“Where Is My Father?”Ask These Children In The Kashmir Valley

By Sheikh Saqib

The story first appeared in  The Quint on 30th August and then appeared in YKA on 1st September, 2017.

Fathers are regarded as our guardians. From helping out when children need academic help to being there for them when they are struggling emotionally. They are an integral part of our growing years. I consider myself blessed to have a father. This makes me feel sad when I think about the many children in the valley who don’t know whether their fathers are living or dead.

Shaista, Mehwish and Asha crave for their father’s company. Today, they cling on to any shred of hope that could bring the news of their father. Any news.

However, there is assistance available for children without fathers. It comes from the Association of Parents of Disappeared Persons (APDP). Imad Nazir, a worker at the organisation said, “APDP takes the education of these children very seriously. We provide all children of the victims of Enforced Disappearances (ED) with educational support. This includes a school fee, uniform, books and other items required by the children.”

The organisation also provides the children with medical or psychological support, if they need it.

Writing To A Father Who Has Disappeared

For 15-year-old Shaista Nazir Illahi, her father is a source of strength, even though he isn’t with her. She says, “Every night before I go to sleep, I write in my personal diary and feel like I am talking to him through it. I ask him to come back and take away my loneliness. I don’t know where my dad is, but wherever he is, I want him to know that his absence has made our lives miserable.”



Shaista recounts the night her father was allegedly picked up by the Indian Army when he was driving back home, late after a day at work. Her father – Nazir Ahmed Illahi – was a driver, who according to Shaista was picked up by the army in Srinagar’s Bemina area on a summer night in 2003. He hasn’t returned since then.

As she speaks, her mother’s eyes well up too. Shanaza Bano, a homemaker says, “He was innocent. He had never been a part of the violence in the 1990s or after. He only used to think about his family, about his kids and nothing else. He was aware of his responsibilities and used to treat everyone in the family with love and care.”

These days, Shaista, her mother and her younger sister are looked after by Shanaza’s brothers, who live in Chadoora in Budgam district. While Shaista’s younger sister Mehwish stays in Chadoora for her studies, Shaista continues to live with her mother at their place in Illahi Bagh and studies in a school there.

As she narrates her ordeal, Shaista pauses occasionally to brush away a tear. With every pause, silence descends the room. Suddenly, her sister Mehwish breaks the silence as she enters with a cup of tea. She then sits, propped up against a wall beside her sister and listens quietly.

Shaista continues, “Whenever I go to school and see younger kids walking hand-in-hand with their parents, I begin to picture myself in their place. I imagine my mom and dad taking me to school, asking my teacher how my studies are going. I imagine my dad buying me new clothes for various occasions. But at the end of the day, it is just my imagination – one that is vastly different from my reality. The reality is that I don’t have a father.”

Being the elder daughter, Shaista has matured since the crisis. Her younger sister may still make childish demands from her mother, but Shaista buries her wants deep inside of her, well aware that her mother can’t afford everything she craves. She adds, “After my father’s disappearance, my grandparents and other relatives started taunting my mother in various little ways.”

The horror still continues after the death of the grandparents. Those days are the worst, confesses Mehwish, “My grandparents are dead, but their actions after my father’s disappearance still haunt me.”

Mehwish, like her sister, has also found a way of communicating with her father through her diary that she started when she was 13. “Every night, before going to sleep, I write to my father. I tell him about the family’s financial crisis. I tell him about how mom and I find it hard to buy daily essentials. I tell him about my friends who come to school with their father. I tell him about the festivals, I tell him about the dresses I want to buy on Eid, but he never replies,” she says.

Shaista still hopes to see her father alive. She doesn’t know if he is still is alive but she doesn’t have a grave to visit. Every morning she wakes up and searches every room in the house for him, hoping that he may have come back in the night. “Hope is the only thing that keeps us going. My mother hopes, my little sister hopes and I hope. That’s what keeps us going.”

“Where Is My Father?”, Asks Asha Rehman

On August 2, 2005, Asha Rehman (now 12) lost her father.

