Kabita Kharka

I had always heard about the beauty of Kashmir. Snow-capped mountains, lush green forests, fresh meadows and a variety of flowers is how I used to picture Kashmir. Beside this, I was also aware that Kashmir is an active conflict zone.

Before coming here I tried to find Kashmir in Google maps. I just wanted to get an idea about its geography etc. Then I clicked to check the picture of the place. But to my surprise, hundreds of pictures with men wearing Pheran popped up. The pictures included Indian army men roaming in civilian areas. There were endless pictures of common people who looked traumatized with terror. Then onwards, I started to picturize Kashmir in a way which I had never before.

However, Google could not change my decision of enrolling for a master’s program in Kashmir University. And my speculations about the place changed completely once I landed here. The heavy deployment of men in uniform and continuous strikes welcomed me during my initial days.

Being a resident of South Bhutan and having travelled the Indian border highways throughout West Bengal and Assam, it was not an unusual scenario for me.  There were many commonalities. I found myself relating my experience in Assam to that of Kashmir.

Months passed and we got into a busy schedule in the department. Soon the autumn came and trees started to shed their leaves. Chinars started glowing with its beautiful red and golden leaves. The entire area around KU was lit with golden and yellow trees. It was that time of the year when I would just sit under a tree and immerse myself in the beauty of nature.

Soon days became colder, and before the chillakalan finally arrived, we were back to our country for a month long vacation.

In Bhutan, people would stare blankly when I would tell them I am pursuing a master’s program in Kashmir University since last one year. One person asked me, “How are you even alive? Did they not shoot you?”

It was difficult to stop them from looking at Kashmir through the prism of security. It is time to break the stereotype. I thought, one has to die first to see the heaven. People need to visit Kashmir at least once to understand the place.

Author alongwith other South Asian and native students at one of their friends’ home in North Kashmir’s Sopore in summer this year.

Despite such breathtaking natural beauty Kashmir’s tourism industry is suffering. There is no infrastructure for tourists. Even the basic amenities are missing. I guess 26 years of conflict has taken a toll on tourism. Media can play an important role in creating a positive image of the place. It can help in breaking the stereotypes.

In order to understand Kashmir and its people, one must visit a Kashmiri household. My visit to native friends homes is always memorable. I love the way my friends’ mothers kiss and hug me  before letting me in their homes. In my country such warmth is only shared between close family members or blood relations.

Reading books and a little research about Kashmir helped me to understand the place in a better way. I understood that Kashmir’s geographical location has made it an important link between South Asia and the Central Asia.

Many religions and sects like Shaivism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam and Sufism flourished here without any problem.  To this day one can find Sufi shrines all over the valley, which draws millions of people throughout the year. Same way Shaivism flourished in the Valley. One can relate it with the Amarnath Yatra, which begins from the pristine valley of Pahalgam, drawing millions of Hindu pilgrims each year.

However, I was interested to understand Buddhism in Kashmir. So I travelled North to Ladakh. To my surprise when I reached Leh I found that it was just like Bhutan.

There are hundreds of Stupas, Monasteries, Goenpas, Palaces built in Tibetan architecture, by mighty Buddhist kings. The great King Kanishka (78AD-114AD) had built many temples and monasteries throughout the Indian   subcontinent including Ladakh.

Kabita Kharka (Third from right), a Bhutanese, along with her other South Asian mates in Gulmarg in 2014.

Holy Buddhist texts, scriptures and relics were carefully preserved in Leh Palace and Thiksey monastery.

Huge statues of guru Padmasambhava, Lord Buddha and many other deities, gods and goddesses are still found inside those temples. Buddhist schools are located in various parts of the city, one could hear monks praying and reciting the holy books. I was immediately taken back to my country where I would visit any monastery and sit silently for hours listening to those hymns.

After talking to locals I found out that due to religious affinity and cultural similarities Ladakhis are very warm towards Bhutanese. They circled me and started asking about Bhutan and its people.

I met a few Tibetan refugees who have now settled in Leh. They speak Tibetan fluently which I could understand almost entirely because Bhutanese also speak Dzongkha, which has basically originated from Tibetan script.

For a region which has so much to share, history, culture, religion, and language, it is very important for us to connect with each other. Though borders have divided us, one needs to have indivisible connections to link with each other. Our history, our past needs to be instilled in us and passed on to generations to come. Who would have thought I would find a mini Bhutan in Kashmir!

PDP’s youth activist Javaid Trali spent 30 days in the US under State Department funded International Visitors Leadership Programme (IVLP). He says Americans impressed him more than America

People are the real driving force behind every nation’s prosperity and growth; policies and their implementation come later.  People determine which way a country would go – backward or forward. Nothing shall impress any one about anything unless we look at its basics. Foundations are important, rest is detail. It is true in case of a mansion or a country.

During my trip to US, nothing impressed me the most but its people. Wide range of discussions and interactions with the people of different opinion and thought gave me a new insight about working of the country, the only super-power. If US is dictating terms to the world it is only because its people have made it capable to challenge anything. America is a powerful nation because of its people.

Listening to them made me understand how concerned they are about their nation, its problems and issues. Not at a single interaction I saw them boasting about their successes, but they would always make an honest opinion about functioning of their system and its flaws.

At the societal and governmental level, the US is facing a number of challenges. The rosy picture we carry about America is not totally true. There is poverty too. One comes across homeless and jobless people. Even beggars can be seen on footpaths with placards asking for help. People are seen sleeping under bridges. Their citizenry too undergoes hardships at different levels. They are finding it hard to fight racism, which is eating its vitals. Drug and liquor addiction is common. Use of guns both licensed and unlicensed has turned out to a big menace and is the most debated issue. Gender bias and violence against women is not endemic to our society only.

Deepening economic disparity has made people frustrated. The gap between the rich and poor has widened.  People with whom I interacted were honest in detailing all this. But they also said: “We will overcome this.”

How cultured, meticulous, refined and disciplined the people can be, I started realizing it when I landed at the Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey. Nervous, I was anticipating hassles at the airport given the huge security threat the country claims it has, but it turned out to be a totally different story.

After checking my passport and other travel documents, the immigration desk lady greeted me with ‘happy birthday’. No questions, she allowed me to go. That was sweet and surprising; given the system we have in place back home.

Out of airport, the weather was beautiful. The freshness of early morning breeze added to the ecstasy. Our liaison escorted us to the domestic terminal for flying us to Washington DC.

Washington was my first stop where I started the actual interaction with the people during my visits to various places of historical and political importance. Aesthetically built, the city is calm and beautiful. No traffic mess, no honking on roads, no chocked streets, Washington DC is a green and pollution free.  From commoners to officials and the people manning NGOs, every interaction was a learning experience.

On my first official day, I toured the whole city. It surprised me to see the White House, the office and residence of the US president open for everyone. People in large number, both local and foreigners, come and click photos and spend some time amid lush green environs there. Same is the case with Capitol Hill, seat of US Congress. The reason for keeping open such sensitive places for general public, I think, is to remain connected with the people unlike us, who will humiliate people by asking them to sit in long queues bracing heat and rain outside the civil secretariat.

Two meetings, one each with Dr Frederic Grare, Senior Associate, Carnegic Endowment for International Peace and Sanjay Puri, Chairman and founder USINPAC, were significant and interesting. Dr Grare is keeping a close eye over Kashmir and Indo-Pak politics. He has been visiting Kashmir in the past and knows everyone in political establishment here. He spoke high of veteran Kashmiri leader, Abdul Gani Lone. Given the interaction with him all I could conclude is that Kashmir is an issue per se but does not interest anybody now at the global level. He suggested us to strengthen our institutions of governance and move forward.

