THE POWER OF AN IDEA
They are driven by curiosity and armed with creativity. From harnessing everything from the sun to the ground below, Majid Maqbool reports on Kashmiris who are inspired by the belief that one bright idea can change their world.
Creative Twins:
Refaz Ahmad Wani and Ishfaq Ahmad Wani, 17-year-old twin brothers, are unlike other youngsters in their neighborhood. They look alike, think differently, and work together as a team. Fascinated by innovative ideas since childhood, the inquisitive brothers always wanted to make new things. Hailing from the remote Wandewalgam village in Kokernag town of south Kashmir, some 80 kms away from Srinagar, the twins have more than fifteen innovations to their credit.
Refaz and Ishfaq were awarded for their innovations by the National Innovations Foundation (NIF) recently, at an event held at the Indian Institute of Management, Ahmedabad. While giving away the award to the twins, former president APJ Abdul Kalam called them “creative twins.” The brothers study in 11th in a government high school.
Out of the total 4104 entries received from across India, NIF shortlisted 32 entries, and finally 23 innovations were awarded. NIF had received 160 entries from J&K, and only the twin innovations of Refaz and Ishfaq won the award from the state. They stood second at the all-India level in the high school category.
When the twin brothers arrived at IIM to receive the award, they were delighted to see one of their innovations—the two-in-one spade and hoe—manufactured by an Ahmadabad-based company. Their innovation was presented to them at the event. The two-in-one spade and hoe, they have been told, is ready to make a debut in the market. The brothers say this concept came to them when they went shopping for a spade and a hoe that they needed in their field. “We had to buy a spade and a hoe from the market and it cost us Rs 1000,” says Ishfaq. “And when we were working in the field, we thought of making a two-in-one spade and hoe which is easy to carry around and also saves the cost of buying two items,” says Ishfaq.
Another award winning innovation made by the brothers is a foldable water bottle. Its size can be reduced by folding it in, based on how much water is left in the bottle. Additionally, the brothers have come up with several other innovations in the past which have been accepted and registered at the National Innovation Foundation (NIF), Ahmadabad.
As young children, Ishfaq and Refaz would make mud sculptures of animals and birds. One day, when they were in 5th standard, they saw a JCB vehicle on the road outside their home. Fascinated, they wanted to make a similar model at home.
“We thought of making one at home but since we didn’t have the required material, we made a mini model out of clay,” says Ishfaq. “Then we made it using wood as it was readily available and inserted some springs in the model,” recollects Refaz. It took them twelve days to make a wooden road roller.
With maturity came creativity, and their experiments continued.
Ishfaq and Refaz say their parents have been incredibly supportive. Their father, a vegetable seller in Jammu, is a diabetic. The news of his sons being awarded brought him some relief. “Whatever he earns is spent on his treatment there,” says the mother of twin brothers. “We have to depend on our relatives to run our home,” she says. The brothers, aware of their financial limitations, are worried about their father. Their innovations have not yet yielded monetary gains. They want to come up with more innovations, with the hopes that it will support their family financially.
Some of their innovations that have already been registered by NIF include an injection breaker, apple catcher and clipper, easy meat cutter, a geometrical pen, bread thrower, egg breaker, and a lighting pen. The brothers say they created these and other innovations based on the need for them, and they believe their creations are beneficial for all people. “The injection breaker idea came when I went to a medical shop for an injection. I saw that when they would break the injection, the glass would fall on the floor and it could even injure people,” says Refaz. “When I came back, I shared the idea with my bother and we started working on the injection breaker,” he says. “It can be a useful device for doctors and nurses,” says Ishfaq.
Similarly, the idea of an apple catcher and clipper struck them when they had gone to a nearby apple orchard in their village. They saw people struggling to bring down apples from distant branches. At their home, they brainstormed about the idea of making an apple catcher and clipper to solve this problem. “Our apple catcher and clipper has a long stick and a clipper which can pluck apples from even distant branches, which cannot be otherwise reached by hand,” explains Ishfaq. “When the apple is clipped, instead of falling down, it falls in a pouch which is attached to the apple catcher,” he says.
The enthusiasm for doing something different has also rubbed off on their sister Runcy Jan, also studying in 11th. Last year, when Runcy was washing dishes one day in the kitchen, an idea of making a plate washing machine came to her. She shared it with her brothers. “She told us that she wants to make a machine which can wash dishes, and then we helped her to make a model which has been accepted by NIF as well,” says Ishfaq. “But it needs money to make the machine,” Refaz points out.
The brothers have converted a store in the second storey of their modest home into a small science lab. It’s filled with used electrical devices and other locally acquired equipment. All their certificates, clay and wooden models made over the years, and their paintings are on display in this room. They have named it “Science Innovation Club.” On the door hangs a simple white paper, with these words written on it: “Welcome to my life!” Whenever a new idea strikes them, they start working on it in their humble science club.
The brothers say they’re upset that they’re studying arts subjects, when all they really want to study is science. They hope they will be allowed to study science in 12th next year. “We didn’t get any support from our state government,” says Refaz. “Even our school is unaware of the award we recently received. Some teachers even discourage us from asking questions,” says Ishfaq.
The brothers are hoping to develop their Science Innovation Club into a learning center for other children who are interested in making innovations. “If this club is registered and the government helps us with funds, we could encourage many other students to come up with innovations,” says Refaz. “We want to help students who are interested in practical science and innovative ideas,” adds Ishfaq.
The brothers say they have many innovative ideas which they want to work on in future. “We have 71 innovative ideas in our files, and out of them, we have sent 37 ideas to NIF for reference and registration,” says Refaz. “The scientists at NIF often tell us that the ideas that come from us are excellent,” quips Ishfaq.
