Memories Do
Not Fade Away
By Faisal
Magray
It
was a Friday morning in early summer of 2010. The sun felt warm. The air was
filled with the rich smell of blood. Restless birds flew from branch to branch.
Sitting in my room I took a cup of tea while surfing newspapers on the net. The
situation in Kashmir was tense and while I was reading a latest news story, I
received a call from a friend saying that the Central Reserve Police Force
(CPRF) had shot a youth in the Chanapora area, 2 km from my home. Despite
curfew, I was eager to cover this event I took my camera with me to go the spot
where the incident took place. It was the first protest that I was going to
cover. With both excitement as well as fear in my mind, I made my way to the
spot where the protest was going on.
When
I reached the main road which leads to Chanapora, I saw that it was cordoned
off by the CRPF and Jammu and Kashmir police. A CRPF man stopped me for
checking and asked me to show my press card and curfew pass. I showed him my
identity card and he asked me to go back home. “Go and enjoy with your girl
friend,” one CRPF person gently told me, “instead of going to Lone Mohalla.”
That was the mohalla I was going to in Chanapora. I protested, and few minutes
later the police sub-inspector allowed me to go to the spot.
But
reaching there was the toughest job due to the curfew. The roads and streets
were deserted except for a few police and paramilitary vehicles. Burned tyres,
broken window panes and stones filled the roads. The road looked more like a
dustbin. Shops were closed and a security person took guard on every nook and
corner. As I was walking, all that followed me was my shadow, and sometimes
shadows of pigeons and other birds, under the harsh sunlight. While walking
through the lanes of Lone Mohalla, I saw a young boy washing blood on the road.
It was the spot where Iqbal was shot.
Finally
I took a route through a small lane with many zig zags. The lanes were also
deserted, women opened their windows silently and closed them instantly, doors
and curtains of the houses were all closed. Silence prevailed.
Using
many alternative routes through the congested lanes, I finally reached Lone
Mohalla. The situation in Lone Mohalla was entirely different. A large number
of people old and young, especially women and children, were shouting anti-India
slogans. The protesters were pelting stones on the security forces. When the
forces were not able to control the situation, they started aerial firing and
teargas shelling. I took my camera and started to shoot from the protestors’
side. While shooting, one of my relative, who resided in the same area, pulled
my shirt and dragged me inside her house and insisted on me not to cover what
was happening.
I spent a few minutes in the house and managed to escape from there, when she went to the kitchen to get tea for me. I was the only person with a camera in my hand and couldn’t see any other photojournalist covering the situation. Suddenly I saw two photojournalists shooting from the other side; I managed to cross the road. While crossing, I saw that the police and paramilitary crawling like ants. Two police personals were behind a giant Chinar tree. They had kept a squared mirror on which they used to keep an eye on the protestors. Using the mirror for direction, they shot teargas canisters and pellets on the protestors.
I spent a few minutes in the house and managed to escape from there, when she went to the kitchen to get tea for me. I was the only person with a camera in my hand and couldn’t see any other photojournalist covering the situation. Suddenly I saw two photojournalists shooting from the other side; I managed to cross the road. While crossing, I saw that the police and paramilitary crawling like ants. Two police personals were behind a giant Chinar tree. They had kept a squared mirror on which they used to keep an eye on the protestors. Using the mirror for direction, they shot teargas canisters and pellets on the protestors.
I
was reminded of Iqbal, and went to his house. Iqbal was a 19-year-old boy who
had left his studies and worked as a salesman. On 30 July 2010, when Iqbal was
going to buy biscuits from a shop near his home, he was shot in the head by CRPF
troopers outside his home. Iqbal received fatal injuries on his eye and neck.
He was first rushed to the SMHS hospital but they were unable to operate.
Later, he was shifted to SKIMS for specialized treatment. Doctors declared
Iqbal was in a state of coma. Six days later, he was still in coma in the
surgical intensive care on bed number 6 in SKIMS.
Iqbal’s
house was a simple, single storey house. As I stepped into the room, I was
filled with the smell of tears and grief. Everybody present there was crying
incessantly and I found myself engulfed in a gloomy atmosphere. Someone pointed
towards a woman, telling me that she was Iqbal’s mother, Hafeeza. She was not
crying. There were no tears in her eyes, yet one could see the utter grief in
her eyes. I had camera in my hand and when I looked at Iqbal’s mother, she
spread her hands before me and was pleading for justice for her son. I clicked
a portrait of grief but couldn’t dare look straight at Iqbal’s mother. She was
silent, nothing moved her, and she looked like a statue. The neighbours were
trying to console the family and I remembered that somebody had told me that
Iqbal’s mother was deaf. I was in a shock, completely lost. But questions were
cropping up in my mind.
The
woman was deaf. When did she come to know about her son being shot? Who told
her that he was in coma?
Look
around in the room, I saw a person sitting in a corner. His hands were full of
blood. The room smelt of blood and tears. I asked someone about him and I was
told that he was the Iqbal’s elder brother. With bloodied hands, with a grim
look, he was holding a picture of Iqbal. Iqbal’s father, Abdul Majeed Khan had
died a year before leaving behind his wife Hafeeza Begum and five children. The
dramatic play of the sun and shadows went on all until twilight.I left Iqbal’s
house and went home.