Puri is an influential Indo-American who lives in Virginia. His organization USINPAC is the voice of over 3.2 million Indian Americans and works on issues that concern the society. He assured full support from powerful Indian diaspora in certain key areas like education, skill development for youth, global warming, solid waste management in Kashmir.

In Cleveland, Ohio – my second destination, I specifically learned about constituent outreach, women in politics, transparency and accountability in government. These topics were discussed in detail with prominent officials, academicians, politicians and community based volunteer organizations. Here I got an opportunity to volunteer alongside the residents of Cleveland at a local food bank— Greater Cleveland Food Bank. The food bank is the largest hunger relief organization in Northeast Ohio, having provided 45 million meals in 2014 to hungry people locally. Later I visited many other states as well and observed many aspects of American social, economic, political, cultural and educational institutions and practices.

More and more people I met and interacted with, I found them brutally honest, extremely hardworking, punctual and highly helpful. The smiling faces will greet you everywhere, be it on roads, offices or hotel elevators. Americans love to work hard; it is their culture, I believe. Their love and concern for humanity, animals and environment is exemplary. Most of them have divided their time between working for themselves and the community. American spirit of volunteerism is proverbial.

Americans are born honest. They are genuine. They won’t cheat you but will guide and help you out even at the cost of their own time.They value time but when it comes to helping others and working for the community they don’t care. If you ask any passerby about any address, he will get his cell-phone out and GPS it to help you out.

The people won’t mind doing any sort of job. Part-time jobs are common as it has become necessary given the high cost of living. An iphone technician is a driver during his free time. An extremely intelligent and academically sound little girl and the only child of her rich parents, who is in tenth standard at school surprised me when she informed that she in her part-time cleans utensils and wipes off tables at a restaurant. When asked what she does with this money, her reply was more astonishing, “I buy books of my interest with it.” This is deliberately allowed only to prepare the children for life and developing skills of self-reliance and independence in them; and no social stigma is attached to it.

Similarly, a 75-year-old lady, who lost her husband few years back and lives a lonely life now, cleans her beautiful house, cooks food, buys grocery, manages the garden in the backyards of her house, drives her own car and works with an NGO as a volunteer.

There is no concept of having peon in any office, private or public. And, also no helpers are hired to work at homes otherwise a norm and status symbol here. Americans love to do their own work by themselves.

Raising funds for community welfare and giving charity is also a common practice. Instead of waiting for the government, people raise enough funds for any civic initiative.

Giving tips at restaurants and hotels to waiters and baristas is a tradition. Not giving tips is a grave insult. Even bad service gets a tip. Actually, these types of workers are underpaid and to ensure their economic stability and value their time the people find it a duty to give them tips.

Americans not erecting walls around their houses was somewhat baffling for me. The lawns have to be kept open and some portion of it is used to build cycle tracks.

 (Author is associated with the Youth Wing of J&K Peoples Democratic Party (PDP))

Snow: Mona Hossaini ‘Araste’ in Kabul.

Mona Hossaini ‘Araste’

I had three options to choose from to pursue my post graduation: Iran, Russia and Kashmir. And I choose the last one because of the interesting course offered: Kashmir and South Asia Studies. It was an interesting choice given the history of the place I hail from (Afghanistan) and the place I have chosen to be in i.e. Kashmir. Both the places have their own painful history of conflict. Over the years people living in conflict zones get adapted to words like, war, conflict, instability and uncertainty. These things become part of our daily lives. For us peace is an elusive term. I always wonder if peace is a reality or just a utopian concept. The reason I chose this subject was I wanted to find solutions to my country’s instability and also search for lasting peace!

Mona Hossaini ‘Araste’ in Kabul.

The new-generation Afghanis have learned from their elders that the only way forward towards a stable future is through education. Our generation is fed up of living in an atmosphere of chaos and uncertainty. I feel an Afghani, studying outside his country, carries that element of uncertainty and fear along like a curse. There is no peace even if you are away from your home. Then there are stereotypes created and promoted by the media about Afghanistan that are far from reality. I agree things are pretty bad in Afghanistan, but not completely out of hand as projected.

After spending a few months in Kashmir I realized we have more than conflict and painful memories, of our brutalized past, in common. Both Afghanistan and Kashmir has become a playground of nuclear armed superpowers. They fight their wars at the cost of our lives without a concern about our culture and social values. These experiences helped me strike an instant cord with helpless Kashmiris.

Afghanistan has a rich history that dates back to some 5000 years. The stories from this mountainous region have been part of the Indian subcontinent folklore for long. People still talk about Kabuliwala. Telling you frankly, Kashmir has been central to our culture since ages; our kids still go to sleep reading Shahnameh Ferdowsi, they still enjoy poems of Khaja Hafez Shirazi.

We still read Saadi Shirazi and Maulana Jalaludin Rumi, to understand social behaviour. The first Pashtu phrase about Kashmir that came to my mind was: Har Chata Ekhpel Watan Kashmir De (For everyone, their country is like Kashmir).

A view of Afghanistan’s capital city, Kabul.

So the picture of Kashmir in my mind was nothing less that a piece of paradise on earth dotted with snow clad mountains, emerald green meadows, lakes reflecting sunset and moonlights.

Interestingly, the first person I got to know after I reached Delhi was a Kashmiri. We were staying at the same guesthouse in Delhi.

She was happy to learn that I was going to Kashmir. She was the first person to accept me as part of her family and called me her sister. Instantly I started looking beyond media created Kashmir. I realized that Kashmir is full of beautiful people with beautiful hearts.

Just like Afghanistan, people in Kashmir have also grown reading Persian literature. So we share a culture that has its roots in Persia.

Kashmiri culture is highly influenced by Sufism. A number of beautiful shrines in Kashmir belong to or are dedicated to famous Sufi saints. The idea of oneness that Sufism promotes is visible on top of Koh-e-Maraan – highest point in Srinagar – where three major religions converge. There is a Sufi shrine, a Guruduwara and a Mandir. Such harmony is a rare sight. However, it is unfortunate that only elderly people remember history and enjoy talking about it with pride. The young generation is busy in politics. On my visit to Koh-e-Maraan, I talked to a number of elderly people who were elated to learn about my Afghani origin. They talked about similarity in our culture, about how Afghan king ruled Kashmir and how Kashmir has been influenced by Central Asia and Persia.

An eventful evening in Kabul.

They all greeted me with beautiful smiles and one of them even shared a poem of Hafez.  That interaction motivated me to mingle more with Kashmiris. With each interaction I came to know that how Western media has fed people negative images of my country. I often came across people who think Afghanistan is a poor and backward country where women are not at all educated, and where conflict rules everything. It pains to see how media has stereotyped both Afghanistan and Kashmir.

There is a need to transcend these cultural boundaries and bring Afghanistan and Kashmir together once again.

I feel at peace when I walk around lush green gardens in Kashmir University. And when I look at Zabarwan hills from my hostel window, it transcends me to a faraway place called Kabul.  A ride in a beautifully decorated Shikara in Dal Lake reminds me of Qarqha Lake in Kabul.

Even the sweet waters of Pahalgam are familiar; they remind me of Paghman in Kabul. The apple orchards outside Srinagar make me relive memories of Bamyan.

Mona Hossaini in Old City , Srinagar.

Kashmiri houses decorated with local rugs are too familiar; it makes you feel like you are home.

One of the most exciting experiences here was when I attended a friend’s sister’s wedding. It was like attending a wedding back home. Not for a single moment I felt out of the place. Even the style of welcoming guests is similar: we welcome them by saying Habib Khoda (God will love you if you have a guest). Though decorations and other customs seem highly influenced by Indian culture, but still it is unique. The best thing was when girls began signing for the bride using Tumbak Naaris  – a cone shaped Kashmiri musical instrument. It was a treat to see girls perform Rouf – a type of traditional dance sequence mostly performed on marriages. There are so many similarities between Afghanistan and Kashmir that I have lost the count. Even the music is familiar.

