musings on history, memory & kashmir...

In late 2004, my brother Sam went to Ireland to study abroad.  He was there for a semester on a SIT study abroad program that focused on conflict and peace studies.  He was a political science major and autumn of 2004 being his junior year, always interested in Irish culture, Sam made the move there for a semester.  He spent a good amount of time in Dublin, with a wonderful Irish family that we've gotten to known over the years.  Sam also spent a number of weeks in the Northern Ireland city of Derry, which is also the town in which the U2 political song, "Sunday Bloody Sunday" takes place, exploring the events of the 1972 Bloody Sunday massacre in which 26 unarmed civil-rights activists and bystanders were killed by the British Army. Our visit to Northern Ireland, way back in 2004, was eye-opening.  The Troubles were more or less over at that time, but there was a simmering tension throughout Derry.  In some Catholic neighborhoods, the curbstones were painted orange and green, whereas in Protestant hoods, the curbstones were not only painted in Blue and Red but the town there, often still went by the name, Londonderry.  I remember Sammy and I going out for a couple of pints of Guinness, hanging with some of his friends from the youth centre where he had worked.  It was a raucous little pub, one that was too, segregated based on religion.  Yet what really shocked me that night was our walk home.  We passed by police stations that had 20 metre high walls of sheet metal and little slits to see who was knocking, fortresses.  Young men and women, some drunken, others sober, stumbled home on the main strip, not only stopping for late night grub, but also cussing the police who walked as stoic as possible beside Northern Irish reinforced police vehicles that were reminiscent of the South African casspirs of Apartheid. Being from New York, I had never seen police being treated in such a manner, we'd never do that in New York. We'd be arrested, possibly killed.  But I realized that the hatred of the police and the army in Northern Ireland was way more deep rooted and ingrained than it might be in say, corners of the South Bronx or Brownsville and that too (like in NYC), many people had been killed in Northern Ireland in the hands of the authorities and the tension there, palpable and pulsing was alive and raw, something that could not be detained.

Just a week or so back, I spent the last five days of the month of March in and around the city of Srinagar, in the Kashmir Valley. It was a powerful trip.  The city of Srinagar reminded me of Northern Ireland, of Derry and its environs It was the only reference point I had.  Srinagar, though peaceful now, is a city on edge and the tension is tangible and malleable.  It is alive and it is thick and sweaty and nervous and scared.

While I was in the Srinagar Valley, I thought a lot about my brother Sam and Northern Ireland.  I wondered if he was still alive, whether or not, he might be living there himself, fluent perhaps in Arabic, working for a NGO or who knows what, Sam was capable of anything and on the cusp of exploring what he wanted to do and where he wanted to be.  I thought of him because I knew he would have been fascinated and keen on visiting Srinagar and exploring the conflict and the thoughts and attitudes of not only the Kashmiris living there but also the flocks of Indian tourists that arrived to visit what many told me was "paradise."  Yet, I also knew that Sammy would have loved to have fun there as well.  I bet we would have gone snowboarding together in Gulmarg, smiling and laughing at the madness of the world and relishing the ecstasy found in the long late spring wet powder runs commencing at 13,000 feet plus. 

Kashmir is a hard place to describe.  Everyone I met (from human rights activists to houseboat owners to ex-muhajadeen to Muslim missionaries to self-made millionaires to parents and brothers and sisters) were deeply, deeply independent and proud Kashmiris.  They talked of "going to India."  Or "just being in India last month."  Every single person I met wasn't interested in being part of either India nor Pakistan, they wanted independence, a true state called Kashmir, a land they could call their own. (A side note that the state of Jammu & Kashmir is the only state in India allowed to fly its own flag due to its special status). Years of conflict and the ability for the Indian Army to detain anyone at will without charges, to create "fake encounters"which often resulted in countless deaths and disappeared persons (see recent Caravan article), had obviously laid deep mistrust and reinforced a need for azadi - the urdu word for freedom.

Indian families that I met on holiday seemed to be oblivious to this reality. Certainly they saw and recognized the omnipresent military. I overheard once, on the day I was snowboarding, sitting in the gondola, a father explain to his two very little kids that there was an army base beside the top of the gondola, "in case Pakistan attacks."  True no doubt, but the presence of the army is seemingly more complex than that.  The owner of a houseboat I stayed on told me that rarely does it happen that he engages in a conversation about the conflict or the presence of the Indian military with domestic tourists who have come to spend a long weekend in "paradise." The presence of the military, there for many reasons, is also an omnipotent/powerful/presence in a much much deeper psychological battle that goes back to the creation of India and Pakistan.  Article 370 of the Indian constitution gives the state of Jammu and Kashmir a special status.  It is at once autonomous and on many levels occupied by the military. The Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act of 1958 (AFSPA) granted special power to the armed forces in the northeast states and then later, in 1990, to the State of Jammu & Kashmir. 

What else is there to say?  So much, yet I'll stop right here. I know that Sammy and I would have had some great conversations about the situation over daal and rice and bun gobi in the shadows of the mighty himalayas.  Instead, let me transition to some photographs and captions of my short time there...

with a friend, overlooking a local cricket tournament in the badgum district of kashmir.

in and around the district of badgum

sauchwor, the kashmiri bagel baked in a tandoor type oven (not boiled though, but mad tasty!)

indian army watchtowers and bases that are omnipresent throughout the city of srinagar

"mr. benjamin, research scholar from the university of newzeland" was invited to give a keynote speech (he talked about mother earth, how we are all neighbors, it's our home and the importance of planting trees) at the government polytechnic college for women. and then he planted a sapling.

a different reality for tourists in and around dal lake.

a posse of gujarati policemen who were staying in the same houseboat as me. i spent an evening talking with them about indian politics, crime and drug dealing...

by the shores of dal lake one morning... scratch that, every morning...

the sights at 7 am while driving to the snow and ski area of gulmarg, an hour & a half from srinagar...

snow guides waiting for tickets for stage one of the gondola...

in stage 2 of the gondola, heading up the mountain (photo by little raja)

the army base at the top of the mountain...

about to snowboard down, my guide can be seen down the mountain & above my left foot..

from the bottom of the stage 2 lift.

exiting the stage 2 gondola.

raja and me. the man who owns the cheapest & chillest little guesthouse in gulmarg.

back in the city of srinagar, from the ghats of dal lake. hari parbat fort (muslim, hindu and sikh shrines all reside on that hill). i heard it is occupied by the indian army and/or that it is being restored. 

easter sunday in srinagar, five minutes turned into an hour as these scholars of Islam and I discussed religions of the world, Islam and the madness of life. i left with their homework for me, some pamphlets on Islam...

a busy sunday of security along the ghats of dal lake...

my last night in srinagar before a 4 am wake up call to head to the aerodrome...

love, health and peace to all...