“I was one or two years old when my father, Abdul Rasheed aka Mania Tancha was picked up by 28 RR Indian Army from our home, to never return,” she says.

Asha Rehman is the youngest in her family and lives with her mother and four siblings. After her father went missing, the family faced a lot of difficulties. The children were so young at the time that Asha’s two elder brothers who hadn’t even passed their class 10 board examinations had to go out to search for work. Asha says, “Mere sab dost apne baba ke saath shopping pe jaate hai, cheeze laate hai aur mujhe dikhate hai. (All my friends go shopping with their father and buy new things and then show them to me.)”

She has now left her studies and goes to a local sewing factory where she learns to darn clothes. Asha adds, “My brothers do a lot for me. They take care of everything. But still, having a father makes a lot of difference.”

Apart from two elder brothers who are labourers, Asha also has two sisters. Shameema Bano, 25, who is married and has a son and Mariam Jan, 18. If Asha’s father was around, she and her siblings would have been studying and pursuing their dreams. But they currently work at young ages just to feed themselves.

Asha has only one question for the governing authorities – “Where is my father?”

 The Current Scenario

Today, the Kashmir valley is one of the most militarized zones in the world. With about 7,00,000 armed and paramilitary forces stationed here, the ratio of civilian to security personnel is about 1:7. The life and liberty of Kashmir’s citizens are currently governed by laws such as the Jammu and Kashmir Public Safety Act, Jammu and Kashmir Disturbed Areas Act, and the Armed Forces Special Powers Act, 1990.

Unofficial estimates put the number of disappeared persons between 1989 and 2006 at anywhere between 8000-10,000. A majority of those who’ve disappeared are young men, including minors; others include people of all ages, professions and backgrounds, many of whom have no connection with the armed opposition groups operating in Kashmir.

Although India signed the International Convention for Protection of All Persons from Enforced Disappearances in 2007, it has failed to ratify the Convention and only a fraction of the cases on disappearances have been investigated.

Although the number of disappearances has reduced in the recent past, the struggle for justice in existing cases continues.

That long summer night when Burhan Wani died

The article first appeared in the valleys newly magazine FreePressKashmir on 8th July and then went for Pakistan's national daily The Express Tribune.

By Sheikh Saqib

I can hear gun-barrel thuds. Everyone around me is in shock. Ours is the house packed with mourners. My grandmother has passed two days ago. Twilight is nearing. We are supposed to serve evening meals to our relatives before they would head home. But these fireworks and anti-India slogans in my neighbourhood are making their outward movement uncertain, very uncertain.

A disturbing word doing rounds is about the fallen Titan. Commander Burhan Muzzafar Wani has met a tragic end in Kokernag. I can hear a growing street commotion. Its defiant intensity is growing. Perhaps, a signature stone-smoke confrontation is about to start.

“How long is it going to continue,” I ask my father, sitting next to me.

“I don’t know,” he replies in a babbled manner.

Nobody is sure. Just nobody.

I stir the curtains of my room to look outside through an old window, my sightseeing spot for years now. But it isn’t the usual scene.

I can see the street outside surrounded by tall trees on its peripheries upto a distant point where a large grey smoke of tear gas shells is storming the sky. Not a single mortal is in sight. Only lumps of smoke coming out of everywhere.

I am 17, and never have I witnessed the awful feeling of helplessness and anger among people like in this night. I can hear their cries. I contemplate in a deep thought, how long is it going to continue?

Knowing all well how dangerous it’s to saunter outside, all I yearn for is to go outside and join the mourners to give vent to my brewing anger. But immediately, my father steps in and shuts the window. “Don’t take your head out!” he reprimands me. “Bullets don’t discriminate.”

The mourners are huddled in the lobby of our house. No one is daring to leave for their home. Most of them are praying: God protect all of us, and all outside. The popping sound of gunshots becomes louder as it comes closer and closer.

“I guess, they might have killed scores of people,” says one of my cousin brothers, terrified. Escalating tension is depriving everyone of their sleep. It seems, a relative muses, the dreaded 90s are back.

