Kashmir — the cost of lies
“What is the cost of lies?” asks Valery Legasov’s character, played by Jared Harris, in the opening lines of the miniseries Chernobyl. He is alone in his apartment, except for a cat. This is the USSR in 1988. In this gloomy space, somewhere in Moscow, a cigarette slowly consumes itself in an ashtray. “It’s not that we’ll mistake them for the truth,” he continues. “The real danger is that if we hear enough lies, then we no longer recognize the truth at all.” Legasov, an accomplished chemist, served as one of the key members of the commission that investigated the causes behind the Chernobyl disaster. He committed suicide just one day before he was supposed to announce the conclusions drawn from his investigation. They say Legasov had become disillusioned. The authorities, he felt, were unwilling to confront the real problem. They were using political pressure and censorship to hide the presence of deep flaws in the design of their reactors. Chernobyl — I may remind you — was a nuclear catastrophe.
In 1988, insurgency started in Kashmir. Even though I was born somewhat later, the effects of what had passed and what persisted were inevitably felt. We were in some ways similar to those born in the wake of the Chernobyl disaster. What was being inflicted on Kashmir behaved like radiation. It made its way through thick walls and closed doors — to you. An army had been summoned to fight a people and their shared aspiration. Gawkadal, Handwara, Zakoora, Hawal, Sopore, Kupwara — names of locations were soon going to be interchangeable with massacres. Kashmir, the valley, had become a raging conflict. Pripyat, the city, had become a ghost town.
I was born in Downtown Srinagar into a joint family. My close relatives were not particularly passionate about politics, with all its complexities, and would not dwell on it. But they surely were interested in having a livable life. In Kashmir, however, just living is already profoundly political. My grandfather owned a business, where my father and my uncles worked as well. Our family had a close relationship with many people from the local Pandit community — the Hindus of the Kashmir Valley. Several of my cousins were tutored by our Pandit neighbors. I am told that our neighbors were very well-educated. However, I was not lucky enough to get their mentorship while growing up. Due to threats and targeted killings by some militant outfits, our Pandit neighbors, friends of my parents, had to flee the Valley. They had to leave their valley and we were left behind in our valley, both exposed to perpetual violence.
Talking of fleeing, my parents had concluded that Downtown was too dangerous for me. The frequency of confrontation between the armed troops and the militants was increasing in the neighborhood. I was a round-shaped chubby little baby back then. I only have a few vague memories from that time. My father used to occasionally take me to the kiosk right outside our house. I used to engage in a conversational babble with the kiosk owner. To help maintain my shape, I would get all my sweets there. While my parents and my uncles relocated from Downtown, my grandparents stayed back at my ancestral home. In 1995, Indian security forces forcefully took over this house of ours. As the years passed by, they turned it into shambles. I have lost most of the pleasant memories that were associated with our house. Now, I am left crowded with mental images from the times I hurriedly passed by this occupied building. It was wrapped in concertina wire. I did not want to get into trouble, therefore I would not stop to get a proper look. In Kashmir, we are told, more than 70,000 have been killed in the last three decades. There have been more than 8000 enforced disappearances. There are thousands of unmarked graves. Rape and torture have been employed as retributive instruments of war. So I was afraid.
Talking of fear, I used to get very uncomfortable at the sight of the army. In the most densely militarized region of the world, that meant I grew up with constant fear — sometimes latent and sometimes active. When I was young, I did not know the detailed history of the conflict. I only made judgments based on isolated bits of knowledge and my gut feelings. Through school books, I was told that India is the country I was born in. Nonetheless, India was also a country whose army terrified me. In 2008, I moved out of the Valley and started university. I began taking an interest in the news of the national newspapers. Back home, there were fresh incidents of killings, one year after another. Kashmiri protesters were being targeted with live ammunition. On my university intranet chat forum, I found a revealing suggestion. One student had commented that Kashmiris should be shot between the eyes. It was incidents like these that made me realize that our school books were hiding something — the truth. I was, I guess, lucky to be an adult by then. Otherwise, such revelations usually greet most Kashmiris at quite a young age. After finishing my bachelor’s degree, I moved to Germany to continue my education. A few years later, I visited KZ-Gedenkstätte Dachau, the Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site near Munich. During my visit, two inscriptions stood out. Vergisst nicht — do not forget. Nie wieder — never again. The first, among other things, reminded me of Kashmiri mothers. The second, of the current rise in intoxicating nationalism, especially in India.
And here we are in 2019. Kashmir has been put under a brutal military siege, with a telecommunications and Internet blackout, since 4th August. What is the story that is being circulated across India? Several versions exist. But the common denominator in most of these stories is the central lie: this is done for the benefit of Kashmiris. Unless the vast majority of people in India make the effort to listen to Kashmiris, the situation will not return to normal. Kashmir is simmering for the past seven decades — because Kashmiris have not been asked what they want. The consent and will of an entire people are missing in whatever political arrangement has been enforced on them. Unless all the willful obfuscation around the conflict is remedied, no real progress towards peace can be made. In Kashmir, we need to recognize and acknowledge what is in plain sight — its grieving people and their legitimate aspirations. To give peace a real chance, we need to see through the lies and recognize the truth.
