Jabbar—tried to force a dress code, warning women to observe purdah or face the consequences. While some women did choose the burqa, it has never been an authentic part of the Kashmiri tradition. Typically, a Kashmiri woman will dress in a short phiran and a scarf wrapped around her head and knotted at the nape of her neck. If she is young she may substitute this with the dupatta of her salwar kameez. The sudden diktat ordering women to go behind the veil spread panic and fear in those months, more so because it was a command from a group whose antecedents no one could trace.

  The dress code was openly challenged by women from different political ideologies. As a member of the state cabinet, Sakina Ittoo said women would not accept force or pressure, especially from those coming into Kashmir from ‘outside’, alluding to Pakistan-backed groups. Pointing to how the wife of General Musharraf had dressed on their visit to India, Ittoo underlined how there was no hijab or purdah or even a dupatta framing Ms Musharraf’s face. Only one woman welcomed the violent threat to impose purdah and that was the pro-Pakistan insurgent Asiya Andrabi who issued a written statement saying, ‘we are indebted to those courageous men who have started a campaign for the veil in Kashmir and made us realize that we are Muslims. Let us take a pledge that as long as our souls are in our body we will adhere strictly to the Islamic dress code’. Professor Hamida Naeem rubbished Andrabi’s claims to represent the women of the Valley. ‘We are liberal by nature, not rigid. We have always followed the golden mean.’ She challenged the very reality of the Lashkar-e-Jabbar. ‘I am suspicious of the whole thing. We have never heard of it, it seems to be some kind of fabrication, the figment of someone’s imagination.’ But she admitted that the threat had been successful in creating an environment of alarm. ‘I have seen that college girls are especially scared and some of them have tried to stitch these abayas or burqas. But I think women should stand together and while remaining wedded to their customary clothes, they should withstand this coercion, they should not kneel before it.’

  When I tried to elicit the responses of ordinary women I hit a wall. Many were too fearful to speak their minds. Others admitted to a conservative backlash and admitted that while they may have worn trousers growing up, as adults pants were a strict no-no. At a high school for girls in the heart of the city, they sought safety in numbers. They agreed to speak to me provided I addressed my questions to the entire classroom and not to individuals. I polled the room: those who think this campaign to enforce purdah through violence and threats is unjust, please raise your hand. Every single hand shot up, it was the strongest chorus of opposition I had seen so far. Yet there were covered heads and faces shrouded by veils in a classroom where teachers said this was not the case till just a few weeks ago. The girls admitted that much as they wanted to fight the decree, they were scared that someone would come and fling acid at them. Defiance could be deadly.

  When my interview with the courageous young women of Kashmir aired on television, there were unforeseen and startling ramifications for me as well. I discovered that an incensed Lashkar-e-Jabbar had issued a fatwa against me, warning that I would not be safe if I returned to Kashmir. The fatwa got play in national newspapers the next morning and I confess that I felt rather unsettled. But I knew I could not yield to this intimidation. Women and young girls with no protection had braved the threats to talk to me; there was no question of my opting out of the debate. I vowed to return to Srinagar the same week. Intervening in the controversy was the young Mirwaiz who boldly declared that there could be no fatwas on the entry of people into the state and that I was welcome just like everyone else.

  XII

  Until the floods of 2014 ravaged the Kashmir Valley and converted it into a sea of rubble and debris, tourists were scrambling for selfies on the boulevard, shikaras were festooned with fairy lights, hotels were booked out and posh golf holidays in Srinagar and adventurous skiing expeditions in Gulmarg were much in demand. Many casual observers of Kashmir point to these trends and argue that the situation has changed dramatically for the better in the state once called the world’s ‘nuclear flashpoint’ by Bill Clinton.

  At one level, they have. Militancy in Jammu and Kashmir has come down. Three consecutive state elections, starting with the path-breaking one in 2002, have taken place transparently without any controversy around manipulation or coercion of voters. The most recent one saw a historic turnout; more people voted in Jammu and Kashmir in 2014 than had in the last twenty-five years. Most significantly, mainstream politics has made space for a soft-separatism and sub-nationalism within the bounds of the constitution. Slogans of ‘greater autonomy’ and ‘self-rule’ are now debated by elected representatives within the state assembly, further reducing the political clout of hardline azadi seekers. Erstwhile separatists like Sajjad Lone have jumped into the hurly-burly of politics with his Pakistani wife Asma Khan, daughter of Kashmiri separatist Amanullah Khan, joining the campaign trail. Ironies abound as curfewed nights, blocked mobile phone services and the staccato of intermittent gunfire become yesterday’s reality, seemingly replaced by more contemporary aspirations, where bakeries and cafes are now brimming with young Kashmiris.

  But to anyone who knows the state closely, conflict is still simmering beneath the surface and can easily boil over. What was once a regional disagreement between Jammu and Kashmir has turned religious as the gap continues to widen between the different parts of the state. In times of tension it is not uncommon to see street protests from a younger, more hardened generation of educated men, their fists wrapped around stones, punching the air in anger and full-throated revolt, their rebellion cast in the same image as the Intifada of Palestine. It hasn’t helped that the police and paramilitary forces are yet to learn how best to control the fury of volatile but unarmed crowds. It was just two years after the 2008 election, also hailed and celebrated as a milestone in the state’s journey toward ‘normalization’, that more than a hundred boys were shot by security personnel during clashes in which bullets were used to counter stones. It took not just a peace missive by an all-party delegation, but the additional intervention of the otherwise pro-Pakistan separatist Syed Shah Geelani to return a measure of calm on the streets. Geelani made the startling revelation that Chief Minister Omar Abdullah had sent his political adviser to him as a secret emissary.

  The Islamization of what has been a strictly political problem is a real possibility, especially in the age of the internet when propaganda by reactionary groups is both cheap and effective. If the emotional distance between Delhi and Srinagar continues to widen we run the risk of pushing young men into the embrace of pan-Islamic forces. In seeing Kashmir only as a national security challenge—which it also is—without building trust in the institutions of our democracy, we are only making it easier for religious fundamentalists to grow roots. Every mistake that violates the rule
of law and denies accountability strengthens conspiracy theorists and enables Islamist influences to fill the vacuum the promises of democracy should have occupied.

  You only have to follow the story of Burhan Wani—who at the young age of twenty-one became one of the most wanted Hizbul Mujahideen commanders of the Valley—to know what could become the new face of militancy. Just some years ago, Burhan had scored 90 per cent marks in his school exams; now clad in western casuals, he addresses his generation of Kashmiris through video clips or audio packages vowing to ‘unfurl the flag of Islam on Delhi’s Red Fort’. He dropped out of school just days before his Class X examination. Pictures of him in full battle fatigues have gone viral online and the local police forces believe that he has single-handedly recruited thirty young men, many of them educated, into militancy in south Kashmir. Some say Burhan, a cricket lover and the son of a school headmaster, took to militancy after his brother Khalid was assaulted during the 2010 unrest. Khalid and his friends were stopped at a security check post where one of the police officers beat him up.

  The question is whether a different, more imaginative, approach by the state may have prevented Burhan from picking up the gun. And how many more Burhans are there in the towns and villages of the state just waiting to be pushed into the clutches of radicals?

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