Saturday 16 March 2019

The man fighting the dark world


He was born blind in a family where his father trained him to face the larger indifferent world around him. Years later, this grooming would make Haneef Malik a fighter of his and that of his tribe’s rights.

The story first appeared in The Indus Post Magazine on March 15, 2019.

By Sheikh Saqib

With his family of four, Mohammad Haneef Malik lives in a two-storey house, in Baramulla’s non-decrepit parish. The second flight of his house is convincingly incomplete, with no windows and floor covering. But the twenty three year old, battling darkness, hopes to get it done once he acquires what he calls a ‘secure and stable’ job.

Inside his house, he sits against one of the unwashed walls of his bedroom where he’s often seen fiddling with electronic gadgets. He also fixes electronic stuff like torches, mobile phones, heater etc, and sometimes manages to play with sophisticated electronic devices.

Haneef is born blind and currently works as a contractual instructor to people like him in Volunteer Medical Society (VMS) – an institute rehabilitating specially-abled persons across Jammu and Kashmir – in Srinagar’s Bemina area. Unlike others at his workplace, Haneef is the only specially-abled teacher.

Born to a government teacher, Saif-u-din Malik and homemaker Mehtaba Begum in early 1990s, Haneef credits his father for whatever he’s able to do today.

“My father never failed me,” Haneef says with a smile. “He knew that life can never be lived with the help of others so he taught me something which helped me live independently.”

His father used to take out two different coins from his pheran pocket, only to drop them one after another on the uncovered floor, before asking Haneef: Which one I just plunged on the cemented floor?

“Initially I hated this tiring activity but soon after my father died, I realized its importance in my life,” the proud son says. “It vastly improved my listening capacity and helped me judge things by hearing the noise they cause when knocked with a walking stick.”

To train him further, his father would also throw coins in different directions and ask him to look and search for them. And today, he says, he’s able to distinguish the sound of a cup and plate when they go down and can make out the fallen one without seeing it.

Years before, with the assistance of his classmates and teachers, Haneef completed his schooling with normal kids in Andergham Government High School. His classmates would read for him, so that he could write that in Braille and revise at home.

“I had done an adjustment course which also includes Braille during the winter vacation of my 6th standard in Delhi’s All India Blind Congregation Center,” he says. 
“Learning Braille became a way out for me. But at school I had to face problems because they had no facilities for blind persons to write in Braille and every time during my examinations, I was provided with a scribe who would write my exam on my behalf.”

But the idea of scribe didn’t always work for him and he had to bear the brunt for being blind. “In my Class 12,” he says, “I was even denied a scribe which is making me suffer till date.”

Haneef blames State Board of School Education (BOSE) for denying help to him, despite knowing about his blindness.

“I went from one office to another in order to plead them of providing me a scribe whom I could dictate my answers so that he could write but they just didn’t allow it,” he turns grim. “And when the exams finally came, I had to make several fold on my paper as an alternate to the lines on which one writes, keeping in mind the space within which one is allowed to write. I made folds, wrote on them with guess. But I cannot deny the up down of line and length in my paper I must have caused.”

When the results came out, he was declared fail in one subject. “I went to the then General Secretary BOSE, Ali Mohammad Naqash Sahab, who gave me a patient hearing and asked me to come on the next day so that he could take my exam in front of him,” Haneef recalls.
“The next day he asked me two questions in order to check my ability. I answered him with utmost confidence. He then passed me, without making any addition in my report card.”

His dismal 37% mark percentage since then has proved to be the “biggest curse” of his life, he says.

“I’ve suffered so much because of this,” Haneef laments. “I’m not able to acquire a decent job because of my 12th class percentage. It’s like ‘Lamhoo ne khata ki tou sadyoon ne saza paayi’.”

In the middle of all this chaos in his life, Haneef managed to marry a girl who proposed to him soon after he completed his 10th class exam.

“After my 10th examination, I went to do my diploma in Rashtriya Computers, where a counselor proposed me for marriage. I took some time because I was in the middle of nothing, thinking of how my future would be. I also asked her to take her time and keep in view my blindness and my limitations but to my surprise she kept on insisting and then we married after some time,” Haneef recalls the ‘happy moment’ of his life with a shy smile.

After marriage and subsequently passing Class 12, Haneef decided to pursue his career in Music. He applied for admission in Fine Arts Music College Srinagar, but soon realized that he wasn’t welcomed there.