But, the night seems unending. It’s getting longer and making the idea of tomorrow terrifying. My mother’s welled up eyes are exposing her fears. She is scared of an incoming danger, so is everyone inside. We can’t even mourn.

“Protesters must be fighting a pitched battle in Shalteng chowk,” uncle whispers. “Gunshots can be heard from that direction.” A small square of just 60 steps away from my neighbourhood, Shalteng chowk consists of various stores of dull bricks on all its sides. People often are seen busy in their work there.

But, that is past. Now, the situation is different.

“I am scared of the police,” muffles my brother. The words—police, fear, danger, kill, torture—aren’t new. I learnt them the day I started understanding words. Infact these are the only words I speak frequently. Call it my—no—call it our ‘paranormal’, if not a ‘new-normal’.

With these thoughts, I sit petrified on the floor of my room. So are the people at my stay. Father and I want to confirm that everybody is fine. We are handicapped. We are helpless. The mobile connectivity has been snapped. We are back to medieval era tonight and the entire valley has become a battlefield.

“The military has destroyed everything outside, from cars to houses,” says uncle. “I think they have gone mad, and may go for the worst.”

I hastily snoop through the window in a dark room to avoid giving the forces outside any clue that I am watching them. I see guns hanging around their shoulder and truncheons in their hand. They are scrutinizing every movement of the inhabitants of my Mohalla. The resentment on their face reveals all the hate they have for us. The situation outside is formidable.

But the long awaited dawn finally comes. With the light, comes the realisation: We all survived, just for another day, perhaps!

It’s Saturday. Curfew has been imposed by the Indian state. No one is allowed to venture out. With my cousin, I step out through an alternate way to access the situation. Padded up with their black armour, hostile soldiers are everywhere – cradling guns, wearing long camouflage coats, ragged green helmets and jackboots.

“That’s an alien army,” I talk to myself. “They are here for human blood.”

As our eyes reach the other end, we see a battle in the beginning: With mourners on one end and Indian troops on the other.

The uneven battle begins.

We fear to go near. We fear to be shot, to be beaten, to be abused, to be humiliated in our own land. The fear keeps us away. We also know the consequences of joining a peaceful protest would mean the same treatment as for the stone throwing youth or militant. We may suffer a brutal treatment from the aliens with impunity.

We are back home, only to be greeted with the news: “Panch ladke chik maermit[Five boys have been shot dead].” The situation is becoming tenser. Pro-Burhan Wani protests are gripping the Valley. On the streets, the ambulance siren shatters the uneasy calm every now and then. Everybody around me is crying, lamenting the demise of mourners.

“My God protect all of them,” uncle prays, “and not let their blood go in waste!”

My brief meeting with Parveena Ahanger

The article first appeared in the Kashmir Lit on 13th June,2017.


By Sheikh Saqib

The first thing I saw was her hand. Dainty, holding the stick of a placard which said,” where are our dear ones?” Then more of her emerged into the front. The wholesome face, deep eyes ready to flow the tears through her soft cheeks and her hair veiled with a cotton scarf. If there ever was to be a concern for someone, this was it. I flung out my half-finished ice cream in the dirt filled road and realized my direction had changed. I was transported. I was now one among the swarm of people who had come to listen to the Iron Lady of Kashmir, Parveena Ahanger.

This was in the first half of April, last year. Parveena Ahanger had just come to Srinagar’s Pratap Park, Lal Chowk,  to protest against the enforced disappearance, accompanied by parents who had faced a similar loss as her. Indian troops had forcibly disappeared their sons in custody. After that first glimpse, I became her devoted follower and a well-wisher. I sat down in the front row with some people and started listening carefully to her trying not to miss any word.  Behind me, I could see people of different age also teetering, but carefully listening as the Iron Lady talked about her tragedy. The hours were full of emotions. The parents of disappeared persons cried, some even fainted during the 2-hour long sit in protest.

As the protest wore on, my 16-year-old body was consumed with anger against India. Simultaneously I started asking myself the question: how to get Parveenaji to notice me and talk to me in the crowd of people. I wanted to see a smile on her face.
When she concluded the protest, I made my mind to meet her. I started thinking how to meet her. I didn’t want to meet her like a stranger but like her own son. But how? People started vacating the park, one after another and I was still sitting at my place. I was making plans to approach her and talk to her.

