FEAR AND ANGER RUN DEEP
INTHE DIN OF COMMENTS on Kashmir that have flooded the Indian media in the past three weeks, the views and feelings of the people of Kashmir have counted for very little. Indeed, they have been tightly muzzled. On 5 August 2019, when Article 370 of the Indian Constitution was effectively abrogated, all means of communication were disabled in Kashmir. Curfewlike conditions were imposed across the Valley, making it very difficult to move about. Kashmir became a kind of black hole for days on end.
It was to see the situation for ourselves and listen to people’s views that four of us (Kavita Krishnan, Maimoona Mollah, Vimalbhai and myself) left for Kashmir on 9 August and stayed there for five days. We first spent two days in Srinagar, walking around the city and talking to local residents from all walks of life. Then we hired a car and travelled to Sopore, Bandipora, Pampore, Pulwama, Anantnag, Bijbehara, and a number of villages en route. Somehow, we were able to talk our way through the checkposts most of the time. Once or twice, however, we had to make a detour or simply turn back.
This was my fourth visit to Kashmir. As before, we were received with great kindness everywhere. Even in this hour of hardship and sorrow, people invited us into their homes as soon as they saw us. I wished Kashmiris had the same experience in Delhi or Ahmedabad.
I was struck, once again, by the prosperity of the rural economy. Most people in rural Kashmir have spacious, well-built houses and look reasonably well nourished. One rarely sees the sort of abject poverty that haunts the plains of north India. These impressions are confirmed by official statistics. J&K’s social indicators are certainly better than those of Gujarat, considered a model by the Prime Minister. This applies, for instance, to life expectancy (74 years in J&K compared with 69 in Gujarat), child full-immunisation coverage (75 per cent in J&K versus 50 per cent in Gujarat) and the head-count ratio
of rural poverty (12 per cent in J&K versus 22 per cent in Gujarat).* And those who fear a “population explosion” may be interested to know that J&K has one of the lowest fertility rates in India: just 1.7 children per woman, well below the replacement level.
Incidentally, one reason why J&K’s rural economy is relatively prosperous and egalitarian is that radical land reforms took place there in the 1950s and 1970s. Land redistribution was made possible by Article 370: at the time, the right to property was a fundamental right under the Indian Constitution, but not in J&K, which had its own constitution. The common perception that J&K is a “backward” region, and that Article 370 is responsible for it, bears no relation to reality.
As we travelled across Kashmir, anger and fear were the dominant emotions we encountered everywhere. Except for the BJP spokesperson for Kashmir Affairs in Srinagar, we did not meet anyone who supported the abrogation of Article 370. On the contrary, there was seething anger about this unilateral retraction of autonomy.
It is not as if the people of Kashmir were satisfied with autonomy. The guarantee of autonomy, as is well known, had already been diluted to the point of becoming a “fig leaf”, as former RAW chief A.S. Dulat candidly put it. Yet the sudden retraction of autonomy did hurt the people of Kashmir, if only because it was a naked attempt to crush their aspirations once and for all. The manner in which it happened also shocked them. As one elderly man in Batmaloo put it, “Puray Kashmir ko jail bana diya… hamein baandh kar Article 370 ko hataya” (all of Kashmir has been turned into a jail… they tied us down and then removed Article 370). Many others spoke in similar terms.
Like anger, fear ran deep. No-one agreed to speak on camera. When we recorded testimonies, we had to point the camera away from people’s faces. We did not even note people’s names, to avoid causing them anxiety.
People have reason to be scared: India’s move on 5 August was followed by a wave of arrests. No-one
knows how many people have been arrested, where they are, or how long they will be held. The presumption is that all important leaders, organisers and dissenters have been arrested or detained. Among them are the leaders of “moderate” political parties who advocated a dialogue with India. As someone put it, “Jo India ke geet gaatey thhe, unko bhi jail bheja gaya” (those who sang India’s tune have also been sent to jail). With pro-India leaders in Kashmir losing face, radical elements may step in.
In one or two places where we were briefly out of sight of the security forces, and where a small crowd had gathered around us, people risked shouting a few slogans: “Hum kya chahte hain? Azadi”, “Article 370 wapas lao!”, and so on. But they dispersed quickly. Futile as they seemed, these spontaneous mini-protests symbolise the deep-rooted culture of resistance in Kashmir. As someone in Sopore put it, “Jitna zulm karenge, utna ubhrenge” (the more they repress us, the more we will rise).
On 10 August, we visited SMHS hospital in Srinagar. We met two young victims of pellet guns, at least one of whom is expected to lose his eyesight. It is always a
harrowing experience to see a young man riddled with pellets, not quite dead but drained of all life—I had met some in October 2016, during the strike that followed the killing of Burhan Wani, when the same ward was full of pellet-gun victims. This time there are “only” two (many victims prefer private hospitals, to avoid intelligence agents), but the hospital staff is ready for a possible wave of casualties in the next few months.
The day of Eid, 12 August, was the saddest of all. Everywhere we went—in a series of towns and villages—the streets and markets were as good as deserted. Here and there, a few people were wearing new clothes, or sharing the meat of sacrificial sheep with their neighbours. But elsewhere there was only gloom and desolation.
In the evening we spent some time at the house of Zafar (name changed), a 19-year-old boy who was picked up from home by the security forces on the night of 5 August and is yet to return. His mother was in tears, his father feared the worst. To understand their sense of dread, we must remember that disappearances and torture are common in Kashmir. A portrait of Zafar was hanging on the wall, as if ready for a garland.
As we left, on 13 August, the outlook was bleak. Few protests had erupted by then, but mainly because curfewlike conditions had been imposed and all communications shut down. Many people expected protests to happen as and when restrictions were relaxed. Since protests, however peaceful, are not allowed in Kashmir, and given the brutal methods of crowd control that are being used there, mass demonstrations could easily end in ugly confrontations with the security forces. Restrictions are likely to be reimposed to avoid further trouble. One week after our visit, there are indications that this back-and-forth process has already started. Anyone who believes that Kashmiris will soon resign themselves to the loss of autonomy as a fait accompli is an incurable optimist—or pessimist, depending on one’s standpoint.
The common perception that J&K is a ‘backward’ region, and that Art. 370 is responsible for it, bears no relation to reality