“I remember my professors ignoring me and giving more attention to normal students,” he rues. “Three months later, I realized that this place is not for me. So I left and went into depression for the next four years. I would think that no one wants to help me and encourage me to stay up and fight for things. People turned me down which added to the pain.”

It was then, one Dr. Maqbool Mir, ENT specialist and the co-founder of VMS, came to his rescue. He helped Haneef to come out of depression and assisted him in availing a scholarship in Delhi University’s Sham Lal College for his graduation.

“For the next four years, I lived in Delhi on that scholarship with ease and gained immense knowledge in the field of Humanities,” Haneef says.

Studying in Delhi made him realize that he’s not the only blind person in the world and that there’re many others, doing good in their lives. “When I learned how a disabled girl from Karnataka against all her odds went on to become an IAS officer, it encouraged me to work on my skills,” he says.

But after coming back to Kashmir, Haneef again faced difficulties, this time, in getting a job for living.

“During that tough period, I kept remembering my father’s words: ‘Ek na ek din manzil saamne aahe Jayegi’, and kept slogging,” he says.

And then, the ‘manzil’ came.
One fine day when he was waiting for a public transport to travel back home from Srinagar, he was given a lift by a person named Mudasir.

“He was a state coordinator with Handicap International. After getting my introduction, he asked me if I can join his next project with VMS and work for visually impaired. I could not believe it, and immediately agreed to work,” Haneef recalls his cherished moment.
Haneef was shortly called for an interview at VMS. He qualified and soon joined the eight-month-long project on a salary of Rs 14,000 per month.

“During that project we rehabilitated near about sixty blind persons. I introduced adjustment courses there which include Activities of Daily Life (ADL), Braille, mobility etc,” Haneef says. “This proved very helpful. After my eight-month-long contract ended, the VMS retained me as their instructor, with monthly salary of Rs 7,000.”

Even though Haneef gets paid for what he does at VMS but these days he’s finding it hard to meet the ends. He invests Rs 4,000 alone in his bus fare to and fro per month. The rest goes to his children’s education and daily essentials.

“My son is often thrown out of school because most of the times I am not able to pay for his education,” says Haneef, sitting beside his 12-year-old son, Faizan. “People might judge me for wearing decent clothes and think I am doing fine in my life but only Allah knows my plight.”

His repeated pleas for official help based on his qualification have so far fallen on deaf ears. “I approached advisor to governor, who referred my file to Secretary social welfare, Dr. Farooq. Then he transferred the file to Commissioner Disability, Iqbal Lone. The file was finally sent to Jammu and Kashmir Bank chairman, Parvez Ahmad. Since then I don’t know what happened to it,” Haneef says.

He wants to visit Jammu to plead for his case, but lacks travel expenses.
“We don’t have a system in place here otherwise things could have been easy for people like me,” he says. “Some ten years back, Composed Regional Center promised to set up a school for disabled persons in the valley, but it’s still nowhere. Whenever some minister visits the place where it was to be set up, they call us and tell us to register ourselves. This has been going for since a long but nothing is happening. They limit everything to papers and never want to work practically. They have got the funds but no one knows where those funds have gone.”

Fighting for the welfare of his tribe in Kashmir, Haneef says that there should be at least a school in every district for specially-abled persons, so that they can continue their education and achieve their desired goals. “Also,” he asserts, “there should be workshops where people like us can enhance our skills and work for ourselves and earn a decent living.”

For his sheer ability to fight the dark world, rather than becoming its victim, Haneef Malik has today become an embodiment of courage and hope. Fighting darkness is what he calls the guiding light of his life.

Wednesday 13 March 2019

The Day a Snooker Club in Srinagar Turned Into Debate Central


This commentary piece first appeared in The Wire's Live Wire on March 12, 2019.

https://livewire.thewire.in/personal/the-day-a-snooker-club-in-srinagar-turned-into-debate-central/

By Sheikh Saqib

People in Kashmir often say: “Better to die once and for all.”

The phrase is a sobering reminder of what ordinary people in Kashmir Valley underwent – and continue to – in the aftermath of the February 14 Pulwama attack in which more than 40 Indian CRPF soldiers lost their lives.

