The Heart of Kashmir

Kash’s diary (India/Kashmir)

Balasubramaniyapuram,
a small village in the south of India.
Huts made of clay and palms.
I light a fire for cooking.
A few metres from my hut is an old well,
lowering the rope I pull up a bucket of water.
I wash my jeans on the rocks and
use the ash from last night’s fire to rinse the dishes clean. Hens and turkeys scramble for the left over grains of rice.
The neighbours smile and offer me tea.

Two months and one week have passed.
My flight is leaving from New Delhi in three weeks.
Murughesh takes me to the railway station at Kenyakumari, India’s southernmost point.
I am travelling north.

On the train,
everybody is close to one another,
we are squeezed in between wooden benches and sacks,
surrounded by human warmth.

It is a very long journey.
I get out in Bangalore for a drink and
after three minutes I go back to the train.
There are people everywhere trying to get on.
It’s chaos,
a mass of people surge round the carriages.
It’s impossible to get back inside.
The speaker announces the departure.
I am still outside.
I panic, all my equipment is in the train.
I throw myself on top of the jungle of bodies,
making my way however I can.
I don’t know where I put my feet,
my hair catches the ceiling.
I feel like a savage.
I find my carriage, even more passengers than before.
It is filled with men, fit to burst,
the only space is around the whirring fans.
An old couple are stretched out on the luggage rack;
he chews tobacco, she offers me an orange.

Sounds of different languages; looks and smiles.
A man is smoking a beedi beside me.
Someone asks me where I am going.
“Kashmir, Srinagar” I reply.
The smiles disappear.
Faces look scared.
The old woman stops eating.
A man begins speaking very quietly:
“…Kashmir is dangerous.
It is a place where people get killed.
There are terrorists and Srinagar is the Heart of Kashmir.
Don’t go there or they will shoot you”.
The man lights another beedi and
looks out of the window onto the fields.
I don’t understand.
Why is it dangerous?
Who gets killed?
Who are the terrorist?
Nobody replies.

The journey goes on,
more stations, more passengers, the usual questions.
Who are you?
What are you doing here?
Do you want something to eat?
Why don’t you travel first class?
I haven’t got any money, and I don’t really care.
I am happier travelling simply, freely,
eating rice wrapped in leaves, walking barefoot,
away from any formality.
The ticket inspector doesn’t check these carriages,
everyone travels free.
Between us there is only understanding and respect.
Looking in the eyes of my fellow passengers,
I see only the light of purity,
no shadows of falsehood.

Five days and four nights.
I get to Jammu, the end of the line.
I eat two boiled eggs and drink a Pepsi.
A man with a friendly face comes towards me:

“.. Are you staying in Jammu for a while?
– No I’m not. I want to go to Srinagar.
– What? Are you crazy?
It’s a very dangerous place for tourists.
– I’m not a tourist,
I am an Italian freelance reporter.
– So what? In Kashmir the situation is bad,
journalist are not allowed there.
If you go to Srinagar you can get killed..”.

Always the same warning,
never any explanations.

I read all the articles I can about Kashmir in the national newspapers but all I know is the official story.
Nothing about the Kashmiris who live and die there.

I walk the streets of Jammu.
Policemen and military trucks
weave through the innumerable crowds.
Markets, temples, tourists and refreshments.
The air is quiet;
an excessive number of uniforms,
but everything is in order.
I start to take some photographs:
a stuffed brown bear – two metres tall – stands outside a leather shop beckoning customers,
an old man with a long white beard
perching on bamboo scaffolding,
some policemen on the road.

A patrol is watching me,
they come towards me and bark for my passport.
“…. I am an Italian freelance reporter.”
They keep their eyes on my cameras,
searching through my bags.

People are watching.
The soldiers speak Hindi.
They want to take me away.
It can’t be. Not on my first day.
I hold my press card in front of their eyes.
“I am working for the Indian Government,
I don’t want everyone to know. I have to go now. Goodbye”.
I walk away with my bag on my back.