Despite their poverty, the inquisitive brothers are rich in ideas. They’re driven by a passion to do something different. New ideas come to them all the time; sometimes, in the middle of the night. “When a new idea comes, we work hard on its execution in our science club,” says Refaz. “We look at the market viability of the innovation and how it can be beneficial to people,” he says with maturity. “As we grow up, more ideas will come to us,” says Ishfaq.
Methane-Collecting Dairy Farm:
A few years ago, Zulfqarul Haq—who is presently pursuing his Masters’ in veterinary from the college of veterinary science, MHOW in Indore—came up with an innovative idea of a “methane collecting dairy farm” to reduce the greenhouse effect. His proposed dairy farm can collect methane burped by cattle. Each cattle burps about 250 - 500 liters of methane per day, which is 25 percent more potent than carbon dioxide in trapping atmospheric heat, a cause of worry as far as global warming is concerned.
“This hypothesis is given on a scientific basis, using chemical properties of methane,” says Haq. “I attempted to establish new ideas to reduce methane, which has caused an alarming concern.”
The heat-trapping gas could dramatically accelerate global warming. The dairy farm has two phases, closed phases and open phases. “It is closed when methane production reaches peak level (2-3 hours after feeding). Animals respire through specially designed Tobin tubes open at their manger. The rest of the dairy farm is kept open as usual,” says Haq.
As methane is lighter than air, he explains, methane will rise up and will be sucked by a pump and deposited in the methane collecting chamber which is surrounded by liquid nitrogen, to provide critical temperature for methane and critical pressures is applied. “Air will not liquefy as its critical temperature and pressure are not attained. Thus the collected methane will be used as fuel to meet the energy crisis and also reduce green house effect,” he says.
Zulfiqar presented the methane collecting dairy farm hypothesis at the Annual Conference and National Symposium of IAAVR (Indian Association for Advancement of Veterinary Research) early this year in Jaipur, where he awarded a certificate of merit for the best innovative idea.
Recently, Zulfiqar also stood first in his university and third at an all-India level competition of Vetoquinol Vijeta champ, which was organized by Vetoquinol India across 20 renowned veterinary colleges of India.
Unsung Innovator:
When Abid Hussain Nagoo was 12, he would work as a mechanic after school and repair tippers in Athwajan. His father was a daily wager and Abid needed to financially support his family. Fiddling with things came naturally to him. After dropping out of school in 11th, Abid started experimenting with electrical devices and other spare parts at his home in Rainawari. And before he knew it, Abid, now 26, was on his way to becoming an innovator.
As a kid, Abid was fascinated by how solar-powered calculators would work. “I became interested in things that work on solar energy,” he says. Soon after dropping out of school, he made a small solar lantern, which he later sold to a roadside hawker. “I pulled out the base of kerosene lantern and instead placed a battery and a nine volt bulb,” he says. Soon, he started making solar lanterns.
Abid wanted to explore the market for his handmade solar lanterns. He went to Khayam and placed his handmade solar lantern inside a store. “The store owner started asking about how I made this lantern and if he can buy one,” says Abid. But Abid sold it to a roadside hawker for Rs. 500. “I gave it to him since he sold things on the roadside, and the lantern would be seen by many people,” says Abid. Some days later, the same hawker approached Abid, asking him to make more lanterns. The hawker now wanted to sell his handmade solar lanterns. “I asked a friend for some money to buy some kerosene lanterns,” says Abid. Then I converted them into solar lanterns at home,” he says. “I made ten lanterns in two nights, and all of them were sold by that hawker in one day.”
Abid has come up with around 15 innovations since then, including a high intensity solar light, a mini solar inverter which can give a six hour backup. “I have also made a high pressure air blower, which can be used on roads to clear heavy stones,” says Abid. He is also working on a solar water purifier, which will convert dirty water into drinkable water.
Abid does not have a regular job. He earns his living by repairing streets lights for the tourism department and installing solar lighting systems at homes. “I approached the bank for a loan to set up my own workshop and I also applied for many government schemes but no one helped me,” laments Abid.
Abid claims that he is the only person who can repair the solar power plant in Kashmir. “In government departments here, there are employees who take huge salaries, but they don’t even know the difference between a diode and resistance,” he says. The government departments often approach him whenever there is any technical fault in big electrical and solar devices which their employees are unable to repair.
Abid is bitter about the fact that one of his innovative ideas was stolen from him by an engineer he knew. He says he had come up with the idea of an electric jacket three years ago, which he had subsequently submitted in the USIC department of Kashmir University in 2009. “But that engineer stole the idea from me,” says Abid. “He approached me once and told me that in winters one can’t travel on a bike, and I told him that I have made an electric jacket that can keep the biker warm,” says Abid.
“Then he told me to develop it and I made the jacket in three days and showed it to him, but later I read in newspapers that he is claiming to have made the electric jacket which is not true,” says Abid who holds the university responsible for the theft of his idea. “My jacket was lying in the university for two years and they didn’t bring it in the market,” he says. “That man is now bringing the jacket to the market in his name, but he knows that it was my idea which he stole,” adds Abid.
Although disappointed by the theft of his innovation, Abid has not stopped working on other innovations. He is presently at work on a solar shikara, which will run on solar batteries. The idea came to him when he was sent by the tourism department to install solar lights at Char Chinar in Dal Lake. “An old man was rowing the shikara I was in. I saw him struggling for one and a half hour from the Nehru Park area to reach the Char Chinar,” says Abid. “Then I thought, why can’t we have a solar shikara that will be powered by solar batteries? It will save both energy and time,” he says.
In the backyard of his Rainawari residence, Abid started working on the concept. He had to buy equipment from Delhi, spending money from his own pocket. “I also hired a shikara on rent for a couple of days to test drive it on solar light,” he says. Once the solar shikara is functional, Abid says it will take only 15 minutes to reach Char Chinar from Nehru Park. “But I needs money to buy motors and others equipment,” he says. “I wish I had a lot of money to buy all these equipment.”