Amidst the additional deployment of thousands of soldiers in the Valley, the arrest of more than 150 Jamaat-e-Islami and other separatists, the authorities ordering hospitals to stock up with medicines and for immediately rationing petroleum products, a palpable sense of dread and confusion pervaded in Kashmir for weeks following the attack.

Was India preparing to go to war with Pakistan, or were they both just playing mind games?

Nobody was quite sure.

One day, at a nondescript snooker club on the outskirts of Srinagar, more than 20 of us gathered to share the latest information we’d come across on our WhatsApp and Telegram groups.

Gripped by panic, we settled down to discuss the recent developments taking shape in Kashmir and what the future could hold.

The snooker club transformed into a debate club that day.

Some of us sat on a long wooden table, some leaned against window sills, while others simply stood. The snooker balls lay scattered on the table in front of us. Nobody wanted to play.

The club – which is usually a raucous affair – wore an unusually quiet look.

A friend started off, saying, “Jets have been flying over us ever since last night; even thunderclaps sound like them! I think India and Pakistan will go to war.”

Disagreeing, another boy sitting next to me retorted, “They’re just creating war hysteria; they can’t go to war during the election season. It’s all about politics in Kashmir.”

“But whatever they’re doing, it’s stripping us of our sanity,” he added.

The seriousness in the hall precluded any frivolity. No one could help but think about the worsening situation around.

Suddenly, the door flew open and Faisal entered. Having just returned from a tuition class, he proceeded to inform us that the shops in town were closing down in protest against the spree of arrests carried out the night before.

More so, a huge caravan of busses had assembled at the city centre, leading to further confusion and half-baked presumptions.

“See? I told you something big is going down. It must be war!” exclaimed one of the boys.

“What’s going to happen now? Are we the next Afghanistan in the making?” remarked another boy standing in the back of the room.

“Yes, but why even bother panicking? Let them finish us once and for all; we’re fed up of dealing with the daily mental and physical violence. Let them bomb us all! Better dead than to live with haunted memories every day,” snapped the most calm and composed member of the group uncharacteristically.

“What kind of life is this? We’ve grown up burying coffins, seeing tears, bloodshed and violence. I wish I’d been born elsewhere – someplace peaceful. Is this the beauty they talk about? Don’t we have the right to live a peaceful life? To hell with those in the seats of power who are unwilling to initiate dialogue and make any effort towards resolving the dispute here,” he said.

Everyone in the room nodded their heads in agreement while listening intently.
“Every day is about cordon, search operations and houses being razed to the ground. This is worse than hell,” he continued. “We’re neither safe in our homes nor anywhere else,” he said, referring to the recent harassment of Kashmiri students in different parts of the country.

That day, I saw my compatriots willing to die rather than to live in what everyone else, barring them, calls ‘paradise on Earth’.

Following a short pause, Faisal’s phone rang. He picked it up with utmost conventionality.

“Every time it’s the same: ‘come home soon’,” said Faisal, defeatedly responding to his mother’s call of concern.

“It’s the same with all of us,” shot back another youngster who sat upon the wooden table.

“See, the government has to understand that politics is not all about the rituals of elections, political campaigning and trumpeting its own successes to score points. There should be an environment of debate, discussion and dialogue in a peaceful setting, yet here they are: bulldozing our right to think or have ideas different than theirs. They don’t understand the value of human life and are clearly more concerned about cattle and their sheds,” Faisal said.

“Look at students our age outside Kashmir. They’re passionate about what they do and aspire to do something with their lives. What do we have? Internet shutdowns, power cuts and water cuts… What wrong have we done to deserve this?”

Another boy chimed in: “We are trapped in a cycle where they [regional and national politicians] do their dirty politics at the expense of innocent lives. Have a look around – we’re so inescapably chained to this game of politics. Schools, universities, marriage functions, picnic spots and other events and locations have all been co-opted as spaces of political deliberation. I see kids no older than 12-years-old discussing India, Pakistan and Kashmir in my school. Where are we heading? We even have people turning to drugs as a result of being constantly stressed about the political situation.”

Before we could just carry on the discussion, the sky outside had already turned dark. It was already close to seven in the evening, and time to make our way home.

As we stood to leave, Faisal offered a few last words: “It’s an achievement itself that we’re still sensible and maintain ourselves with dignity even after being constantly stressed – stressed about yesterday, today and tomorrow.”

The cue sticks would have to wait for another day to be picked up again.