My card from the Press Information Bureau reads Govt. of India. It’s gets me out of trouble again and again.

A large entrance and a metal detector:
four soldiers with guns,
another with a big moustache.
It’s a Hindu Temple.
After a thorough search of my equipment
– they even shake the 180 mm lens –
they allow me in, accompanied by a policeman.
He checks I don’t photograph the soldiers encamped in the Temple.
I leave,
I am looking for action.

An Ambassador car cuts up a rickshaw-taxi.
The rickshaw man shouts angrily at the Ambassador driver. The police arrive and beat him violently,
no questions asked.
The rickshaw man is lower caste.
He is wrong all the time.

I have got 300 rupees,
I need it for airport tax but I am tired.
I want a shower and a bed.
I rent a room and reserve a bus ticket for the next day.

06.30 a.m.
I am the only westerner on the bus.
Outside there are two children.
They smile and give me a present:
a small ring and an elastic band.
“The ring is for your wife and the band is for you, good luck man!”

It is raining,
the streets are narrow and winding.
Mountains, rivers and forest around us.
Monkeys watch the bus,
we are the attraction.
Landslides block some stretches, patrols block other.
I have never seen so many soldiers in my life:
big guns on top of jeeps,
gun barrels peering from armoured cars,
tanks making their presence felt and
helmets camouflaged by leaves.
Later I discover they leave Srinagar for Jammu every morning to restock.

In the bus everybody is sad,
no one talks.
Beside me a man opens his eyes wide,
pretending to shoot with his finger.
He tries to whisper something
“…Kashmir..kill…guns..army…kill…Srinagar..”

We pass through villages.
Everything is gray,
the doors are barred and the telephone poles are down. There is no sign of life.

We get to Srinagar.
The rain has stopped.
Unbelievably, a rainbow welcomes us.
There are people on the street.
I feel life and energy.

The bus stops close to the old tourist centre,
now occupied by the army.
A boy approaches.
He has a tourist agent card in his hands.
A tourist in Srinagar is like a mirage.
He asks enthusiastically if I have a reservation,
and invites me into his wooden house.
I refuse.

“…Please, please sir.
– I don’t want any hotel, I’ll decide myself.
– I have got a houseboat on the lake, still vacant from ages ago. Come just for a look, you will enjoy it there, otherwise you can look somewhere else.
– OK, let’s go”.

Zero Bridge.
Steps go down below it to a bunker.
Then another made of brick.
Gun barrels stick out of the camouflage netting.
On top stands a big searchlight.
More steps and finally, the river.

“…My family lives here”.

His relatives come out and show me a beautiful houseboat. It is all in carved wood, there is electricity,
a real bathroom, carpets,
cushions, inlaid wooden furniture.

One of them is called Sultan.
He offers me a cup of tea.
On the table a big book lies open,
comments left by tourists.
The last one is dated 1991.
The words describe the beauty of Srinagar
and the Kashmiri’s hospitality,
though the comments all end with
“…But we hear gun shots…”

Eventually we talk money, they ask fifteen dollars.
The houseboat is beautiful, but I can’t afford it,
I have only two dollars. And a Walkman.

They introduce me to their father, their mother,
a little brother, sisters, a grand mother.
“…You can stay here, if we’ll have food you’ll eat with us…. Remove the power cables before washing yourself… Be careful on the roads…Be back home before sunset.”

I begin walking around Srinagar.
I see bunkers, military vans,
armoured cars, guns, automatic rifles.

They are everywhere,
a constant presence.

On the roofs, in the shops,
in cemeteries, the squares,
golf courses, tourist centres,
banks and post offices.

They are the Indian Army.

Every part of the city,
even where you’d never expect it,
occupied by members of the Indian Forces.

Srinagar, Gun Law.

A greengrocer is spotted by an Indian army patrol 10 yards from his house, 20 minutes after the start of curfew.
He is outside because his house has no toilet.