Soon after searching the park for someone who could help me, I saw a friend, whom I know very well, he stood chatting with the Iron Lady. I thought this was the direct route to meet her. I immediately started walking towards his direction and made sounds just to get noticed by him. All seemed to go in vain. Finally, I succeeded. He, at first gave me a peculiar look and then suddenly greeted me. I was not interested in his greetings but just wanted him to introduce me to Parveena Ji, whom everyone lovingly calls Jiji. No sooner had we begun chatting that Parveena Ji went to sit under the shade of a big tree with the other activists, who had been part of the protest. They probably had some matters to discuss.

I was sad. She had moved away. I felt everything was going wrong for me.
I started pricking my legs with my fingers, punishing myself for missing the chance. My friend started asking me about my studies and to me, it seemed like worthless talk. Till he asked me if I know Parveena ji. I replied,” ya .. I mean, I want to meet her.” Just a few broken words and he took me straight to Parveena Ji and introduced me to her as his younger brother.

Then I was no more a stranger to her. She asked me to help her get up. She hugged me and kissed me.  Just as a mother shows love to her child. The moment she hugged me, I closed my eyes in her arms, and started telling her in my mind,” Mother don’t worry I am with you in your fight against injustice.”
I basked in her undivided attention for 15 long minutes. It was 15 full minutes longer I spent with her, more than any other young person I saw in the park.  I cried inside all through the seconds which I spent with her. When I sat down, I congratulated myself. I had done a good job. I had met her finally.

As the months wore on, I started going to the APDP office, sometimes to get their annual calendar, sometimes to check out the date for the coming protest, and mostly hoping to meet Jiji. But I have always failed. I never had the chance to see her again.
I am still struggling to meet her and sometimes also wonder about hundreds of students who wish to meet her and talk to her.
She is inspiring and beloved of us all. I hope to meet her soon.

The Day of Sabzar's Funeral

The edited version of this piece first appeared in the Kashmir Lit on 3rd June, 2017.

By Sheikh Saqib

On an exceptionally hot Saturday morning, I along with my friends was riding to a village, to explore the destined place and trek its mountains. We stopped a few kilometers back and bought some junk food and bottles of soft drink and mineral water. Everyone was excited about the trip and scared too, for we were told by a friend who had visited the place a few weeks ago, that he was chased by a contingent of army and labeled as a militant, by army personnel shouting at him,’ you are a militant, stop stop!.’ He says that it was his luck that his urgent steps towards the main road saved him from what he calls aliens.

Our excitement was stroke by fear. As we came closer and closer to our destiny, fear started accompanying us but it was our love for the place that kept us going. We started looking around on every ticking of the clock, just to make sure that no army personnel is around. The speed of our vehicle started reducing, we were now fully into the area of our destiny.

We stationed our vehicles in which looked like a parking area and started looking for a place to sit and have some food. For some minutes we forgot about the incident that had happened to our friend and started enjoying ourselves. We started enjoying our food, feeling blessed to have born in what we felt that time a paradise. We were surrounded by mountains, rushing water flowing at a distance. We were happy and wanted to stay there for the rest of our lives.

But how come happiness in a conflict-ridden place. We forgot that we live in a place where anyone can be killed anytime. As we started our trek, we took pictures of a group of sheep’s that were subjected to follow their leader, the shepherd. We clicked pictures of everybody that we met on our route. We clicked pictures of each other. We were enjoying. We were happy. But as soon as we stepped on the next track in order to reach the top of the mountain, a friend got a call from home. A call of disappointment.

As soon as he picked up the call I felt a sudden stop in his steps. We went curious and started enquiring the reason behind.

He and all of us came to know that the top Hizb-ul-Mujahidin commander Sabzar has been shot dead in south Kashmir’s Tral area and people from every corner of the Valley are mourning and protesting against the killing of the militant leader. I was startled on hearing the news of Sabzar’s death; bordering on panic.