Abid has received recognition from USIC department of Kashmir University, and he has been sent several letters from the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research in New Delhi. However, Abid says no financial help came his way. He was not provided any employment, either. “The government science departments from Delhi would write in their letters that they will financially support my innovations only if I send them documents like a work plan and test certificates,” he says. “But who will give me a test certificate here?” He says the paperwork should have been done by the university itself, as he had registered his innovations with them. “Most of my innovations are gathering dust in the university,” he says. “But nothing is done to bring them to the market.”
Abid remembers calling the director of a scientific research institute in Delhi once last year. Since some of his innovations were registered with them, he wanted to know about their progress. “Abid, aap pehlay wahan pathrav khatam karo, phir dekhengay,” the director told him, and hung up.
“At times I feel had we been with China, we would have progressed,” says Abid. “They would surely valu skilled people like us,” he says. “India only wants to exploit grassroot innovators of Kashmir and exploit our innovations in their market without giving any benefit to the Kashmiri innovators,” he says.
No Support:
Prof. G. Mohiuddin Bhat, the Director of University Science Instrumentation Centre (USIC) in Kashmir University, says the state government is not yet sensitized about our grassroots innovators who are in need of financial support for their innovations. “Several times, I have met ministers and even the Chief Minister in this regard, but nothing happened on the ground, despite their promises,” he says.
Prof. Bhat says 80 percent of innovators that come to their centre are from rural areas. “I see innovators who are mostly poor people, and they come up with their innovations to solve problems they face in rural areas,” he says. Bhat says in USIC, since 2008, they have patented more than 20 innovations coming from grassroots innovators, and four of them were awarded.
He says the state government should come forward with a detailed program to financially support Kashmiri innovators. “The central agencies take time to release funds and there is a lot of delay and paper work involved,” he says.
Researchers say local innovators require state government support as only one institute at the university is not enough to cater to the increasing number of grassroots innovators emerging from the valley. “Unemployment is rising. These innovators are coming up with new ideas. The government should recognize them. They should help them in reaching out to the market as these innovators cannot do it on their own,” says S. Fayaz Ahmad, a researcher and author of the book “Unsung Innovators of Kashmir” that was published this year. The book profiles grassroots innovators from across the valley.
Fayaz says the patent system is not proving to be beneficial for Kashmir’s grassroots innovators. “The patent concept works for bigger corporations and will not benefit our grassroots innovators,” he says. “Also when you get a patent, you have to maintain the patent and for that they have to pay a regular fee which these innovators can’t afford.” He says instead of patent system, there should be a reward system for local innovators. “The state government should recognize these innovators and take their innovation to the market,” says Fayaz.
Innovators, he says, should be allowed to explore their local market first, as their innovations are essentially created keeping in mind their local needs and concerns. “They didn’t come up with innovations so that they will be taken outside the state and exploited in other markets,” says Fayaz. “And even if their innovation is exploited in markets outside the state, the actual benefit should come to the local innovator, but that is not happening at present,” he points out.
(Originally published as cover story in Kashmir Life news magazine)
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Winter
Winter
A cold wave spreads over frozen lakes
foggy streets heave
with disappeared people
Unrecognized soldiers struggle to resist
biting cold, that enters, unchecked
between gaps of sandbag bunkers.
The promise of summer
Arrested in a long, harsh winter
Occupied by colder nights
Brief days; imprisoned sunshine
longing to breakaway, and pierce
the dark vigil that looms over a city
struggling to breathe freely.
In the winters of captivity
People wait…awake
In labored, visible breaths
for the end of curfewed nights.
“…till the soldiers return the keys
and disappear.
By Majid Maqbool
A cold wave spreads over frozen lakes
foggy streets heave
with disappeared people
Unrecognized soldiers struggle to resist
biting cold, that enters, unchecked
between gaps of sandbag bunkers.
The promise of summer
Arrested in a long, harsh winter
Occupied by colder nights
Brief days; imprisoned sunshine
longing to breakaway, and pierce
the dark vigil that looms over a city
struggling to breathe freely.
In the winters of captivity
People wait…awake
In labored, visible breaths
for the end of curfewed nights.
“…till the soldiers return the keys
and disappear.
By Majid Maqbool
Friday, April 8, 2011
A call from home
A call from home
“Card chukha seath thavaan?”
(Do you carry the ID card with you?)
Mother worries over frequent phone calls
Away from home, home enters questions
‘Identity’ printed on a piece of paper
cuts through her voice; a discomforting lullaby:
“Card gase hamashe seath thavun”
(always carry the ID card with you)
Home leaves a permanent imprint…
On scattered notes, stamped on memories
At home, mother would tiptoe after me
At the door, before endless blessings, she always asked -
That question mothers have for their sons -
“Card tultha seath?”
(are you carrying your ID card?)
From Delhi now, your question settles on my unrest
Identity – detached from the card – hangs heavy
This is not Kashmir, mother
“Toete gase card seath thavun…. “
(Still you must carry the card with you...)
The line dropped on this insistence
I kept redialing, to rest her concerns,
her unfinished questions, unanswered
Hello..heloo… mother
Can you hear me?
I left the card at home, mother
In the back pocket of my worn-out jeans
Find: a fading photograph, scrutinized edges
And no trace of those unrecognized questions
forever inked on my memory
For troops to question my absence
The proof I left behind is not enough
That frisked ID card remains
like a festering wound, pocketed pain
I carry everywhere
By Majid Maqbool
“Card chukha seath thavaan?”
(Do you carry the ID card with you?)