Just before sunrise the following day
his battered and tortured corpse
is found dumped in front of his house.

Permission for a proper funeral is refused because the army also occupies the local cemetery.

Arrangements are made for burial in a local park.

Women stand at the entrance to the park,
protesting at the killing and blocking the path of Indian soldiers trying to stop the ceremony.

The men carrying on with the funeral inside.

Downtown Srinagar,
the Heart of Kashmir,
burnt out houses,
district after district destroyed.

7 PM, curfew in the city.
Doors are barricaded,
shops closed,
lights switched off.

A big road leads to the centre.
There is no one here, not a sound.

All of a sudden, wheels on the asphalt:
an old fruit vendor pushes a trolley.
“- Hello. I am looking for a telephone office.
– No English. Military…. Army.”
He looks around him carefully.

I carry on.
In the distance, some lights.
The neon of a petrol station.

A burst of gunfire breaks the silence.

The telephone office,
a military bunker,
soldiers grip their guns.
“- Hello, I am an Italian reporter,
I would like to use the telephone.”
They check my documents, opening my bag, eyeing my lens.
“- It is not possible to phone,
after 7 PM everything is blocked.
– I need to call Italy and this is the only public telephone in Srinagar.
– NO!”
They are speaking in Hindi and wave their guns.
“ Go Away!”

I walk towards the lake,
and my wooden house.
The moon lights up the road.
I am going down the steps.
Suddenly there is a wall of light in front of me,
a gun barrel points directly at me,
someone is shouting in Hindi.
“I am Italian, I am staying down there.” I reply.
He is still shouting.
I speak in English and Italian,
I avoid making any suspicious movements,
I don’t know what else I can do.
Seconds fell like minutes. I must do something,
I smile and turn and walk away.

Much later,
back in my bedroom,
wrapped in the sheets.

Everything is quiet,
I sleep, relieved.

A loud explosion wakes me up,
another one, yet another.

The rumble goes away.
After a few seconds I hear bursts of gunfire.

Patrols downtown.
Military squads in the streets,
looking for Kashmiri fighters.
They think they’ve found something.
They shout.
One minute to evacuate homes.
Time’s up.
In they go.
There are bursts of gunfire.
Entire families slaughtered.
Flesh burned.
Five, ten, fifteen bodies bleeding.
Kashmir.

The sun is up now.
I am walking downtown:
narrow streets, mud on the ground,
children, young women, burned out houses.
I am quiet.

Soldiers appear in front of me:
one, two, three, four and more.
I feel my heartbeat, my blood races.

I take a photo of two children,
the soldiers are behind them.

They stop me,
they surround me,
pointing their guns.
They speak Hindi to each other.

One of them aims at me,
the gun in front of my eyes,
finger on the trigger,
ready to shoot.

“- Italian freelance, Indian Government’s Press Card.”
One of them grasps my arm.
Someone is shouting angrily.
I turn and look the eyes of a scared woman,
but the soldier takes me away.
We leave the district.
There is nobody on the road,
just the sound of our footsteps in the mud.

We enter a bunker:
More soldiers around me…
I am worried about…

Srinagar,
a day like any other,
I am walking downtown.

An old man comes near me:
“Do you want to take some photos? Come with me.”
We arrive at an old house.
Steps, women, children, a room.
Men sit on the floor, they drink tea.
A man with a white beard grasps my hand:
“You cannot see, you cannot hear.
Your press card is not valid.
They know about you.
You have another identity.
Your passport will be burnt together with your body.”

I didn’t tell them anything about myself,
not even my name.
I drink the tea and eat three biscuits.
“Thanks for everything,
I must go home before night fall.”

Eagles watch from the sky.
Have they seen something new?
Men walk with blinkered eyes,
afraid to think,
afraid to think about the consequences of their acts.

ALL TEXT COPYRIGHT © Kash Gabriele Torsello
extract from ‘The Heart of Kashmir’ ISBN 0954224507