It is 7.30 on a Sunday morning. Summer has set in and Srinagar looks resplendent. The chinar trees have branched out in all directions. The poplars are shooting up straight skyward. The Jhelum has swollen from the fast-melting snow in its upper reaches.
But within moments the perfect picture shatters. It is shutters down in the old city’s Nowhatta, Gojwara and Rajouri Kadal areas. Anti-India slogans have re-emerged in fresh black and green paint—‘Go India, Go Back’—over grafitti that had been painted over or smudged by the police.
Last year, at least 93 civilians were killed and over 15,000 injured in street violence. Today, there is an incident of stone-pelting at least once a week in parts of Srinagar, but the capital is considered relatively peaceful.
Relative, that is, to restive south Kashmir. A day-long trip to four districts—Pulwama, Shopian, Kulgam and Anantnag—brings into focus the rsentment and anger, the changing ground rules and the new challenges this region faces.
Pulwama: Slogans in school
As I enter Pulwama, the tension is palpable—at least on the highway connecting B.K. Pora with Pulwama town, 29 km south of Srinagar. Vikar Rashid, 24, is an engineer. “For the first time, I have begun to avoid driving on this stretch after sunset. I would generally drive to Srinagar after work and go out with friends. It’s now work, home, work, home.” On the roads are zigzag iron bars, nails pointing up, to deflate the tyres of vehicles that try to speed past barricades. This is to control the movement of militants: police say that Pulwama has 70 active militants, and 48 of the boys are locals.
Nazeer Ahmad (name changed) is a police constable. He tells me how Pulwama has changed for security forces. “We avoid wearing uniforms in areas like Karimabadand Kakapora. I carry my uniform in my scooter box and wear it when I’m inside the police station.”
Shaheed Park, located in the centre of town, is a riot of colours, with flowers in full bloom inside its well-pruned greens. At one corner of the park is a graveyard where militants have been buried since the 1990s. Local residents say that Pulwama was on the verge of erupting this January when residents wanted a digital board where the names of slain local militants would run all day. “The authorities agreed,” says Farooq Dar, a trader. “But when they demanded that the board should bear an AK-47 insignia, it became a sticking point.” The idea was dropped, but the frame for the board remains.
Some 10 km away, in Bellow village, Haji Abdul Ghani Wani, in his 70s, smiles through his white beard as he greets us. Wani’s grandson Shahbaz Shafi Wani alias Rayees Kachuru ( kachru is a colloquial word for ‘blond’) was killed in a shootout in Shopian on March 26. With the body of a model and chocolate-boy good looks, Rayees, 22, turned to militancy last June. “Rayees had begun attending funerals of civilians or militants killed by security forces. He would walk to far-off villages to attend funerals. I tried to convince him to return to normal life, but he argued that martyrdom had become his life’s goal.”
Ironically, Rayees’ funeral too was attended by hundreds. Rayees’ grandmother recalls how people had clambered up the apple trees in nearby orchards to pay tribute to her grandson. Rayees, the family says, was motivated by slain Hizbul Mujahideen commander Burhan Wani, who became a cult figure last year for indigenous militants. “How much more blood has to be spilled to achieve a just solution?” asks Rayees’ grandfather in despair.
The desperation for a solution has indeed reached a new level in Pulwama. “In my class, I see students painting guns on walls and etching the names of militant outfits on their school bags. At times, they raise slogans in classrooms. Sometimes, it is hard to control my class,” says Badee-u-Zaman, a social science teacher at Government High School, Pulwama. Shutdowns and protests have meant that this school , like others, has been able to conduct only 50% of its classes.
Shopian: Videos in groves
The sun has drifted westward. A serpentine road, around 25 km long, with orchards on both sides, takes us to Shopian. Last month, militants decamped with 10 service rifles from policemen and killed five cops. “More and more boys are turning militant. Three have joined in the past two weeks,” says a police officer on condition of anonymity. Parts of Shopian have been shut after the disappearance of Zubair Ahmad Turray. Turray was arrested in 2015 after he became an icon among stone throwers in the area. He fled from the Keegam police station on May 1. “We fear he disappeared while in custody. No militant outfit has announced he has joined them,” says Turray’s cousin.
However, one day after I visit his village, a video posted by Turray shows him sitting in a chair with guns and grenades arranged on a table. In it, he claims that the declaration of the Public Safety Act, which allows the police to detain a person for six months without trial, “left him with no other option but to join the Mujahideen. “God was with me and today I am among the Mujahideen,” declares the 22-year-old.
Today, Shopian is considered a safe haven for militants. The apple orchards with their bushy foliage have become training camps. “Most videos shot by militants emerge from Shopian’s orchards,” says a police official. The open display of arms and the parades have led to a ‘90s-type crackdown by the security forces. “If they were looking for militants, why did the Army break the window panes of homes and parked cars?” asks Ahmad, an orchard owner. He lives in a colony that is perched on a highland with almond trees lining the roads. “Such crackdowns will only create a restless population,” says Khalid Dar, a local priest in his 30s.
Kulgam: Bank robberies and fines
It is late afternoon. Javaid Khan and his family are spraying pesticide in their apple orchard. “Last year, we just about managed to sell our crop. The unrest made it almost impossible to find a decent buyer. We had to slash the price to avoid wasting the harvest. Our fingers are crossed this year. Allah knows if these can make it to the markets on time,” says Khan.
There is a sense of unease in Behibagh, the area en route to Kulgam. The army’s 62 Rashtriya Rifles is posted on both sides of the road. The rules for travellers are strict. Pillion riders must get down and walk to the other end. The speed limit is 10 km/h and car windows must always be kept shut. “Any violation invites the army’s wrath. They monitor movement through a closed circuit television system,” a student tells me.
There’s reason behind this regimen. Growing support for local militants has bolstered their activities. Around ₹12 lakh has been looted by militants from the branches of Jammu and Kashmir Bank and Ellaquai Dehati Bank in and around Kulgam. Ali Muhammad, a farmer, now travels 20 km to deposit cash in Kulgam town. “The branches in the interiors refuse to take money. I have to take a day off to reach the main branch in town,” he says. .
In Shouch village, policeman Jehangeer Ahmad Bhat was recently imposed a Rs. 15 lakh fine by militants for allegedly helping security forces bust a hideout in a nearby orchard.
The house of Hizbul Mujahideen militant Umar Majeed Ganai, who the police say is behind the bank robberies, is located in a congested part of Kulgam. Umar Ganai’s elder brother, Hilal Ganai, a frail-looking teacher, offers me juice. Seen in several videos that went viral online, Umar was in the final year of his bachelor’s degree in November 2015 when he disappeared. A month later, a letter addressed to his father said he had joined the militants.
“Umar was never part of street protests. However, he would watch videos of the wars in Iraq and Syria. They would disturb him. We did try to explain to him; our father is diabetic and hypertensive. But it was too late.”
Kulgam’s Bugam, Kudwani, Qaimoh and Muhammad Pora areas feel like a different zone. The Pakistan flag is painted on electric poles and schools. There is anti-India graffiti along the main road. No one has painted them over here. Indeed, Kulgam does look like the end of the Kashmir Valley, surrounded by mountains across which open up Jammu’s plains.
Anantnag: The ‘savage beast’
The Dar family has just returned home after burying Muhammad Hussain Dar, who succumbed to injuries after he was hit by bullets at Mir Bazaar last month. The house at Takiya Laram village is abuzz with mourners. “This conflict is like a savage beast. It devours us every day. It’s him today, it could be me tomorrow,” says a shopkeeper at Laram.