Visit to Manasbal Lake is one of the memorable days in Kashmir so far. I was left speechless by its beauty. The rays of sun falling over water and occasional showers made it more magical. We even visited a few local houses in the vicinity. I love the way people here treat their guests. I often visit my local classmates’ homes and have lunch with their families. I simply love the way Kashmiris cook their food, especially meat and Waazwan. Trust me I am a big fan of Nun Chai (salted pink tea); back home we call it Shor Chai.

I take leave with Hafez’s Ghazal:

O fragrant morning breeze! The Beloved’s rest­place is where?

The dwelling of that Moon, Lover­slayer, Sorcerer, is where?

Dark is the night; and in front, the path of the Valley of Aiman:

The fire of Toor where? The time and the place of promise of beholding is where?

Whoever came to this world hath the mark of ruin:

In the tavern, ask ye saying: “The sensible one is where?”

A resident of Bamyan Afghanistan, Mona Hossaini ‘Araste’ is pursuing Masters Degree from University of Kashmir.

 Dr Qayum Hamid Changal

I landed in Maldives on January 10, 2014. With dreams in my heart and vision wide and clear, it was a challenge for me. After completion of my bachelors in Medicine, it was my first posting that too outside my own heaven, Kashmir. But undoubtedly, I landed into another heaven on earth, alluring and scenic. As soon as the plane landed at Ibrahim Nasir International Airport in Malé, I could literally see the blue waters all around me.

The airport is located on an Island just 15 minutes drive by ferry from main capital city Malé. First impression is the last impression. The custom officers, as well as other airport authorities were very polite and helpful. I could see foreigners checking in-and-out as Maldives is the favourite tourist destination for the West. Airport is not that big, but it is beautiful. One has to get into a ferry to reach Malé – one of the best developed cities in the Subcontinent.  You literally fall in love with Malé at first sight.

The city is technically organised with strict traffic rules, roads are neat and clean, while shops have lovely ambience. The mode of transportation is air-conditioned and comfortable cabs or taxis. Out of all the cities I have travelled around, I love Malé the most.

Maldives is located in the Indian Ocean, South West of India and Sri Lanka in the Laccadive Sea. Jan S Hogendorn, Grossman Professor of Economics, theorises that the name Maldives derives from the Sanskrit ‘Maladvipa’, meaning “garland of islands”.

Ibn Batuta, the famous medieval traveller, called it as ‘Mahal Dibiyat’ meaning palace. But, the citizens of Maldives call this beautiful country as ‘the sunny side of life’. I too agree with it, the place is so attractive and full of life. If you have a camera in your hand, you won’t stop clicking till the battery is dead. Itself some process starts within our grey matter, and we turn into a photographer. And, the clicks are amazingly superb.

Actually, Maldives is a country with group or chain of islands scattered, encompassing a territory spread over roughly 90,000 sq kms, more than 1100 islands. It is the planet’s lowest country with an average ground level elevation of 1.5 metres above sea level. The official language is Divehi (Maldivian), and it is a hundred percent Muslim populated country. As per the census of 2014, the total population is 341,356. The currency is Rufiya, stronger than INR. One Maldivian Rufiya equals to almost 4 Indian Rupees. Maldives got freedom from the United Kingdom on 26 July 1965. Recently they celebrated their 50th Independence Day with great fervour and enthusiasm.

All the government offices were illuminated, and functions continued for 10 days. Even I joined the flag hoisting ceremony. For the first time in my life I attended any flag hoisting ceremony, and people were literally very passionate about it.

As I said earlier, it is a chain of islands. And, these islands are far away from each other. The 26 natural atolls are categorised into 20 atolls for administrative purposes. These 20 administrative atolls have different names, exactly like we have different districts in Kashmir. And then, each atoll comprises of many islands, inhabited as well as uninhabited. I live in ‘Tha’ atoll, and the Island’s name, where I work and reside is ‘Veymandoo’. Veymandoo has a population of around 2500, and mostly people deal with fishing business. Actually the whole country is dependent on two main sources of income, tourism and fishing. The people mostly are good and greet you with smiling faces. But the literacy rate is quite poor, and very unfortunate to say that the highest rate of divorce in whole world is found in Maldives. The reasons could be many, but personally I find people have least respect for the relationships. It is mainly because dwelling on these smaller islands, they are cut off from the rest of the world, and no religious organisation travels to these smaller islands and spread the word of truth. But, people are very helpful and have immense respect for the foreigners who are working here, especially for Kashmiri people. Actually, we are two Kashmiri doctors on this Island, me and Dr Mushtaq. And, the people are ready to help most of the times.

The food is entirely different as they mostly consume sea food. Traditional Maldivian cuisine is based on three main items and their derivatives: coconuts, fish and starches. Coconut milk called as ‘kaashi kiru’ is used in most of the dishes. Grated coconut is used in dishes such as ‘mas huni’. The favourite fish people mostly consume is Tuna. It is very tasty and fleshy. But, they consume it differently. They just boil the fish and eat. They call it ‘Garadiya’. The tuna-based thick brown paste known as ‘Rihaakuru’ is also an essential item in Maldivian cuisine. Almost all the short eats like ‘Samosa’ or ‘Bajiya’ contains fish. In starch they mostly are rice-eaters, and ‘roti’ made up of wheat. The most important curry in the cuisine of the Maldives is cooked with diced fresh tuna and is known as ‘Mas riha’. They do cook chicken curry as well, but mutton and beef is not in their menu. Thank God! Mutton and beef is available in the market places on the demand of foreign workers. But in restaurants, you will get everything in Malé. From Mughalai to Greek, Thai to Spanish, every food is available to nourish your taste buds.

The culture of Maldives too is entirely different and unique. They usually marry with both bride and bridegroom from the same island only. Thus, most of them are relatives of each other. I have noticed one strange thing on both the Eids here. More than visiting each other’s families on Eid day, they prefer playing various games and performing cultural or folk dance. Maldives is not admired for its beauty only, but their distinctive dance as well. Where I dwell, ‘Bodu-Beru’ is very famous. Though gradually, western music and dance is drawing the roots down, but the traditional dance has its own charm and magnetism. There are other traditional dances as well, but ‘Bodu-Beru’ is more famous and loved among the locals.

Maldives art and crafts is as charming as the place itself. Wooden lacquer ware is a very valuable part of Maldivian history and is quite popular. Simply a piece of local wood that has been hollowed and transformed into bowls, baskets and boxes, lacquer ware are just as beautiful as they are functional. These beautiful artifacts are famous with tourists keeping the local economy ticking.

Boats, locally known as ‘Dhoanis’, narrate the tale of thousands of years of art and engineering that go into their making. Alongside transport and tourist attraction, these boats are used for fishing as well.

The best thing about Maldivians is that they do not discrimination between citizens on the basis of their designation or qualification. In our hospital, from a manager to a sweeper, doctor to a lab assistant, all are called by their names. Everybody is equally treated, in functions all eat and enjoy together. That keeps an atmosphere within the working places friendly. The people display unbreakable unity, be it the moment of happiness or grief. I have been here for two years now. I could not notice any sign of corruption or waywardness in the offices. The banks run smoothly and their government schools are far better than most of our private ones. But, their health facility is little bit weaker as compared to other nations. I think it is because of the transport problem they face, the islands are interconnected by ferries and motor boats. It hampers not only the medical facilities, but also the day-to-day needs of a person, especially when the sea is rough.