Mother worries over frequent phone calls
Away from home, home enters questions
‘Identity’ printed on a piece of paper
cuts through her voice; a discomforting lullaby:
“Card gase hamashe seath thavun”
(always carry the ID card with you)
Home leaves a permanent imprint…
On scattered notes, stamped on memories
At home, mother would tiptoe after me
At the door, before endless blessings, she always asked -
That question mothers have for their sons -
“Card tultha seath?”
(are you carrying your ID card?)
From Delhi now, your question settles on my unrest
Identity – detached from the card – hangs heavy
This is not Kashmir, mother
“Toete gase card seath thavun…. “
(Still you must carry the card with you...)
The line dropped on this insistence
I kept redialing, to rest her concerns,
her unfinished questions, unanswered
Hello..heloo… mother
Can you hear me?
I left the card at home, mother
In the back pocket of my worn-out jeans
Find: a fading photograph, scrutinized edges
And no trace of those unrecognized questions
forever inked on my memory
For troops to question my absence
The proof I left behind is not enough
That frisked ID card remains
like a festering wound, pocketed pain
I carry everywhere
By Majid Maqbool
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Tortured in custody
Ten days of torture
For Altaf Hussain the year 1994 is a painful memory of 10 days of torture. Sixteen years ago Altaf was subjected to torture for 10 days in a BSF camp in Handwara. Now a father of a two-year old son, Altaf is in his mid 30s and spots a medium sized beard. The unforgettable memories of those torturous 10 days haunt him to this day: the humiliation of everyday stripping, frequent beating, of being hung upside down, electric shocks to private parts, and that unbearable pain every time his finger nail was pulled out.
Altaf was a 16-year old vivacious teenager in 1994. After successfully passing his 10th standard board exams, that year he had dreams of a better future. He had made plans to move to the Srinagar city to pursue further education. However, one day would change the rest of his life.
One morning in the summer of 1994 he found himself dragged out of his home by BSF troopers from a nearby camp in Handwara. Along with a few more boys from his locality, Altaf was taken to a BSF camp located in his village. Then the torture began in custody.
“They wanted to know about the whereabouts of the militants in our area,” he says. “But I knew nothing about it”. Altaf kept telling them that he’s innocent and knows nothing about the whereabouts of the militants they had spotted in the village. The BSF troopers began torturing him to extract some information. But Altaf repeated the same thing. “From day one I told them that they can’t get any information from me as I know nothing,” he says.
The pain in Altaf’s voice comes through as he recalls those 10 days of torture. He points at different spots on his body where wires would be attached for giving electric shocks. The few minutes before the electric shocks were applied were the most frightening. Beyond a point, when the torture became unbearable, Altaf says he at times felt no pain, only a numbing sensation.
Like a testimony of his painful past, the torture marks are still visible on his body. “Besides beating, they would pull out the skin from sensitive spots of body,” he says while showing torture marks on his fingers. Small patch of pale skin has come to replace the skin pulled out during torture. All over his body the torture marks have not disappeared completely, only aged with years. The memories of those 10 days, he says, are as fresh as yesterday. He can never forget those 10 days.
Altaf remembers the minute details, the small talk, the jokes his captors would make about his miserable condition while he writhed in pain on the floor at the end of a torturous day in custody. Altaf particularly recalls a day when he was separated from other boys, and taken to another room, where some food had been specially kept for him on a table. After he had food that day, the reason for this special treatment became evident. A BSF trooper went up to him, and asked, “Tell me how many girl friends you have?”. When Altaf said he had none, the trooper didn’t believe him, and said he was lying. One of the BSF troopers, who was particularly friendly towards him that day, then asked Altaf to arrange some ‘girl friends’ for him. In return, Altaf was promised a quick release from the camp.
Altaf says he lost his cool at that moment and flew into a rage. For declining the offer he received a severe beating for many hours that day. “Kash bea easehe paez peath militant, beae lagvehae temes goel,” he says angrily. (I wish I had a gun that time, I wish I was a militant, I would have shot him there only)
Altaf says during those 10 days of interrogation inside the BSF camp, he kept repeating the same thing to the BSF troopers who were torturing him — that he was innocent and knew nothing about the whereabouts of the militants. After they failed to get any information from him despite days of torture, Altaf recalls some of the BSF troopers grudgingly acknowledging his truth, and calling him, “yae jo sach bolta hai, is ladko ko idhar laeo (get this boys here who speaks the truth.)
When the BSF troopers failed to extract any information from Altaf, he was dropped in a half conscious state on the roadside after ten days in custody. The family couldn’t believe that he was still alive. “Some of the boys who were arrested with me were found near a stream,” he recalls.
Altaf says some 74 boys from his native village in Handwara have been killed in fake encounters, enforced disappearances and targeted killings over the years by the troopers. Four of them, he says, crossed the border and were killed in encounters after they returned.
Altaf was bed ridden for over a month after his release. He says he is yet to reconcile with those torturous memories that keep haunting him. He eventually went on to become a forest range officer. The physical and mental scars of torture, however, are yet to heal.
Altaf says he had difficulty at the time of his marriage as the electric applied to his private organs during those 10 days of torture had an adverse impact on his health. Doctors had told him to take some time and delay marriage for some years as the torture had taken a toll on his sexual health. “I had to delay my marriage for a few years to recover fully,” he says. “It was a very painful phase for me as I couldn’t share my pain with family and friends.”
Altaf doesn’t want to hide his past from his children. “When my son will be a teenager, I will tell him what the Indian soldiers did to me when I was a teenager,” he says. He doesn’t want to forget his past. Forgetfulness is more painful for him.
Every today when Altaf encounters an Indian soldier on the street, he shudders and immediately takes a detour. This fear is compounded by the memories of his torture. The sight of an Indian trooper, or even a police man, he says sends shivers down his spine. “Even when I see a Kashmiri policeman on the road, I get to see frightening nightmares,” he says. “And all those memories of 10 days of torture rush back as flashes in front of my eyes.”