We, in our full trekking gear, were only thinking how to reach the top. But this sudden news made us tense. Our excitement was ruined. We went through the feeling of sadness.

It would have been a tough call to continue the trek. Parents and siblings started calling, one after another, just to ensure we were safe. We started making calls to close associates just to know the situation in the city center and adjoining areas. We were told that the situation is worst and should come back home as soon as possible.

We started retracing our steps. We started riding back home. We started riding past the whole area we had come for. Everyone looked disappointed and tense. Anything that came through refused to overtake our worry. We were all lost in our own thoughts.

As soon as we stroke the main road, that showed us the way to home, it was densely surrounded by tall trees on its peripheries. I searched the road for people I had seen in the morning, the line of shopping stores which were trafficked by people in order to buy their essentials. Everything was shut down and I could only see large grey smoke of tear gas shells storming the beautiful Himalayan sky. I could not locate any of the policemen or the mourners either, but just the lumps of smoke coming out of everywhere.

The thuds coming out from the barrel of the guns started grappling our attention. We were on the road, all on ourselves. Knowing all well that bullets differentiate the gender least we sensed a danger. Danger of might getting hit by tear gas shells, pellets or a bullet, in the coming moments. Danger that could leave a nation to mourn.

Amid the gun shots, anti-India slogans started reverberating the whole surroundings leaving all worried. I could hear the intensity of the protests getting higher and higher and the armed forces in return would answer with gunshots and teargas shells and everything that makes an explosion on the mourners.

On different roads, that we took to reach home, we heard many people shouting different slogans. We heard different messages;

“Bharat tere mout aayi”

“there is only one solution; gun solution gun solution”

“tum kitney jawan maroogai hr ghar se jawan niklaiga“….

But the most repeated message was

‘Hum Kya chahetay – ‘Azadi!’

' We are a powerless people fighting for justice '

The piece first appeared in the Greater Kashmir mag, Kashmir Ink's issue of 'Why Protest' on 14th May, 2017.

By Sheikh Saqib

Wails continue to ring out from Kashmir’s homes. Our elders continue to shoulder the coffins of our young. Bullets and pellets continue to rain on us. Young boys and girls continue to be crippled. Is this what we were born for?

We are beaten, maimed and killed just for registering our protest against injustice.

My teacher once asked me, “Who has more respect than the prime minister of a country?” I couldn’t imagine who that could be. “Student,” my teacher had said.

But one would be forgiven for not believing my teacher after seeing how brutally the students who tried to protest against the crackdown on fellow students in Pulwama were dealt with by the so-called security forces. I saw boys and girls my age mercilessly beaten and abused.

It brought back the chilling memory of the winter morning I and my two friends, riding to school on my two-wheeler, were stopped by a group of army men near Lal Chowk. They welcomed us with angry faces and asked us to show our school bags. One of the soldiers present came from behind and asked us to hand over the stones. He took our bags and searched them for stones. Except notebooks and some newly bought pens, he found nothing. He handed back the bags and told us to go. But as we started, he kicked us one by one and abused us. He even abused my mother and, for whatever reason, Pakistan. We were in tears by the time we finally left. I felt helpless, humiliated.

Another time, I was standing at my window gazing at the silent road by my house. A contingent of soldiers came by and one of them lifted his shotgun, which I later came to know is used to hunt animals, towards me. I feared he would shoot at me and quickly shut the window. I made me feel like I was in a prison, chains wrapped so tightly around my body that even taking a breath is difficult.

We live in a place where we are denied every right. We have never known peace; we were born in conflict and live through it. We don’t even know if we can attend school tomorrow.
Dissent is curbed. What is so threatening about a student asking questions?

They won’t let us raise our voice peacefully, so we have taken up stones to express our dissent. The stone is the symbol of our resistance.

What Loneliness Is Making Me Feel: A 21-Year-Old’s Story

The story was covered for weekly NK in the latter half of March, 2017.

