Dinesh Tiwari an ex-army
officer posted in Kashmir has beautifully expressed the conflict between the
duty and human emotions. In his touching and honest post on his facebook page
he has shared his experience as a growing child in Nepal where the country was
in midst of maoist along with the similar emotions to bring out the kashmiri
youth into the main stream.
We sitting at our homes and
offices just talk about Kashmir but this post is a true example of distrust and
conflict between the kashmiri youth and the army.
Please do read what the
ex-major wrote and decide for yourself.
I have been to Kashmir. No, not as a tourist.
I have lived there. I have worked there.
I was part of the heavy military instrument of the Indian State in the
paradise, guarding it from the heaven dwellers themselves. And some mischievous
neighbors too.
As a 21 year old, with the might of one of the biggest militaries in the
world behind me and its command pinned on my shoulders, its determination
manifested in the AK in my hand, I have roamed the towns and villages with
authority which none of the Burhan Wanis or Bhatts or Wazirs or Bhans or
Wattals or anybody else whose land it was, would have dared to.
Ironically, as a Citizen of Nepal, serving in the Indian Army, I was a
bundle of contradictions myself.
When I led a group of armed men through a tense neighborhood, I could
not help recall the state I was in myself as a teenager, back home in Nepal,
angry and frustrated because of the curfew imposed in my hometown, from six in
the evening to six in the morning every day for years.
When the maoist insurgency was at its peak, I was a teenager. I have
been frisked, violated, insulted; made to do pushups and squats just because I
asked the police man at the check post to repeat himself when he instructed
something and I did not properly hear.
There were regular visits to our houses-- by police in uniform, by
police without uniform, by a secret police who every one knew was a secret
police; also from unknown people with weapons prominently hidden under wraps,
meant to be seen and feared, demanding food, shelter, and money.
I was angry, very angry. I was angry at the then mysterious figure of
Prachanda, whose only one picture in combat fatigues was public at that time. I
was angry at the ideologue Dr Baburam Bhattarai -- legendary nepal topper
(Board First) and PhD from JNU -- who was known to be the brain behind the
movement.
I was angry at the people who marched in my town with weapons held high,
after they blew away the local bank and the police station.
I was also angry at the policeman who frisked me, dragged me by my arm,
threw my bag scattering away all my stuff on the floor and pinned me down to
the ground and poked the back of my neck with a pointed object. It wasn't a
stick. It was cold and heavy. I did not see it but a chill ran down my spine.
It blew up the anger. I was angry at the government. At the state, which
had ignored so many people for so many years that they were ready to fight, and
kill and die.
Also, I was angry at myself. Without knowing the reason, without a
target, the anger was building up and building pressure and engulfing me.
I was lucky. I had options to flee. I fled at the right time.
When I looked at a beautiful Kashmiri child, who approached me with an
innocent admiration and a genuine query, 'You must be Kashmiri, are you
Kashmiri?', I was fumbling for an answer.
I would have liked to tell him -- 'Yes, I am.'
I would have loved to say -- 'Yes, we are. We are all Kashmiris. We are
all heaven dwellers.'
I would have wanted him to know--'We are here for you. We are your men.'
I would have wanted to give him a smile, a nudge, pinch his cheeks, and
ruffle his hair a bit and say, 'Yes, I am a Kashmiri. And I love Kashmir. And
you.'
But I did not. Because I did not. I did not love Kashmir. And I did not
love that child.
I was not a Kashmiri. And I was not a tourist.
Kashmir, for me was a duty. An assignment, an ardous task that had to be
fulfilled to my utmost capability and most importantly, survived.
I did not pack a camera, few romantic novels and Faiz and Gulzar's
poetry books before stepping on to the heaven.
I was trained to kill, and armed for it. My literature was bloody.
As a preparation, I was not educated on the beauty the land was but on
the contours of terror that prevailed within the landscape.
I did not go through accouonts of romantic unions in the scenic
backdrops, but brainstormed over hundreds of case studies of bloody and fatal
encounters in the terrain.
For me Kashmir was not to be appreciated, but assessed, analysed and
acted upon, and survived.
For me the innocent child was not that innocent.
The images of children carrying messages, supplies and even weapons,
read in the extensive case studies, immediately cropped up in my mind.
Even before noticing his sparkling beautiful blue eyes, pink apple-like
cheeks, and loveliest smile, I had to scan through his whole body to know what
was hidden.
Images of children blowing themselves away infront of security forces
flashed before me even before I could comprehend the emotions in his voice.
Even before I could think of extending my hand to ruffle his hair, the
grip on the AK tightened automatically and my trigger finger was alert.
No, my friend, I am not a Kashmiri. I could not be one. I was not
expected to be one. Therefore, I was not educated to be one. I was not trained
to be one.
And I do not love you and your Kashmir. I could not. I was not expected
to. I was not educated to. I was not trained to.
I was fumbling for an answer. I did not reply.
The child's mother came running, lifted him up and dragged him away
hurriedly, slouching a bit, without even looking at me.
Today, he must be Burhan's age. And we don't love him still. And that is
one of the reasons why Kashmir burns.
Image Source: DNA
0 comments:
Post a Comment