For Altaf Hussain the year 1994 is a painful memory of 10 days of torture. Sixteen years ago Altaf was subjected to torture for 10 days in a BSF camp in Handwara. Now a father of a two-year old son, Altaf is in his mid 30s and spots a medium sized beard. The unforgettable memories of those torturous 10 days haunt him to this day: the humiliation of everyday stripping, frequent beating, of being hung upside down, electric shocks to private parts, and that unbearable pain every time his finger nail was pulled out.
Altaf was a 16-year old vivacious teenager in 1994. After successfully passing his 10th standard board exams, that year he had dreams of a better future. He had made plans to move to the Srinagar city to pursue further education. However, one day would change the rest of his life.
One morning in the summer of 1994 he found himself dragged out of his home by BSF troopers from a nearby camp in Handwara. Along with a few more boys from his locality, Altaf was taken to a BSF camp located in his village. Then the torture began in custody.
“They wanted to know about the whereabouts of the militants in our area,” he says. “But I knew nothing about it”. Altaf kept telling them that he’s innocent and knows nothing about the whereabouts of the militants they had spotted in the village. The BSF troopers began torturing him to extract some information. But Altaf repeated the same thing. “From day one I told them that they can’t get any information from me as I know nothing,” he says.
The pain in Altaf’s voice comes through as he recalls those 10 days of torture. He points at different spots on his body where wires would be attached for giving electric shocks. The few minutes before the electric shocks were applied were the most frightening. Beyond a point, when the torture became unbearable, Altaf says he at times felt no pain, only a numbing sensation.
Like a testimony of his painful past, the torture marks are still visible on his body. “Besides beating, they would pull out the skin from sensitive spots of body,” he says while showing torture marks on his fingers. Small patch of pale skin has come to replace the skin pulled out during torture. All over his body the torture marks have not disappeared completely, only aged with years. The memories of those 10 days, he says, are as fresh as yesterday. He can never forget those 10 days.
Altaf remembers the minute details, the small talk, the jokes his captors would make about his miserable condition while he writhed in pain on the floor at the end of a torturous day in custody. Altaf particularly recalls a day when he was separated from other boys, and taken to another room, where some food had been specially kept for him on a table. After he had food that day, the reason for this special treatment became evident. A BSF trooper went up to him, and asked, “Tell me how many girl friends you have?”. When Altaf said he had none, the trooper didn’t believe him, and said he was lying. One of the BSF troopers, who was particularly friendly towards him that day, then asked Altaf to arrange some ‘girl friends’ for him. In return, Altaf was promised a quick release from the camp.
Altaf says he lost his cool at that moment and flew into a rage. For declining the offer he received a severe beating for many hours that day. “Kash bea easehe paez peath militant, beae lagvehae temes goel,” he says angrily. (I wish I had a gun that time, I wish I was a militant, I would have shot him there only)
Altaf says during those 10 days of interrogation inside the BSF camp, he kept repeating the same thing to the BSF troopers who were torturing him — that he was innocent and knew nothing about the whereabouts of the militants. After they failed to get any information from him despite days of torture, Altaf recalls some of the BSF troopers grudgingly acknowledging his truth, and calling him, “yae jo sach bolta hai, is ladko ko idhar laeo (get this boys here who speaks the truth.)
When the BSF troopers failed to extract any information from Altaf, he was dropped in a half conscious state on the roadside after ten days in custody. The family couldn’t believe that he was still alive. “Some of the boys who were arrested with me were found near a stream,” he recalls.
Altaf says some 74 boys from his native village in Handwara have been killed in fake encounters, enforced disappearances and targeted killings over the years by the troopers. Four of them, he says, crossed the border and were killed in encounters after they returned.
Altaf was bed ridden for over a month after his release. He says he is yet to reconcile with those torturous memories that keep haunting him. He eventually went on to become a forest range officer. The physical and mental scars of torture, however, are yet to heal.
Altaf says he had difficulty at the time of his marriage as the electric applied to his private organs during those 10 days of torture had an adverse impact on his health. Doctors had told him to take some time and delay marriage for some years as the torture had taken a toll on his sexual health. “I had to delay my marriage for a few years to recover fully,” he says. “It was a very painful phase for me as I couldn’t share my pain with family and friends.”
Altaf doesn’t want to hide his past from his children. “When my son will be a teenager, I will tell him what the Indian soldiers did to me when I was a teenager,” he says. He doesn’t want to forget his past. Forgetfulness is more painful for him.
Every today when Altaf encounters an Indian soldier on the street, he shudders and immediately takes a detour. This fear is compounded by the memories of his torture. The sight of an Indian trooper, or even a police man, he says sends shivers down his spine. “Even when I see a Kashmiri policeman on the road, I get to see frightening nightmares,” he says. “And all those memories of 10 days of torture rush back as flashes in front of my eyes.”
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Kashmir Protests
Kashmir Protests
By Majid Maqbool
Over fifty people have been killed in the streets of Kashmir since June 11, this year. Strictly imposed indefinite curfews with “shoot at sight” orders have failed to prevent people braving bullets, teargas shells, and batons on the streets. Protests have become a way of life. The military might of the state, strengthened by additional forces, kills with impunity. But the unarmed people of Kashmir, armed with slogans and stones in their hands, continue to protest day and night. Bullets no longer scare people now. The more bullets CRPF troops and police fire on the protesters, the more courage and strength people summon to resist.
People momentarily disperse after being fired at on the streets, only to reappear again, and protest more forcefully. The imposed silence of curfewed days and nights is broken by the constant cries of the protesters: “Awazan do, hum ek hain ….aye .. aye ..azadi..cheen kay laygain, azaadi!…Roe rahe hai yae zameen, ro raha hai asamaan..…ae shaheedo asalaam…jis Kashmir ko khoon say sincha, woe Kashmir hamara hai….” If the protest collapses from one quarter, others pick up the thread. All these slogans and protests have seeped into the dreams of children. They don’t have school on their minds. Even the kindergarten kids know how to lisp the rhyme: “Hum kya chatay?” Ajaadi!