How can one forget the breathtaking resorts of Maldives? After every FIFA World Cup, most of the players travel to their favourite destination in Maldives and enjoy the hospitality of world class restaurants. A couple of years ago Lionel Messi visited the place. The resorts in Maldives are counted among one of the most enchanting destinations in the world. The white sand beaches and blue lagoons, tall coconut trees and world class modern facilities, it is the mixture of nature and technology amazingly staged together.

The place is peaceful, crime rate is very low, and police also is very active in its procedures. There are no iron shutters in the shops, only glass screens that show open or close sign. It shows the level of safety people feel, also the faith in system. Like any other place in the world, there are good people and then there are bad people. I am not promoting Maldives, but it is my advice to all that you must visit this place. It pleases our senses and mind, delightful and naturally artistic. The ambience created by God is exquisite, a beautiful view and nature irresistible. This country is verily the ‘Sunny side of life’. Travel and explore, as says Saint Augustine: The world is a book and those who do not travel read only a page.

The author is a doctor and can be mailed at qhchangal@gmail.com. Follow him on his blog at: drqayum.wordpress.com

Journalist Sheikh Qayoom is a grandfather but has not forgotten his childhood winters which were quite different, adventurous and interesting then

Erstwhile Prime Minister of J&K, Bakshi Ghulam Mohammad (L) on frozen Dal.

The winter of my childhood was the season of Arabian Nights – long school vacations, unending sittings with the story teller, and mouth watering foods like smoked fish, dried brinjals, pumpkins, tomatoes, fat goose, rooster and pulses cooked by the World’s greatest chef, my mother.

Precariously hanging icicles, tons of snow, the magic of light and shade created in black and white by that feeble lantern light, a warm Kangri under a tweed Pheran and a carefree age when yesterday and tomorrow did not exist, you lived only in today and made most of it during my childhood.

We had a small poultry and when the fattest rooster was taken out; we knew mother had chosen to prepare a Shabdeg. The preparation of this special dish is something the present generations, I am sure, hasn’t even heard of!

Rooster feathers would be carefully removed so as to leave its skin intact. Turnips extracted from Khau, a deep hole dug in the family’s kitchen garden for winter storing, usually covered by dry straw, would be washed and cut into manageable pieces.

After adding all the required spices, the properly fried rooster and turnips were placed in Deag, a nickel coated copper vessel. The vessel lid was sealed with dough. Over the simmering fire of the traditional Kashmiri hearth lit with firewood the dish would be cooked during the entire night so as to bring the delicacy to right flavour and taste.

Opening of the Shabdeg vessel lid was an occasion. The small kitchen where the family ate lunch and dinner would be filed with an aroma that still teases my taste buds.

Like a master whose work of art was about to be placed on exhibition, mother would serve the dish to all of us. As a matter of rule, mother always ensured that servants of the family ate alongside me and my father. She, of course, would be last in the family to have her lunch and dinner.

Each evening, an elderly relative known to me as Wali Maam would tell a story after dinner. His stories never ended until I felt fast asleep.

He had the magic to transport you into the world of fairies and demons. He spoke of a mammoth bird called the Rook that would left a human being in his claws and drop him on the Koh-e-Kaff. Later, as I grew up, I came to know there actually is a mountain so named in Chechnya!

Maam’s tales always had an indelible moral, the triumph of good over evil. Smitten with the beauty of a girl, the king’s son always abdicated the crown in Maam’s winter tales. I wonder whether princes still do that?  Not that the era of kings and princes has ended in our age.

We still have them as sons of powerful politicians and filthy rich businessmen with just one difference– none of the present day princes have the heart of Maam’s princes and princesses of yore.

The blissful calm of a winter night was neither broken by the mechanical rattle of a motor car nor the rattle of automatic gunfire from an encounter. There were few vehicles around. Those car owners were engrossed enjoying fruits of prosperity that they hardly bothered to disturb the sleep of the less privileged.

Yes, I did occasionally go to see a movie in my childhood which had to be with the explicit permission of father. No child in my childhood could go to the ‘talkie’ unless permitted by the parents.

My mother hardly intervened negatively when I sought permission to see a film. She would fondly throw her hands around me and request father to arrange for the fulfillment of my desire.

I still remember watching Benhur, Solomon and Sheba, and many other classic Hollywood movies. Not that the magic and thrill of Bollywood was any less. Boot Polish, Awara, Aan, Azad, and Madhumati are some of the Talkies I watched in Regal Cinema.

No cinema hall had an electric generator. Whenever, electric supply failed during a ‘film’ there would be  riot among in the ‘Third Class’.

They would howl and shout till supply resumed and sometimes it took hours for the same to happen. Nobody would leave the hall till electricity resumed and the projector rolled the spools.

Women hardly went to the ‘talkies’ in my childhood, or at least I fail to recall if they did.

The type of socializing we see nowadays among children and youth across genders was considered morally inappropriate. I still do not shake hands with women.

I never heard of essential supplies running short because of the blockade of Jammu-Srinagar highway. I hardly even remember an announcement on Radio during my childhood that spoke of the highway blockade hitting supplies.

The Valley definitely had much lesser population, but its survival strength was far greater than it is now. Never were mutton, poultry, eggs and milk imported from outside. The Valley had enough stocks. Though purchasing power of an average Kashmiri was far lesser than what it is today, his power of survival and self-sufficiency was much greater.

Nobody cribbed because the markets are not flooded with junk food. Nobody ate junk food then. It was only the upper middle class that wore Pherans of imported tweed. We had Potu, our own tweed that went into the making of warm clothes including Pherans in winter.

I cannot fully thank the winters of my childhood because of the number of books we would read during those long nights under the feeble lantern light.

Believe it or not, I did my entire early reading of history and fiction during my childhood and youth in winter months. Sherlock Holmes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Thomas Hardy, Perry Mason series, Agatha Christie and Ibn Saifi’s Urdu crime thrillers, all these made my winter evenings delightful when Maam chose to go home to his Islamabad village.

Playing in knee deep snow would often cause chilblains which mother treated by washing our hands and feet with warm magnesia water. Ointments like Iodex hadn’t come into the market then.

Shams Irfan at Pakistani side of Wagha border.

Shams Irfan

Carrying a thousand Salams (greeting) for the Pak Watan (Sacred nation) – from friends, relatives, neighbours, acquaintances, people I know and I don’t know – along with twenty boxes of Kashmiri Kehwa, and a few grams of Saffron, apart from my clothes, I set out on my journey. It was no ordinary journey; after all I was visiting Pakistan.

I was excited; at the same time a bit nervous too. For someone who has not been to Pakistan, or the land of “lawlessness”, as media portrays, being nervous was understood.

With same curiosity and apprehension, I set out towards Pakistan embassy located in central Delhi’s posh Chanakyapuri area.

It was almost noon when me and my cousin Iftikhar Ali Khan, a physiotherapist from Patiala, Punjab reached there. The winter sun was shining over blue dome of this beautiful edifice. After introducing ourselves at the main entrance, we were ushered into a small vacant waiting lounge.

After waiting for half-an-hour we were introduced to a visa officer named Ahmad. He looked more like a military man than a desk officer. It was hard to trace smile on his no-nonsense face. Still, I tried my best shot to expedite the process as we were already late. I told him, “I am from Srinagar.” Then after a short pause I added, “Srinagar, Kashmir.”

Minar-e-Pakistan, Lahore.

He didn’t react. He took our passports and left without saying anything. After two hours or so another officer, this time a bit friendlier one, showed up with our passports. We were finally given visa.

But there was a small issue. We were not given police enquiry exemption. I told the officer that I am visiting Pakistan for a short duration and without exemption most of my travel time will be wasted in visiting police stations.

“The policy has changed. I am sorry I cannot help you,” he shot back without listening to my pleas.

“But I thought you treat Kashmiris a bit differently,” I asked.