Six days later, I heard the shocking news: Iqbal was dead. It was the 55th day of the unrest. Iqbal had remained in coma until he died, or until he was killed. He was the 47th innocent killed. Iqbal had fought for six days before he gave up his last battle.
Six days later, I heard the shocking news: Iqbal was dead. It was the 55th day of the unrest. Iqbal had remained in coma until he died, or until he was killed. He was the 47th innocent killed. Iqbal had fought for six days before he gave up his last battle.
Iqbal’s
body was brought to Chanapora. It was a Wednesday evening. Grief and sadness
descended all over. Hundreds of people took to the streets and staged
pro-freedom demonstrations. The local and international press faced a lot of
harassment as they were not allowed to cover the funeral procession. But they
somehow managed to come from alternative routes to reach the spot. People from
the adjoining areas like Nowgam, Budshah Nagar, Mehjoor Nagar, Natipora,
Kralpaora and Bagh-e-Mehtab also joined the procession. Iqbal’s dead body was
taken to the open ground for a few hours where thousands of people gathered
shouting pro-freedom and anti-India slogans.
“Go
India, go back! Hum kya chahte? Azadi… We want freedom!”
It
was dusk when Iqbal was buried. His brother was wailing along the narrow lanes
of the Mohalla. Soon, he fell unconscious. One of the women courageously
carried water and kept his head in her lap and put water in his mouth with a
spoon.
Curfew
was imposed by the authorities in various places but despite the strict curfew,
Syed Ali Shah Geelani, Kashmir’s Islamist, pro-freedom leader, came to attend
the funeral of Iqbal and offered a nimaz-e-jinazah for him. After the jinazah,
Geelani sahib delivered a speech in front of thousands of people:
“Indian
atrocities will not sustain for long. God will help us fight against this
oppression. We only stage peaceful protests and our youth are always unarmed.
Do not throw stones.”People were filled with emotion, looking at him,
thoughtfully.I clicked some more pictures and headed towards home as it was
getting dark. There were no vehicles, curfew remained imposed. I started to
walk.
It
was 8pm and every one was going home discussing politics, the Indian brutality,
human right violations of the 90s. Some were discussing the thought-provoking
speech of Syed Ali Shah Geelani. As I was returning home by the main road, I
saw a woman walking with a milk pot and I thought police and paramilitary must
have gone. But I was wrong, they had not gone but they were hiding behind
walls.
While
walking I met three strangers. I somehow started a conversation with them and
we stopped at an electric pole for a few minutes under the yellow light.
Suddenly a group of CRPF and some police personnel appeared in front of us,
asking us to raise our hands. It was shocking, we were frightened. We raised
our hands in confusion. Some of the troopers, speaking in Bengali, ordered us
to bend down. But, unable to understand the language properly, we couldn’t get
what we were being asked to do. They took their thick wooden rods and started
beating us up. We were crying in pain.
After
the troopers were done with thrashing us, one of the policemen who had covered
his face in a green cloth with a white crescent, and what looked very similar
to a Pakistani flag, asked us to go across the road. He then asked us to bend
down. He then caught me and started rolling the rod over my thighs. I was dying
in pain, my whole body aching. I wondered why they were doing all this. Perhaps
they thought I was a protester.
I
started crying out, telling them that I was a journalist. But as they heard
those words – I am a journalist – they were enraged even more and started to
beat me more ruthlessly. “You people report only one side, and never our side,”
said one of them. My cries made no difference, and they continued rolling the
rod. Finally, they stopped.
Around
8:30 pm, a CRPF vehicle came. I got very nervous and thought they would now
carry us to the army camp. A senior official was seated in the vehicle and he
told the security personnel to leave us. For a moment, we were all paralyzed.
Would they shoot us now, on our backs? The fear prevented us from moving. We
remained stagnant. The official told us to go or else they’d again beat us up.
We walked a few step and looked back. We walked a few more steps, looking back
nervously, fearing they would shoot us any moment. We started to walk faster
and faster and until we stopped looking back and finally reached the Natipora
chowk.
As
I stopped, I could listen to my heart beating fast. The pain was killing me.We
spotted a house and went inside and asked for water. But as they saw our
condition, they asked us to stay for a while and gave us medicines. We left the
house a while later. I realised that the other two men belonged to the same
area. Shouting anti-India slogans, they headed for their homes. I somehow
managed to reach my home too.
I
didn’t tell my parents about the incident and went straight to my room. I
called my younger brother, Junaid, and told him what had happened. He quickly
brought some ice cubes and wrapped them in a cotton cloth and began massaging
around my wounds. I slowly began feeling some relief and fell asleep.Those
moments haunt me even today. Memories just don’t fade away.
Whenever
I go to cover protests, the incident comes alive in front of my eyes. And
questions crop up in my mind. Why did the “security” forces beat us up that
day? How long will the “security” forces keep killing people?