From the loudspeakers of Kashmir’s mosques, the nights are lit up with slogans of freedom from all sides. Nights have become new days in Kashmir. People protest late into the nights, sleepless. On the streets, in every mosque, in the lanes and by-lanes of every locality, only one cry reverberates in the air -- Azadi!.
Despite being at the receiving end of bullets and batons, people got together to help each other in distress. In numerous localities, people collected food and funds for the poor and needy in their respective curfew areas. For those injured in the protests, blood donations camps were organized. Hundreds of people, despite curfew, turned up to donate blood. This is how the spirit of resistance is kept alive. Agha Shahid Ali’s poetic line aptly sums up this renewed wave of freedom sweeping Kashmir: “Freedom’s terrible thirst is flooding Kashmir...”
Meanwhile, for a long time on the news bulletins telecast from the New Delhi studios of Indian news channels, the news from Kashmir was headlined differently, aided with carefully picked visuals: ‘riots in Kashmir’, the “unrest and violence in Kashmir”, “valley on the edge”… The naive, ill-informed news anchors, unaware of the reality unfolding on the ground, keep putting the same question to the same chosen set of Kashmiri politicians and New Delhi-based ‘Kashmir experts’: “So what is it that people want? Why are they burning government buildings? Police stations..? Why are people resorting to violence? What exactly do they want?”
The truth is there on the streets of Kashmir for everyone to see. Seventy people, mostly teenagers, have been killed by state forces since Jan this year. If the Indian state refuses to accept the truth even after all these killings, and instead use more force to quell protests, what can people do? Protest more.
The wrong questions put to the wrong people can never find the right answers. ‘So, why are they burning public property?’ the anchors kept asking their Kashmir experts in news bulletins replete with visuals showing a government vehicle, a government office set on fire by the protesters. Interestingly, these questions were asked to everyone, except the people protesting on the streets!
On the ground people speak about the brutality unleashed by the ‘security forces’ in their respective areas. All these memories have become a festering wound, which is refusing to heal. “The CRPF men got hold of this boy near our home and he was beaten ruthlessly,” said one caller who watched the whole scene from the window of his room. “Then they took his pictures and left him there after beating him to pulp,” he said. ‘He was only a little kid’. Another friend, a doctor, was told by his colleague: “Yesterday an ambulance with paramedics and doctors was stopped by the CRPF troops on one street. They were asked to come out and used as a human shield by CRPF troops to protect themselves from the protesters,” he said. Another friend called to inform us that CRPF troops smashed to smithereens the windowpanes of her home.
A relative of mine kept as a grim memento a teargas shell fired into their home by CRPF troopers. The smoke filled their eyes, their rooms, for the whole day. “I preserved it after it cooled down. You can come over to have a look some day,” he said. Everyone has his own story of being witness to the blood of innocent people spilled on the streets. At a time when killings have become a routine affair, the injuries inflicted on thousands of people in the past few months have gone unnoticed.
Bullets can only kill people though. The sentiment and aspirations of freedom can never be killed. People can be shot at, but the sentiment is too deeply entrenched in the hearts and minds of people -- and it’s beyond the reach of bullets. The sentiment for freedom has a habit of passing on from one generation to another. Force can not suppress it. Look at the streets.
By Majid Maqbool
Over fifty people have been killed in the streets of Kashmir since June 11, this year. Strictly imposed indefinite curfews with “shoot at sight” orders have failed to prevent people braving bullets, teargas shells, and batons on the streets. Protests have become a way of life. The military might of the state, strengthened by additional forces, kills with impunity. But the unarmed people of Kashmir, armed with slogans and stones in their hands, continue to protest day and night. Bullets no longer scare people now. The more bullets CRPF troops and police fire on the protesters, the more courage and strength people summon to resist.
People momentarily disperse after being fired at on the streets, only to reappear again, and protest more forcefully. The imposed silence of curfewed days and nights is broken by the constant cries of the protesters: “Awazan do, hum ek hain ….aye .. aye ..azadi..cheen kay laygain, azaadi!…Roe rahe hai yae zameen, ro raha hai asamaan..…ae shaheedo asalaam…jis Kashmir ko khoon say sincha, woe Kashmir hamara hai….” If the protest collapses from one quarter, others pick up the thread. All these slogans and protests have seeped into the dreams of children. They don’t have school on their minds. Even the kindergarten kids know how to lisp the rhyme: “Hum kya chatay?” Ajaadi!
From the loudspeakers of Kashmir’s mosques, the nights are lit up with slogans of freedom from all sides. Nights have become new days in Kashmir. People protest late into the nights, sleepless. On the streets, in every mosque, in the lanes and by-lanes of every locality, only one cry reverberates in the air -- Azadi!.
Despite being at the receiving end of bullets and batons, people got together to help each other in distress. In numerous localities, people collected food and funds for the poor and needy in their respective curfew areas. For those injured in the protests, blood donations camps were organized. Hundreds of people, despite curfew, turned up to donate blood. This is how the spirit of resistance is kept alive. Agha Shahid Ali’s poetic line aptly sums up this renewed wave of freedom sweeping Kashmir: “Freedom’s terrible thirst is flooding Kashmir...”
Meanwhile, for a long time on the news bulletins telecast from the New Delhi studios of Indian news channels, the news from Kashmir was headlined differently, aided with carefully picked visuals: ‘riots in Kashmir’, the “unrest and violence in Kashmir”, “valley on the edge”… The naive, ill-informed news anchors, unaware of the reality unfolding on the ground, keep putting the same question to the same chosen set of Kashmiri politicians and New Delhi-based ‘Kashmir experts’: “So what is it that people want? Why are they burning government buildings? Police stations..? Why are people resorting to violence? What exactly do they want?”