“Sorry. But the policy is same for every Indian,” he said in an authoritative tone.

In the evening we left towards Patiala, and then next evening, after getting currency exchanged, we headed towards Amritsar. Next morning, December 18, 2015, we were at the Wagha border post. At the Indian immigration, after being given mandatory polio drops and a certificate that I had been administered them, I was finally in front of the immigration officer.

“You are from Srinagar,” he asked while looking at my passport.

“Yes, I am,” I replied.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“I am a journalist,” I said.

“Kiske khilaaf likhte ho (against whom you write),” he asked while looking at me.

L to R: Abid Saeed Khan, Shams Irfan, Amir Iftikhar, Majid Saed Khan in Islamabad.

I said nothing but smiled at him. After completing the formalities, including checking of luggage etc. we were finally at the six-inch wide white line that divides India and Pakistan.

The officer at the Indian side, after taking a final look at our passports, said, “aap ja sakte ho (You can go)”.

For first one minute after crossing the line I was numb. I had no idea how to react. I was finally in Pakistan. But just to be sure I kept asking my cousin, “Are we there yet.”

The answer came when, a beautiful girl, probably in her late twenties, who was sitting behind the immigration desk, greeted me saying, “Salam Alaikum. Pakistan mai apka khairmakdam hai. (Greeting. You are welcome in Pakistan).”

Then after looking at my passport she said in a rather excited tone, “Aap Srinagar, Kashmir se ho? (Are you from Srinagar, Kashmir).”

I nodded my head in affirmation. Then with same excitement she added, “InshAllah jaldi azaad hoga. (It will be free soon).”

With Anwar Aziz Choudhary (centre).

After meeting my cousin, who had come to receive us at Wagha border, we were finally driving towards his home in Lahore city.

From the day me and my cousin planned our trip I was trying to sketch a rough picture of Pakistan in my mind. But all I could manage, mostly based on images seen on television and internet, was a lawless, insecure and a failed nation that is desperate to get rid of its “terrorist safe heaven” tag.

But as we inched towards Lahore city an altogether different world unfolded in front of me. I was looking out of the window with both excitement and curiosity. Excited to see twelve lane roads crisscross almost entire stretch, and curious to see so many foreign made vehicles plying on the roads.

Lahore is one of the most vibrant and lively cities I have been to so far. I could not agree more when my Pakistani cousin, after my arrival remarked: Jeeney Lahore nahi dekhiya oh jamiyah he nahi (One who has not seen Lahore is not born yet).

After meeting my uncle Saeed Ahmad Khan, who retired as chief accountant of Sohrab Cycle Factory, and other relatives whom I had only known through stories and Eastman colour pictures, we set out to explore Lahore.

It was already midnight when we left home for a drive around the city. I was apprehensive to leave at such late hours because of what I had read or heard about Pakistan. Our first stop was famous Lahore Food Street. There, night was still young, and people were arriving with their families for dinner. Yes, dinner. There is no set time for dinner in Lahore. You will find people coming out with their families at even 2:30 AM for catching quick bite or roadside snacks. It was like being part of an unending festivity that stretches the entire length and breadth of this beautiful historic city.

After tasting a few quick delicacies we went to the interiors of the walled city. Inside one of the 12 gates that once housed entire Lahore city, we ordered tea from one of the famous roadside stalls.

One thing that is common to people across the social and economic gulf is love for food. You will find bon appetite scribed all across their faces when they welcome you in their homes.

One of my cousins said that if you want to offend a Lahorei just tell him that you didn’t like the food he has served. It is the ultimate insult that you can inflict on a Lahorei.

The next day, we went to Androon Lahore (interior Lahore) to taste Taka Tak. It is a fine chop of lamb ribs, chicken heart and many other parts cooked, rather sliced, for an hour on a big pan with half a kg of butter. When the owner of the shop came to know that I am from Srinagar, Kashmir he put some extra butter as a mark of hospitality.

Later in the night, at around 2 AM, I and my Pakistani cousin drove to Bahria Town, some 20 kms from main city Lahore, to drop one of his friends at home. Bahria town is one of the many townships that have cropped up on the outskirts of Lahore in the recent past. Apart from a sprawling bungalow that allegedly belongs to PPP’s political heir Bilawal Bhutto, it houses upper middle class of Lahore.

At this odd hour most of the shops, showrooms, eateries and other stores were open and full of people. We stopped over outside one such shopping arena that houses a movie theatre. As my cousin was clicking picture I saw a group of young boys and girls, dressed up for their night out, step out of their car for late night show. I was told the last late night show starts at around 2:30 AM! Bharia town also houses the eleventh largest mosque in the world famous as Grand Jamia.

Next day, our day usually started afternoon as Lahore is to be enjoyed after the sundown, we visited Badshahi Masjid, Lahore fort and Minar-e-Pakistan.

What I sensed after hours of interaction with common Pakistanis – across the political, economic and social spectrum – is that there is an urge for setting things right. They (people of Pakistan) know that this is their moment of truth. Either they can set themselves free from the chains of corruption, sectarianism, extremism, hatred, and terrorism, or they can fall deeper into the bottomless pit. The choices are discussed at every eatery, on roadside tea stalls, inside busy markets places, in Masjids, schools, colleges, hospitals, virtually, everywhere. The common sentiment is: enough is enough, let’s just cut the crap and move on with living.

The sentiment found voice when few years back government in Punjab proposed a name change for famous Sir Ganga Ram Hospital located in Lahore. Sir Ganga Ram, a philanthropist who is often described as the architect of modern Lahore, has practically supervised the construction of almost every building worth a visit in Lahore. “There was a civil movement against the proposed name change,” said one of the volunteers whom I met at National College of Arts in Lahore.

In the aftermath of Babri Masjid demolition in 1992, Sir Ganga Ram’s Samadhi (tomb) was destroyed by miscreants including many temples in Lahore. Mention that and you could see a sense of guilt taking over almost every youngster’s face. “That was a maddening era,” said one of my cousins during our long interactions. “It was our cultural heritage. That should have been preserved.”

After offering prayers at Dr Sir Mohammad Iqbal’s (RA) tomb, located outside the main gate of Badshahi Masjid, me and my cousins went to National College of Arts (NCA).

Once inside NCA, you feel like entering an altogether different world; it is very much unlike Pakistan that you know or have been told about. It is one of the most progressive and liberal institutes of Pakistan. Founded by British as Mayo College of Arts in 1875, it has produced some of the greatest artists from Pakistan.

As one of my cousins, Majid Saeed Khan heads Films and Television Department of NCA, I had the privilege of interacting with faculty and the students. Though the interaction was brief, it helped bust a few myths.

At NCA, Lahore with Majid Saeed Khan, who heads Film and Televsion Department at the College.

First of all, India or the politics surrounding it is a non-issue for the younger generation; rather they love to talk about importance of art in a society, how one should look at ones cultural assets, how creativity should not have any limitation – religious, social or otherwise – how exchanging ideas or respecting diverse opinions help a society progress, why one must resist renaming of pre-1947 landmarks and much more. “India rhetoric is thing of the past for us. We don’t relate ourselves with that. Please!” said one of the faculty members whom I met at NCA.

A walk around the campus helps you understand why NCA, despite on-and-off criticism from Mullas, has evolved as a symbol of ‘new Pakistan’. Its walls are full of ideas/artworks that defy the dictates of a society that loves to live by self imposed censorship.

Later, I was shown some of the painting done by the students of NCA. It was really surprising to know that most of the paintings were already sold off. I was told that during annual exhibition of work done by the students, people from all over Pakistan visit NCA to appreciate art and buy paintings. It is one grand event people wait for. A students painting is usually sold somewhere between PKR 80 thousand to 5 lakh. And a film, if taken by a private satellite channel can even fetch students up to PKR 2 million.

