Peace is Relative: A piece from privilege
June 2nd, 2019
Having always lived and traveled(somewhat) in some part of India, the same place(Kashmir) for the most of it, whenever I have shared a conversation and introduced myself to another person and it has so happened that I’ve brought up the name of my native place, the response is seldom dull. In such a large country, with such a wide range of beliefs and ideologies, you can only guess how the other person is going to react, however, we(koshur) have developed our own kind of sixth sense that does tell us when its best to shut up and when its okay to open up; Khaki uniforms, mauli threads and handlebar mustaches do unnerve us enough to make us tread carefully, still sometimes, our spectacular noses and skin do give us away. Almost always the person asks about the current situation back home, whether it is currently safe? Since the situation is never OK, but always ‘safe’, I reply exactly so. Then comes the question of — rather assumption of whether my home happens to be at a safe distance from the border, to this I go into explaining and reassuring how it is indeed. The conversation continues, and somehow, by one way or another, we both agree on how everything is the government’s(both sides) fault and how china wants the world to go to hell and how it is always the commoner who is ground at, from both sides . The reason for our agreement is because: Yes, the failure is wholly due to our governments not cooperating, and middle-men(you-don’t-know-who) trying to get rich in between — keeping the pot boiling.
While talking to old friends, and the topic moves to the current situation, I always make it a point to say how despite everything, Kashmir has been a great place to grow up and still is, though only till the age of 14 or 15; because that is how it has been for us. People of my age-group, those born in the early 90’s, were born right in the belly of the beast when it had really started going to hell. Luckily for us, we don’t remember any of it, except in the form of some random sentences about random bomb-blasts, mentions of random houses belonging to some random pandit family, random crackdowns, random interrogation centers with absolutely absurd names. Things probably started cooling down in the early 2000s(or they didn’t because we just didn’t understand) and then remained that way until a few(read eight) years later. In most societies, early teenage is considered to be the time when you can either make or unmake yourself, its when you’re starting to become aware of your surroundings, of other people; of their caste, creed, race, religion, and colour. For us, the coming of both conflict, and awareness, was coincidental.
The whole period must have been frustrating for all of us, see, on one hand, we had grown up in schools following a pan-India curriculum; we had memorized throughout our education that India had 28 states(then), we had grown up reading about all the different cultures, remembering the different dances and folk-dress of various cultures. We read about Holi, Pongal and Onam, looking at pictures of people shooting colour-filled pichkaris at each other, long-boat races and people making jaggery during Baisakhi. But then, we couldn’t relate to any of these festivals, nor understand them, just because of the stark difference in demography and tradition, between Kashmir and the rest of India. Our history books never mentioned how Kashmir was never a part of India to begin with, how its people were always trodden by one or another ruler, they don’t talk of the exiled King — whose nightingale can still be heard wailing, in the mountains or on Radio Kashmir on autumn Sunday. It never mentioned of how the people were simply bought off, like goats, from one tormentor to another. It just said one sentence about our status as a princely state; never even fully telling us what that meant. And on the other hand, we had students, seniors mostly at that time — refusing to stand still for the national anthem, and demanding the right to pray the congregational prayers in school. Seeing thousands of people marching on the street would confuse me, and I would wonder what for did they suddenly want freedom, didn’t we already ‘get’ it in 1947. And when finally, did understand, I felt cheated. Although still unsure, who it really was that had deceived us.
I remember how one day, even I got to leave the valley, to get out of here and live on my own. Everybody had all sorts of advice and questions to give. Mostly about not revealing immediately of my cursed origin. And cricket. To stay away from wherever cricket was played! mentioned! or watched! Luckily, I was never interested in the game at all. But to be honest, my family's’ fears were exaggerated and uncalled-for at that time.
News media wasn’t as aggressive then as it is today, there weren’t as many stories, either about army jawans dying in Kashmir; killed by the very people they were defending, and or about the jawan people dying in Kashmir; killed by forces who were there for their own ‘security’. Or maybe it(fear) wasn’t(exaggerated), because they knew how quickly things can change.
But that’s how it is with all things, things change so quickly that you cannot keep track of them. And all these changes are so slow and gradual, you cannot even see it happening, right in front of you. The same people I would share and exchange bread, endless smokes, deep conversations and perspectives with have now aligned themselves in completely new directions. The conversations have become shallower. And strained. I sense a tension in my friend’s voice from trying to restrain his speech, and I know that it is there in my voice as well. The differences that we had laughed at and were nowhere in sight have come up like mountains, like the very Pir Panjals that stand between us.
Since that time, leaving home and coming back, and now preparing to leave it again; I have seen most of the colours of this small valley. From the budding of leaves in spring to their full growth in summer, and then their graying and death in autumn, to a complete stupor in winter. I have seen happy smiles of all those people, who come to experience this little heaven and the tears of all those who cannot figure out why we cannot be left alone. I have come to realize that we cannot have peace, at-least any dictionary definition of it; things will most probably get better, but it is just as likely that they will get worse, and we won’t know what’s coming until the exact day of reckoning comes. But whatever happens, let's just hope that as long as we mind our own business, and try to live out our lives to our best, we still get to sit in our homes, and be at peace.