The truth is there on the streets of Kashmir for everyone to see. Seventy people, mostly teenagers, have been killed by state forces since Jan this year. If the Indian state refuses to accept the truth even after all these killings, and instead use more force to quell protests, what can people do? Protest more.
The wrong questions put to the wrong people can never find the right answers. ‘So, why are they burning public property?’ the anchors kept asking their Kashmir experts in news bulletins replete with visuals showing a government vehicle, a government office set on fire by the protesters. Interestingly, these questions were asked to everyone, except the people protesting on the streets!
On the ground people speak about the brutality unleashed by the ‘security forces’ in their respective areas. All these memories have become a festering wound, which is refusing to heal. “The CRPF men got hold of this boy near our home and he was beaten ruthlessly,” said one caller who watched the whole scene from the window of his room. “Then they took his pictures and left him there after beating him to pulp,” he said. ‘He was only a little kid’. Another friend, a doctor, was told by his colleague: “Yesterday an ambulance with paramedics and doctors was stopped by the CRPF troops on one street. They were asked to come out and used as a human shield by CRPF troops to protect themselves from the protesters,” he said. Another friend called to inform us that CRPF troops smashed to smithereens the windowpanes of her home.
A relative of mine kept as a grim memento a teargas shell fired into their home by CRPF troopers. The smoke filled their eyes, their rooms, for the whole day. “I preserved it after it cooled down. You can come over to have a look some day,” he said. Everyone has his own story of being witness to the blood of innocent people spilled on the streets. At a time when killings have become a routine affair, the injuries inflicted on thousands of people in the past few months have gone unnoticed.
Bullets can only kill people though. The sentiment and aspirations of freedom can never be killed. People can be shot at, but the sentiment is too deeply entrenched in the hearts and minds of people -- and it’s beyond the reach of bullets. The sentiment for freedom has a habit of passing on from one generation to another. Force can not suppress it. Look at the streets.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
A Stone Pelter’s Song by Feroz Rather
A Stone Pelter’s Song
BY FEROZ RATHER
Out of the last cries
Of my fellows, those boys
Killed on street yesterday,
Out of the sky and the summer rains
In my own eyes,
In my own voice,
I compose a song of freedom
Out of these stones,
Forged in the brooks of Jhelum,
These gifts from the Mountain,
Tearing the air apart
In fury, with jubilation,
Ah! Here I hit their backs,
I exist in these stones,
I don’t need to tell them,
I compose a song of freedom
Out of my own blood and brain,
Smearing my dead face,
Out of a vow of
A mother’s love for her son,
Against the dagger of Abraham
When God ceases to be an assassin,
Out of the triumph of truth
Rises a song of celebration,
I live a song of freedom
Out of the rebels’ chants,
Against their bullets,
Against the shells and the smoke of death,
Out of these slogans
Sung in unison,
These songs of defiance and anger,
I’m my own poet, a majnoon
Of this country, an unfailing lover,
I’m a stone pelter
I sing a song of freedom.
BY FEROZ RATHER
Out of the last cries
Of my fellows, those boys
Killed on street yesterday,
Out of the sky and the summer rains
In my own eyes,
In my own voice,
I compose a song of freedom
Out of these stones,
Forged in the brooks of Jhelum,
These gifts from the Mountain,
Tearing the air apart
In fury, with jubilation,
Ah! Here I hit their backs,
I exist in these stones,
I don’t need to tell them,
I compose a song of freedom
Out of my own blood and brain,
Smearing my dead face,
Out of a vow of
A mother’s love for her son,
Against the dagger of Abraham
When God ceases to be an assassin,
Out of the triumph of truth
Rises a song of celebration,
I live a song of freedom
Out of the rebels’ chants,
Against their bullets,
Against the shells and the smoke of death,
Out of these slogans
Sung in unison,
These songs of defiance and anger,
I’m my own poet, a majnoon
Of this country, an unfailing lover,
I’m a stone pelter
I sing a song of freedom.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Building blocks of sadness
Building blocks of sadness
By Majid Maqbool
Kashmir is a sad place. There is sadness in the stories of people. There’s sadness in their personal histories. There is sadness in the lives that people live. And in the regret for lives that they should have lived, but couldn’t. There is sadness, for a future that might not be different from the present. There is sadness, for being witness to a bloodied past replete with pain, injustices, death. There is sadness, for promises not kept. There’s sadness, for having lived, while all around the loved ones died. It is this collective sadness that lends a sorrowful aura to Kashmir. Memories come in the way of happiness here. And sorrow, like that ubiquitous bunker on the street, has found a permanent home in Kashmir.
The wounded architecture of the city is saddening. Burnt buildings, reduced to abandoned remnants of encounter sites, evoke sadness. Blackened, burnt wood in place of windows; damaged walls, sprinkled with bullets; exposed bricks, punctured with bullet holes. All these destroyed buildings – once peoples’ homes, public offices, shops – are devoid of life now. They are the building blocks of sadness. They evoke a sad memory. They stand testimony to a blood soaked past. New buildings are erected in place of the destroyed ones. But the sadness remains, forever locked in these sites. And the memories of the wounds remain, intact. Kashmir’s past—every Kashmiri’s past for that matter—is a landmine of unresolved memories. Even an act of remembrance can explode them.
There is sadness on the faces of Indian soldiers present after every other kilometer on the streets. Guns slung across their shoulder, few meters away from each other, their presence adds to the sadness of the city. They remind us of what we have lost. They remind us of what they have taken away from us. They, we are told, are here to ‘protect’ us. Keep us safe! Innumerable barricades, inked in capital red letters on a white background, are kept on the streets: ‘Your cooperation is solicited’. Your safety is our concern. Peace keepers of the nation....’ Courtesy: CRPF, BSF…
What can one say? Quote Agha Shahid Ali: “They make a desolation and call it peace.”