By Sheikh Saqib

For Fahad the years of childhood is a painful memory of being confined to four walls of his room. Since the last 6 years he is a serious patient of depression. Now a student of MBA, he is in his early 20’s and wears a golden colour medium sized beard. Due to his parents scuffle on a daily bases and his father’s strictness’ towards him haunt him to this day: the humiliation of everyday beating, frequent fights between parents, of being not allowed to go out, play sports, meet friends, and that unbearable pain every time he  used to become the target of one of the parent.

Originally hailing from Syria, Fahad was a little kid when his family decided to move here.  As he grew up and started his school, he got a chance to set his feet out from a vile atmosphere. Now free to do things, he made friends and started playing different sport with them. This gave way to good days. At home the trend continued while as he started emphasizing on studies. His sister of having of the same age, he had a tough competition at home as well as in school.

In his ruffle filled childhood, Fahad made a special friend, in the shape of a girl. Sana, who lived next door and went to the same school would wake up early, waited for Fahad on the main road to go school hand in hand. Fahad and Sana  had a great affection for each other.  Sana used to be his companion in long walks and mischievous things. They would laugh on jokes together, do funny things and also visit each other on special occasions. On holidays, they would call each other and discuss homework and other family matters. She used to listen his problems like a mother listens to her child's. Fahad was so attached to her that he used to cry like baby on her shoulder and tell her about his parents rudeness towards him.

Fahad also remembers her running after him with a charming smile on her face, desperate to hit him on the back, just for fun. “ She had a scar on her neck and i used to mock her on that,” says Fahad with a slight smile on his serious face. As the good days had only knocked the door, happiness was abduct by god. Sana who loved to be around Fahad suddenly disappeared. This was when Fahad had just passed away his 12th class exam. It was a sunny day and sun was at its zenith when Fahad tried to call sana but couldn’t get any answer. He tried and tried and came to know she has left the place. Fahad was unable to express his grief over loosing the most important person in his life. Parents  used to remain busy in heated arguments. Sister used to  remain silent. He went mad. Loosing his temper over small issues. He used to rumble in his room and then cling to an old cushion in his room and cry like a baby, as if put aflame.

The boy has not seen  the girl ever since. Making every effort to contact her, he has always faced peoples wrath on the issue.
The 21 year old I meet at a play field in Srinagar is serious faced. He rarely smiles. We sit on the frontier of the ground. In front of us are hundreds of boys playing different sport. He makes a peculiar look at the players and says, “ I want Sana back and want her listen my issues like she used to in childhood.” The words of him made me think of hundreds of youth in the valley who are suffering with the same tragedy.  His story hangs over us like a cloud on a head. When he reaches the end of the story, we are both transported to the road that shows us the way to home. Sana’s face may have faded away from his memory but his anger has endured. He is one of those guys in the world who would sit alone and talk less. Having so depressed life since childhood, he was detected as a serious patient of depression in last July.
“I used to hear voices  all around, that used to irritate me a lot,” says Fahad while regretting on his life. He confesses that he once even tried to kill his father due to these unwanted voices.

People in their 20’s are in search of a dream but Fahad’s story is different. The only thing he has been able to hold on is because he is still in search of sana. The hope of getting her back works as a balm on his wounds.
As I glance through his laptop bag, I find different types of medicines, I am struck by how this young guy swallows all these medicines. “ everyday, I wake up I have to swallow these first and be ready for a long day.”
Around us the people hurry to reach their houses as the light hours descends into darker hours and Fahad wants a goodbye. As we make our goodbye, he says, “ don’t worry about me, I am used to it now,”

Untold stories of a Bleeding Land

The article first appeared in the daily Kashmir Reader on 12^th feb, 2017

By Sheikh Saqib                                                        

As people in this dilapidated valley, which has always produced doleful people, continue to sit in storefronts and other meeting places to make their tales of oppression public, I want to draw a portrait of these here. The present vortex in the valley has produced countless heart wrenching tales- some heard and some unheard. I will make my tale public. But mark my words- the whole valley is infuriated with the Indian state and want to stamp it out and get rid of the present torment. In some moments you will find why I am at war with destiny in my home itself. The story begins.