The success of artists can be gauged by the fact that almost every drawing room I visited in Pakistan has a collection of oil on canvas. It is part of a legacy left by the Britishers who ruled the subcontinent for over 200 years. And Pakistan is still carrying that legacy gracefully.

On our way back from NCA we drove past a shop selling NATO goods. Located on the first floor, the shop’s windows displays military camouflages, gas masks, military boots, and other items customised for American army stationed in Afghanistan. One can buy a good quality protective suit meant for chemical war for just PKR 3000!

There is an interesting story behind how and from where these goods come from. But let us save it for some other time.

Journey to Islamabad

On way to Islamabad, the capital city of Pakistan.

After spending five days in Lahore, which by any case is insufficient to explore this magnificent city, I and my cousins set out towards Islamabad.

The 367 km motorway or M2 that connects Lahore with capital city Islamabad is one of the best roads that you can drive on. Such is the quality of M2 that on many occasions Pakistani Air Force has used this motorway as runway to land, takeoff and refuel its fighter jets! After an hour’s drive, covering more than one third (130 kms) of our journey, we stopped at one of the government facilitated refreshment areas. Interestingly, there is no construction on either side of the M2 right up to Islamabad. One can literally see the changing hues of landscape, vast fields, and green vegetable gardens zoom past while you comfortably cruise at 120 kms/hour.  Every refreshment area has a fuel station, a Masjid, a highway police assistance booth, parking lot, KFC, music shop, eateries offering local cuisines, a free of cost rest room for anybody who feels tired, well maintained washroom, besides a shawarma shop. One can spend entire day at these restrooms. Throughout M2, special arrangements are made for truck drivers who ply during the night, including special rest rooms with comfortable beds.

After three and half hours, including the time we spent at KFC, we were in Islamabad. It was strange for a person like me who has to spend almost an hour daily to commute a distance of 12 kms from Pampore to Srinagar!

If Lahore is loud and lively, Islamabad is sophisticated and silent. You rarely find people honking behind you – it is considered uncivilized.

In Islamabad, we were hosted by my cousin Amir Mateen, a senior journalist and analyst who currently hosts a talk show on ARY News with Rauf Klasra.

Before arriving in Islamabad my cousin Abid Saeed Khan, an artist, painter and a freelance architect, sort of warned me that don’t expect the kind of life you experienced in Lahore here. Unlike Lahore, this city believes in indoor parties held inside well furnished drawing rooms where friends get together to talk politics, literature, art, theatre etc. The highpoint of these parties is food; yes food is central to even Islamabad’s life.

Thanks to Amir Bhai, who threw one such party for us, I got an opportunity to meet some wonderful people. The high point of the party was interaction with Anwar Aziz Chaudhary, a former federal minister in Z A Bhutto’s cabinet, who hails from Shakargarh Tehsil in Punjab, Pakistan. At the prime age of eighty five, Chaudhary Sahab, as fondly called by his friends, is one of the lively souls you can come across in life. As Choudhary Sahab was sharing anecdotes from his illustrious life, it was hard to tell when evening turned into night, and night into dawn.

For the occasion, cooks were specially brought from Peshawar to prepare Dumbah Dum Pukht. Dim light, delicious food, poetry recited by Choudhary Sahab, and a gathering comprising who is who of Pakistan’s media, what else can one ask for!     

My Islamabad trip coincided with PM Modi’s dramatic Lahore stopover. The visit created a buzz in Pakistani media circle, evoking a mix of responses from people across the spectrum. This was probably the first time I found people talking about Kashmir. Though the sentiment viz-a-viz Kashmir is there, but it is not what they live and breathe all day. There are other day-to-day issues that dominate their daily discourse like any other society. But yes, when you tell them that you are from Srinagar, Kashmir, they treat you specially.

There is a visible urgency in people for peace. They have seen enough of bloodshed. You will hardly come across people, and by people I mean all across the social class, who get angry at a mere mention of India. In fact, they feel bad, or rather sad, the way India is reacting to issues related to minorities. “We have been there once. We have been intolerant too. But thank Allah that phase is over. What you see is a new Pakistan,” said a senior journalist. “We don’t want to go back while the world around us is in a fast forward mode.”

Shah Faesal Masjid

Next few days I spent visiting landmarks in Islamabad including Shah Fesal Masjid, Margalla hills etc. In the meantime, I got a chance to attend a wedding in Islamabad. It was quite an experience to know that people strictly adhere to one dish norm in vogue after January 2015 Supreme Court of Pakistan ruling. At half past nine lights were dim inside the marriage hall signalling guests to wind up quickly as 10 PM is the official deadline for all functions. Just five minutes before clock struck 10, bride and bridegroom made their way out of the hall and drove off.

Unlike Lahore, after 10 PM, you will find only chemists and a few essential stores open, rest is all closed.

Reason. The city knows how to celebrate life within the four walls of their homes!

On our way back to Lahore, while resting my head on the back cushion of my cousin’s automatic V8 Mitsubishi Gallant, I began to rewind key points of my visit. The night lights zooming past us played on my mind like the strings of an electric guitar. But, despite a wonderful trip, there was something missing.

On the last day of our stay in Pakistan, my cousin took us for shopping to Liberty Market in Lahore. A semi-circular neat-and-clean market that buzzes with life round the clock, Liberty is a shopper’s delight. On the back side of the market, there are small open air eateries where you can relish your taste buds with chicken Shawarms, mutton kebabs, mutton and beef burgers, fish finger chips etc.

Overwhelmed by the emotions, I took out my cell phone and decided to capture the moment for future. As I was clicking pictures, a tall bearded man, clad in light brown kameez-pajama and a leather jacket, that he had complimented with a Peshawari cap, tapped me on my shoulder.

“Why are you taking picture,” he asked in a rather suspicious tone.

“I am a tourist that’s why,” I replied courteously.

“Where are you from?” he asked in the same tone.

“Srinagar, Kashmir,” I replied.

No sooner I mentioned Srinagar and Kashmir that his expressions changed suddenly; he shook my hands, and after clearing his throat, said, “Aap to hamare khaas mehmaan ho. Jitni photo khenchni hai khencho (You are our special guest. Take as many pictures you want).”

With Sheraz Khan at Liberty Market, Lahore.

Before I could react, he went from one shop to another, pointing towards me and telling the shopkeepers that I was from Kashmir.

Within no time I was surrounded by shopkeepers, shoppers, passersby and who not. They were shaking my hand, hugging me, inviting me inside their shops, asking me to have tea, dinner, snacks etc. with them. The man with Peshawari cap and leather jacket introduced himself as Sheraz Khan. He earns his living by selling ‘selfie sticks’ (PKR 1200 per piece), at Liberty Market. With tears in his eyes he told me that his ancestors are from a village near Gulmarg in Kashmir. His great grandfather, who was a hakeem by profession, migrated to what is now Pakistani Kashmir some hundred years back. Since then his family is living in Pakistan. “I wish I can go to Gulmarg just once. I want to see the land of my ancestors,” he said emotionally while people circling around us patted him in consolation.

As it was getting late, I took my leave from the crowd, and from Sheraz, promising him to return someday and talk to him about his ancestral land. “Insha Allah, Insha Allah,” he said and handed me a ‘selfie stick’ as a gift.

I refused to take the gift thinking that PKR 1200 mean a lot for Sheraz, but he was not ready to let me go without the gift, so was the crowd.

Finally, I took the gift as the crowd around us cheered with joy. Before I bid goodbye I insisted Sheraz Khan to have a picture with me to which he obliged happily. While leaving Liberty Market, I now knew what I was missing. It was the love of Pakistani people that I had to carry back, if not the soil – for which I have been receiving demands in my inbox from Kashmiri friends.