‘People there are helpful but they don’t smile,’ a writer wrote after travelling to Kashmir. This sadness stems from a bruised history. It is a result of unforgettable memories - of years of occupation, against the wishes of people, by the outsiders. It’s difficult to reconcile with a troubled past, look ahead, and live a content life. It is difficult to foresee a future which has no place for the memories of the past. You can forgive (or can you?) but you can not forget.
The sentiment of freedom, simmering inside for years, came out bubbling into the streets last year. It swept everyone who came along. But somewhere behind those joyous shouts for freedom, there was sadness. Sadness, for example, in the life of that man I met in the TRC ground. He lost his brother and his son in the nineties. He still manages to smile. He knows what sadness means. Travelling all the way from his hometown, he joined a sea of people that poured into the TRC ground in the summer of 2008. Only one cry rang into the sky – azadi! He too put his arms up. He shouted for Azadi. For every collective shout of hum kya chatay that reverberated in the air, he seconded – azadi! And he waited for his leaders.
Although doubt was palpable in the fractured voice of leaders that addressed people assembled in the ground, there was no doubt in his mind. He remembers his son; he remembers his brother. That’s why he came. He didn’t come for any compensation. He came to mark his presence. He came in the memory of his brother and son. They are both dead. He lives with their memory. They were killed, he told me, his words drowning in the din of slogans. But they live in his memory. For him, they are not dead. Sitting besides me in the middle of the ground, surrounded by thousands of people of all age groups, he seemed momentarily lost in his thoughts. Turning towards me, his gaze fixed on me, he said: “My son was young like you when he was killed.” I said nothing, and looked down. “Enough of young people have died in Kashmir,” he said after a brief pause. Then he looked away into the distance. The ground kept swelling with people. His spirits rose.
He’s sad. He’s angry. He is living. He knows the meaning of life. He has lost his loved ones. He knows what freedom means.
By Majid Maqbool
Kashmir is a sad place. There is sadness in the stories of people. There’s sadness in their personal histories. There is sadness in the lives that people live. And in the regret for lives that they should have lived, but couldn’t. There is sadness, for a future that might not be different from the present. There is sadness, for being witness to a bloodied past replete with pain, injustices, death. There is sadness, for promises not kept. There’s sadness, for having lived, while all around the loved ones died. It is this collective sadness that lends a sorrowful aura to Kashmir. Memories come in the way of happiness here. And sorrow, like that ubiquitous bunker on the street, has found a permanent home in Kashmir.
The wounded architecture of the city is saddening. Burnt buildings, reduced to abandoned remnants of encounter sites, evoke sadness. Blackened, burnt wood in place of windows; damaged walls, sprinkled with bullets; exposed bricks, punctured with bullet holes. All these destroyed buildings – once peoples’ homes, public offices, shops – are devoid of life now. They are the building blocks of sadness. They evoke a sad memory. They stand testimony to a blood soaked past. New buildings are erected in place of the destroyed ones. But the sadness remains, forever locked in these sites. And the memories of the wounds remain, intact. Kashmir’s past—every Kashmiri’s past for that matter—is a landmine of unresolved memories. Even an act of remembrance can explode them.
There is sadness on the faces of Indian soldiers present after every other kilometer on the streets. Guns slung across their shoulder, few meters away from each other, their presence adds to the sadness of the city. They remind us of what we have lost. They remind us of what they have taken away from us. They, we are told, are here to ‘protect’ us. Keep us safe! Innumerable barricades, inked in capital red letters on a white background, are kept on the streets: ‘Your cooperation is solicited’. Your safety is our concern. Peace keepers of the nation....’ Courtesy: CRPF, BSF…
What can one say? Quote Agha Shahid Ali: “They make a desolation and call it peace.”
‘People there are helpful but they don’t smile,’ a writer wrote after travelling to Kashmir. This sadness stems from a bruised history. It is a result of unforgettable memories - of years of occupation, against the wishes of people, by the outsiders. It’s difficult to reconcile with a troubled past, look ahead, and live a content life. It is difficult to foresee a future which has no place for the memories of the past. You can forgive (or can you?) but you can not forget.
The sentiment of freedom, simmering inside for years, came out bubbling into the streets last year. It swept everyone who came along. But somewhere behind those joyous shouts for freedom, there was sadness. Sadness, for example, in the life of that man I met in the TRC ground. He lost his brother and his son in the nineties. He still manages to smile. He knows what sadness means. Travelling all the way from his hometown, he joined a sea of people that poured into the TRC ground in the summer of 2008. Only one cry rang into the sky – azadi! He too put his arms up. He shouted for Azadi. For every collective shout of hum kya chatay that reverberated in the air, he seconded – azadi! And he waited for his leaders.
Although doubt was palpable in the fractured voice of leaders that addressed people assembled in the ground, there was no doubt in his mind. He remembers his son; he remembers his brother. That’s why he came. He didn’t come for any compensation. He came to mark his presence. He came in the memory of his brother and son. They are both dead. He lives with their memory. They were killed, he told me, his words drowning in the din of slogans. But they live in his memory. For him, they are not dead. Sitting besides me in the middle of the ground, surrounded by thousands of people of all age groups, he seemed momentarily lost in his thoughts. Turning towards me, his gaze fixed on me, he said: “My son was young like you when he was killed.” I said nothing, and looked down. “Enough of young people have died in Kashmir,” he said after a brief pause. Then he looked away into the distance. The ground kept swelling with people. His spirits rose.
He’s sad. He’s angry. He is living. He knows the meaning of life. He has lost his loved ones. He knows what freedom means.
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