Summer of 2010
“Like the 1990s, we continue to fear to the Indian army deployed in the valley since so long,” said my mother when I asked her why she felt so tense on seeing a military vehicle coming towards us. The story goes thus. It was a cold evening and I was on my way to a relative’s home along with my family. A military vehicle came from the opposite direction and set worry in my mother’s heart. Sweat rolling down my mother’s face, she held me in her arms and started praying: God protect my son. Unable to understand what was going on, I saw tears in her eyes. After the scary Gypsy vehicle passed by, mother said, that we had been lucky not to have been stopped by them. But what would have happened had the aliens stopped our car? Would I have been among those whom we remember as martyrs? I don’t know and I don’t want to think on as this very thought and question makes me tremble and sweaty.

When I was a small kid…
Once I went out without telling anyone in the family because I was well aware that no one would allow me to wander outside all alone. The sun was hiding behind the unstable clouds and a dim light was hitting my face. As I strolled on the main road, I saw three young boys, barely around twelve years old, wildly running towards me and the police following them. Startled with the scene, I grew pale and nervous retracing my steps back towards my home but constantly gazing behind. These young boys who were now caught by the police were getting beaten ruthlessly. The policemen broke their bamboo sticks on them and the boys were forcefully dragged into the white Rakshak car. As soon as the boys faded away from my sight, I started narrating the story, I had witnessed, to one of my friends. The situation grew tense as the boys were from our locality. Some people were crying and some started raising pro-freedom slogans. What happened next, I don’t know.

The night when I witnessed a mother crying for her son…
Here, I want to confess that in my memory, I am not able to forget a mother, in my locality, who was dying to see her son. For me, it seems like only a few days back. I still remember the name of the boy, Gowher. I can’t forget him. He was wandering around the ware-house of our locality but was never to return home. I remember his mother would walk barefoot up to the gate of her house, pace down the street for some moments, look both ways and then return. She would repeat this again and again. Screaming for her son, shouting at her husband, “He used to come before the sunset, where is he? Go and find him. Gowher used to play with me but now they tell me he is dead, I am talking to myself. But no one can get away from the truth and the truth was that he was killed by the Indian forces.

The moment I asked a rebel in the streets of downtown of what is the fun of mocking at what they call as their security personnel.
“How can I stay silent after witnessing the harsh stomping of my parents and other family members by Indian forces? It will be a slur on me,” said one of the rebels in fury. “They broke my home’s windows, doors and other valuable things.” He leans on the ground and murmurs “they broke my house which my father had built with his hard earned money”. For him, Kashmir is a strife-torn place, which was once known for its beauty. Silence reigned everywhere and I put my head down in sorrow and kept my composure. I couldn’t even look at him once again, for I was so ashamed of my question.

Children as targets in the summer of 2016
The children of this restive valley are briskly memorizing new anti India slogans, making every effort to overperform each other in the same. Small kids not even aged four, are always ready to utter “Hum kya chahtay? Azadi.”
Invariably, India’s martial laws have largely impacted the small kids of the valley. From the worst laws to deadly pellets, the sons of Kashmir are affected from head to feet. A friend called me and said, “Did you hear my brothers son’s latest words?’”
“No I have not,” I said. “Was it something interesting,” I enquired. “Yes, it truly is.” The young kid, barely three, could chant azadi slogans and mimic stone throwing by pelting family members with whatever was throw-able.
The next vignette is when I first heard a group of young boys raising their voice loudly and clearly chanting: ‘Azadi, Azadi, Azadi’. I laughed shyly and peered through the window of my room to have a look at those young lads. One of the boys, holding a stick in his hand, wearing a half-sleeves red shirt and a white trouser was leading the others. Everyone in our locality heard their resonant voices with great joy.
In the same summer of 2016, when I somehow managed to visit one of my friends house, amid the unrest, suddenly his small cousin who, not more than three years old, said, “Mujhay Azadi Do.” Not being able to hold my laughter, I told him, “Baad mai dunga.”
These are some of the stories that I shared with you, but don’t think this is all. No. There are tens of thousands of stories of different people across the length and breadth of our bleeding Kashmir.