The next morning I and my cousin crossed back with a promise to visit again.

Goodbye Pakistan!

(The author was on a personal visit to Pakistan.)

Mantasha Binti Rashid

Memories of the Gathering: A joint photograph of participants clicked by Irfan Shahmiri.

Two years in America and I know that nothing here is free. If you need to grow a potted plant, you have to buy the soil.If you need a pair of patient ears to open your heart to, you need an appointment with a counsellor. It is not bad to pay for things and services. But it certainly makes you appreciate what you otherwise takefor granted, back home.

When you stop by a corner in any Kashmiri village, people invite you for tea. They hold your hand and pull you in to their home. Hosting you with katlam and kulcha (bakery), some sit around youonly to listen to you. Whether they ate or not, whether they have work to address or not becomes unimportant in those moments of sheer love.

But the similar feeling of selfless love, care and generosity filled all the segments of the Annual Gathering of Kashmiris in North America, held for the first time in the USA, in Washington DC. This three day gathering proved Tyndale Biscoe wrong about the character of Kashmiris that they lack appreciation for their snow clad mountains and crystal clear waters. Seemingly, it requires a physical distance from homeland for the natives to appreciate the landscape, culture and ethos. And perhaps a secure and stable everyday life also. With all his privileges of being a ‘civilized White man’, how could Biscoe really know what it meant to live in deplorable conditions then, and an added insecurity now? Kashmir with all its natural beauty has an ironical paradox of man-made ugliness, in which Kashmiris have lived for centuries.

This event was outcome of the efforts of two Kashmiri Americans – Tahir Qazi and Wajahat Qureshi. Supported by Sumayya Mir and Bazillah Zargar, and a bunch of volunteers, this event attracted 700 Kashmiris living in the US and Canada. Some of them have been living here for more than three decades, while some are a year old in North American continent. The team worked tirelessly for three months to arrange logistics; some Kashmiris set out to prepare the entertainment part, based in history and culture of Kashmir whereas some designed the workshops ranging from Koshur darbaar to environmental concerns in Kashmir.

Young second generation Kashmiri Americans who have no apparent connection with Kashmir personified Habba Khatoon, Lala Ded, Mehjoor, Aga Shahid, Satlal Razdan and other Kashmiri luminaries on stage. The faces of their parents were lit by pride and love when their kids spoke in Kashmiri as it is a hard and conscious attempt to keep your mother tongue alive in a foreign land. It looked no less than an accomplishment for them.

A 13-act play utilized props like jejeer (hubble bubble) and daan (earthen hearth) and highlighted the changes through which families, interpersonal relations and larger Kashmiri culture has gone through, yet trying to maintain its ethos along with a modern lifestyle. The show stopper of the evening was Roff (Kashmiri folk dance) by beautiful Kashmiri women. Donning Tilla Pheran (embroidered cloaks) and traditional jewelry, their grace and energy filled the air with joy.

Rouff in Washington DC.
KL Image: By special arrangement with Dr Shabir Hassan

Various focused events highlighting the initiatives of Kashmiri diaspora in the sectors of education and health were organized. These initiatives are fueled by a desire to give back to their community. At least seven different initiatives in educational sector were discussed which are operational on ground and benefit hundreds of poor but meritorious students across Kashmir. Adopting government schools, providing scholarships, improving teaching methodologies are some of the activities currently undertaken by these organizations. Feedback was invited to improve the quality of education in Kashmir, with an inspiration for younger Kashmiri Americans to join such initiatives. Events for networking and professional reach out were also held.

Kashmir is a small place. This, I realized only when I went to Long Island on my return from the event. Long Island is part of New York State and has more population than Kashmir! I also realized, as I stared at the humongous bridges and buildings through the glass windows of Long Island Rail Road train, that my homeland being such a small place with so many socio-political issues, disappointment and hopelessness is obvious.

I went to Long Island to collect my laptop which I had forgotten in the car of a loving Kashmiri uncle who drove me and others for five hours to Washington, and back. I met him for the first time, and he kept telling me at our departure, ‘yeli 42nd street waatakh, maekarizi phone, nate chu maegasaan tension’ (Call me once your reach the port authority bus terminal on 42nd street lest I freak out). Another uncle kept asking me throughout our journey if I am hungry or thirsty.

Young participants at the gathering.
KL Image: By special arrangement with Dr Shabir Hassan

The commonest story that I recall about my community is about the hot cauldron in the hell. The fiction goes that in hell, cauldrons will be filled with fire and sinners of different identities will be put in separate pots as punishment. The cauldron inside the hell that burns Kashmiri sinners would not be watched by an angel, like others cauldrons of Chinese, Americans or Punjabi people, because Kashmiri community wouldn’t let any one escape the cauldron by holding on to each other’s legs! The moral being that no one allows no one else to escape, to grow or to be better due to envy.

I witnessed the members of the same community about whom this story has been propagated, working blood and sweat for no material benefits whatsoever. It is so interesting that we still look at ourselves through the colonial gaze, the lens of a white European master, who finds faults not only in the daily practices of its subjects but also in their very character. These stories of mistrust, disdain and selfishness are so internalized in our psyche that we have an extremely negative image of our people, our community. I am not suggesting that we do not have issues to address and faults to correct, but do we ever question that what makes us so bitter about each other?

It took me nearly three decades and an environment free of presumptions and assumptions to realize how beautiful we are, as people. The women in the room swarmed to me and held me in such warm embraces that my soul was touched. Just because I read a few lines of my disorganized poetry, they wouldn’t stop appreciating me.

American born Kashmiri children presenting their creations to the gathering.

I heard absolutely nobody criticizing any arrangement. People living in Washington DC donated the carpets they used in their living rooms, for the event. We walked over them in our shoes, which otherwise lay guarded against dust as they cost a fortune. A few youngsters watched over babies, painted their hands and made henna tattoos for them. We are a people who live for others. What we need to belie are the colonial stories which blur our goodness as people.

The precarious conditions which we face on daily basis, the lives of extreme poverty and repression which our forefathers lived under, for hundreds of years, have made us one of the most resilient people in the world. I have often heard us blame each other for supporting opposing sides and thus being hypocrites. How can one judge those people’s character who fear for their lives on an everyday basis. People who begin and end their lives fighting for one thing or the other? People who have seen bloodshed and pain for so long?

On the stage: Hena Kausar, Fareeda and Yanin Fazili.

The best test is when the people are free to act the way they want to, when they live in prosperity, and then choose something, freely. Kashmiri Americans and Canadians chose to sponsor 50-70% of the costs involved in the event, just to host their fellow Kashmiris (which was thousands of dollars!). I have not seen even the richest communities do this. At the same time, like most colonized people, all we know and hear about each other are negative stories.

I wanted to share this story of Kashmiri magnanimity with the readers, wanting them to ponder on what does it take to do good, talk good and believe in good about each other? Getting rid of the colonized and victim mentality and working hard to make things happen is what this event symbolized for a skeptical Kashmiri, like me.

(The author is a Fulbright fellow studying Gender and Policy in the US)

Journalist Baba Umar details his experiences during his maiden visit to London.

London first stuck in my mind like glue when I was a boy. Zan Chi Landan Gatsun (As if you’re going to London), I remember the parental refrain.

Finally I visited United Kingdom, this year. Honestly speaking, the culture shock in the beginning was enormous. I thought the clock fast-forwarded to 2316. The fashion, mannerism, cheerfulness, multi-culturism, buildings, roads and the overall history were overcoming. I found materialistic London tremendously practical.

I had seen London only in movies on the TV sets of Kashmir – plagued by perpetual conflict, militarized minds and borders. But as days passed by, it seemed a familiar territory. I started finding resemblances between the UK and Kashmir. London appeared home away from home. Its lofty Big Ben looked like Kashmir’s Ghanta Ghar – a grandpa figure watching its broods move around.

