"Not everyone would have been so fortunate"
With Regards Abi “At his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst” - Aristotle --- On Sun, 8/23/09, yogi sikand <[email protected]> wrote: >From the Valley of Death By Mushtaq ul Haq Ahmad Sikander The October 2003 issue of the Reader's Digest carries an article titled "After Life" that deals with stories of people who were declared dead, but by some miracle, came back to life again. Robert Milham is one such person. He says that his heart stopped during a heart attack: "The pain was gone. I was suspended over my body. I was looking at myself lying on the stretcher and they were putting paddles on me". After a life of selfishness, he says his brush with death made him a more giving person. My case is also the same, but in some ways different. I am an inhabitant of the Valley of Kashmir, known all over the world for its beauty, but which could now be called a beautiful prison or an awesome concentration camp. One day, I was heading to my tutor’s house, situated at a walking distance from my home. On the streets of Kashmir, counter insurgency forces are omnipresent and we Kashmiris have got used to their sight. Suddenly, as I was trudging ahead, I was stopped by a paramilitary trooper. He ordered me to open my bag. I did as he said. He started frisking me. “Why have you grown such a long beard? Are you a saint?” he asked me mockingly. I said nothing. When he was satisfied, he asked for my identity card. When I thrust my hand in my pocket and started searching for my wallet, which also contained my identity card, I remembered that I had forgotten my wallet at home. I told the trooper about it, and tried to impress upon him that I was only a student and a law-abiding citizen. I told him that I lived nearby, pointing in the direction of my colony. This, however, did not make a dent on him. Meanwhile, another student walked past and he stopped him and asked him where he lived. It so happened that this student also lived in the same colony as I, although I did not know this. Pointing at me, the paratrooper asked the student if he recognized me. He answered in the negative. The trooper then became furious. “Are you trying to deceive me?”, he shrieked. I said in an apologetic tone: "I reside in the locality whose name I told you". "Go and sit in that vehicle”, he ordered me. When he indicated the vehicle, it struck me that this man was no ordinary Central Reserve Police Force trooper but, rather, that he belonged to the notorious RR, the ‘Rashtriya Rifles’, to whom a large number of human rights violations in Kashmir have been attributed. I tried to plead my ignorance. That did not work, however. "Why are you without an identity card? If someone kills you, who will identify you then? Even being a student you bastard don't know the rules!” he angrily spat out. I tried to persuade the man to let me go but all in vain. I told him I was getting late for my tuition class, but he did not pay any heed. He ordered me to sit inside the vehicle. I did as he commanded. Thoughts of the past came ringing in my head, swimming around like a wild whirlpool. I thought of my parents, siblings, friends and relatives. I prayed to Allah to erase my sins as I imagined that now, in just a few days, I would meet my Lord. How were these troopers going to behave with me, I began to wonder. Would they kill me and label me as a ‘dreaded militant’? They might well do that, I feared, for they could possibly use my bearded appearance to justify their claim. Would they subject me to brutal torture, as so many have been before? Or would I be subjected to ‘enforced disappearance’, like thousands of others have? I began to mourn what I feared was my imminent death. After some days, I began to imagine, my dead body would be handed over to my parents, who would be told that I had been killed in an ‘unknown operation’. My killing would draw fierce condemnation. My family would publish my obituary in the newspapers, announcing to the world: "We regret to announce the martyrdom of Shaheed Mushtaq-ul-Haq Ahmad Sikandar at the hands of RR troops. He was loved by one and all, and leaves behind him a large number of friends and admirers to mourn his loss. His untimely death has left a void in our lives. He was like a flower, spreading fragrance by his jovial, humourous nature. Yet, fate crumbled this young flower before it could bloom,. His funeral rites will take place at 11 AM today". At the bottom of the page would be an announcement: "Women are requested not to bring any kind of food item or fruits with them". I was most concerned about my parents, especially my mother, who would not be able bear the shock of my death, I knew. My friends would come to know of my death later. A friend of mine, Wani, is an early riser, and as soon as he gets up he reads the day’s newspapers. The day after my death, I imagined, Wani would cursorily glance at the headlines of the newspaper, then have a shower and breakfast, after which he would pick up the paper again, when his eyes would scan the news of lesser importance. When he gets to page 3, he would abruptly stop, his face transfixed on the picture that accompanies the obituary that my parents have arranged for. His parents would tell him to rush to my house, but, shrugging his shoulders, he would say, “I have to be at the college in an hour. I have my practicals today and I can’t miss them. We will, Insha-Allah, pay Mushtaq’s family a visit in the evening.” Wani would then be busy with his practicals all day, while his parents would stay at home. Mehran, another dear friend of mine who is studying architecture in Pune, would probably learn of my death after returning home during the vacations. And as for Wilayat, when he hears I have been killed, he will refuse to close his shop where he repairs mobile phones and come to my home to meet my folks. His parents will say, "Will you close your shop today?", but he will grunt in reply, ‘I’m afraid I can't as I have a consignment to be delivered. If I have the time, I will drop in on the way or we can call on Sunday.’ I know Wilayat won’t drop in on the way. Nor will he call on Sunday. At 11 o’clock, a little crowd will collect at my freshly-dug grave. My friend Aijaz would be there, too, although he doesn’t believe in attending funerals. All the same, he will come, reluctantly, as a sort of social obligation. Aijaz, like another friend Javed, thinks that death is no big deal, that it is really an unimportant event. Javed would rather drop in at Coffee Arabica, to meet his girlfriend Anjum, than be at my funeral. A maulvi will then arrive to perform my last rites, and I would be laid in my grave, covered with a heap of soil. Everyone is going to weep for a week, but, I am sure, I will slowly slip out their memories. Only my family will remember the loss. As I sat in the vehicle, I thought of Aneesa. What will she do after my death? After all, we had promised to be only each other’s. When I am gone, she would probably marry somebody else. She might marry Faheem, who was besotted by her, but whom she constantly spurned, claiming that she loved only me, and that from the core of her heart. I kept obsessing with these and other such frightful thoughts when, suddenly, a booming voice made me aware of my unconsciousness. “Come Out!” ordered the trooper. As I crawled out, dreading what was to transpire, I saw a bunch of my friends who had gathered round the trooper. They had enquired about my whereabouts and had told him that I was their friend. The trooper then relented. He let me off, but on one condition—that I would always carry my identity card with me. Not everyone would have been so fortunate. =========================================================== Mushtaq ul Haq Ahmad Sikander is a young Kashmiri student from Srinagar. He can be contacted on [email protected] Allah, Farid, juhdi hamesha Au Shaikh Farid, juhdi Allah Allah. Acquiring Allah’s grace is the aim of my jihad, 0 Farid! Come Shaikh Farid! Allah, Allah’s grace alone is ever the aim of my jihad (Baba Guru Nanak Sahib to Baba Shaikh Farid Sahib) PLEASE VISIT MY BLOGS: www.islampeaceandjustice.blogspot.com www.madrasareforms.blogspot.com --~--~---------~--~----~------------~-------~--~----~ You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "newsline" group. To post to this group, send email to [email protected] To unsubscribe from this group, send email to [email protected] For more options, visit this group at http://groups.google.com/group/newsline?hl=en -~----------~----~----~----~------~----~------~--~---