Thames became my Jhelum

In Kashmir when people speak of UK, it reminds one of the great old days of foreign tourism dominated by the British wanderers and the American hippies. Today it is either the people from Indian plains avoiding the scorching summer sun or the Israeli vacationers trying to figure out if Kashmiris are among the lost Jewish tribes or if prophet Jesus is really buried at Kashmir’s Rozabal neighbourhood.

Our luxurious houseboats are a legacy introduced by the British to Kashmir lakes.

Some of the oldest structures in Kashmir – bombed in the deadly fighting over the years – had British make up. Even the Grindlays Bank – acquired by J&K Bank – overlooking the meandering river Jhelum gives a feel of London in Kashmir.

The upscale market Polo View looks like any shopping lane of the Oxford, mighty Chinar trees replacing slightly short maple trees.

Who could forget cashmere! The mountain-goat-drawn wool and the shawl industry continue to bind the British fashion aficionados with the local Kashmir artists. A cashmere shawl of 1860 and a mid-nineteenth century English lady’s surcoat formed of Kashmir shawl pieces displayed inside the Ashmolean museum at the Oxford explains further the colonial connections.

Even weather is pretty much similar. Only that it doesn’t snow in London these days and Srinagar. Unlike UK, Kashmir’s almost zero contribution to the massive global pollution does not help Srinagar get better snowfall. Srinagar had dry winter in 2016.

It was at the fag end of January when I was told about my selection for the prestigious Chevening South Asia Journalism Program (SAJP) fellowship. I was soon packing my stuff in Oman and rushing to Delhi for my visa. The nine-hour British Airways flight overflew half of the world before landing at Heathrow.

Some friends would always complain about frisking at the Heathrow airport. I was supposed to get goose bumps. But I found it normal. In fact, Kashmir has the world’s strictest airport followed by Tel Aviv’s. The fright of over-frisking and scans at Heathrow proved pure exaggeration.

The first day at London began with a river trip. I was cheery. So were the seven Pakistani and six Indian journalists who would be my colleagues and friends for rest of the two months.

The winter sun shone like a bride in the clear London skies. Thames’ sparkling waters, flying gulls and the tour guide’s narration of London’s history meant the entire trip was going to be delightful and educative. The jet lagging continued for a week though. Many a times I woke up at two in the night thinking it’s morning by the Asian standards. The body clock desperately needed adjustments.

The United Kingdom is a geographic amalgam of England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland regions. Scotland recently chose to stay with the UK in a referendum vote thus ending speculations of a new country emerging from the northern tip of the island nation. Allowing such resolutions is the hallmark of mature democracies like the UK. Mature, because the region I come from is a witness to militarized governance that peddles democracy. A peace-line divides protestant and catholic neighborhoods of Northern Ireland. From 18 in the early 1990s there number rose to 48 since the Good Friday Agreement of 1998 or Belfast agreement – reached after nearly two years of talks and 30 years of conflict that killed around 3600 people and injured thousands.

The Irish-model has been for long proposed to be one of the solutions to Kashmir dispute that will give away Hindu and Muslim provinces of the region to India and Pakistan – both nuclear rivals locked in a bitter conflict over the Himalayan territory since 1947 when Britain ended its rule in the sub continent.  This is something on the lines of Sir Dixon Plan of 1950 as well that suggested Chenab as the border.

Chevening SAJP fellowship allows a peek into British media practices and the politics. I was told print media in the UK is fast shrinking and has declined by almost 40 percent in the last ten years only. The Independent stopped publishing recently. In fact I grabbed the last Independent on Sunday copy at the airport (March 20) while flying back to Muscat. The last print edition of The Independent was published on March 26. At its summit, sales hit around 428,000 copies a day and 25 years later, it sold only 28,000.

Online media has offered a strong belligerence to the traditional print media over the years.  Sales of almost all print outlets including The Guardian, The Telegraph, Daily Mirror and others have gone down drastically. Media jobs are hard to get.  Downsizing is rampant. Interestingly, free paper London Evening Standard is the winner. Launched 188 years ago, its circulation is touching a million. In 2015, it urged people to support the Tories in the election. It’s handed over to passersby and pedestrians at all busy nerves of London. Others grab a copy at the kiosks inside tubes, shops, and supermarkets. 90 percent of the waste at the tubes, buses and parks could include this paper. Rest is often pigeon droppings.

In the past few months, debate on Brexit – wordplay of ‘Britain’ and ‘exit EU’ – has dominated the news space. Come June UK will decide whether or not it should remain in the EU. Refugees of Middle East and threats from ISIS are often discussed in news and commentaries. UK’s flagship anti-radicalization strategy – Prevent – is also debated often. Pummeled by critics it’s seen as pure racial, cultural and religious profiling that targets Muslims mostly.

I discussed Prevent with a Kashmiri family living outside London for past 48 years. “Those days the UK needed us. Today it doesn’t,” they said describing their flight emigration from Mirpur (PaK) in 70s and growing Islamphobia in this decade that has torn the social fabric in most of the country.

Most of the Pakistanis came from PaK as economic migrants. Besides remaining media-illiterates, they remain fragmented and lack professional training in working with the media thus allowing the dominant narrative work against them.

A top Pakistani government official stationed in London said: “Our Kashmiris need to adopt UK as their home now. But they are still stuck in a time warp of 70s.” Unlike other Asian immigrants, Pakistani Kashmiris have lagged way behind in education. Their youngsters are more concerned about making money by hard work than education. The marriages often occur amongst first or second cousins who share the same lineage or Birdari (clan) back in PaK.

Nowhere else is Kashmiri diaspora as large as UK. Unlike Palestinians, they are weak and mired in their own issues and lack capacity to strengthen Pakistan’s soft power in UK or lobby for Kashmir.

I also found Pakistan and India both critical and important to the UK’s foreign policy. The Chinese investment of $46bn in Pakistan is looked upon with doubt despite China investing $60bn in the UK too. With India, the UK looks forward to a strong relationship. Both countries are on the same page when it comes to India’s bid to enter permanently in the UNSC or Global Nuclear Suppliers Group.

While the UK wants to see de-escalation of tensions between both Pakistan and India, its stance on Kashmir is “neutral”. This is despite Kashmir dispute is considered as British legacy in subcontinent.

The fellowship also offered me an opportunity to interact with all the Pakistani colleagues who came from different backgrounds and circumstances. One thing I will always cherish is their love for Kashmiris. The male journalists were very vocal. Every night we would play Pashtoon, Kashmiri or Punjabi songs and relish the delicious food cooked by a Pashtoon journalist. Debates over cricket and then conflict would often end up with pledges to work hard for our societies. While we sharing our stories, we found we all came from modest backgrounds who had to struggle to sustain studies.

Some of the best brains for this fellowship came from India as well. It was a group of very strong journalists who knew their work and have already won laurels for their effort in journalism. It was fun to listen to their arguments and share my experiences as a Kashmiri journalist.

Together we spent a great time visiting many UK media outlets and NGOs. Our visits to BBC, The Economist and NGOs like English PEN, Chattam House, Reprieve and Transparency International were momentous. Listening to experts was a huge experience. Insights of Andy Sparrow on Media Credibility in the Age of Internet and Insurgency, Jean Seaton on Intolerance and Media: Case study Northern Ireland, Rosie Thomas on Bombay Before Bollywood: Film City Fantasies and Aaqil Ahmed on Challenges and Opportunities of Religious Programming in the UK were outstanding. Listening to Kashmir dispute expert Victoria Schofield at the House of Lords was incredible. She pushed for resolution of the Asia’s eyesore saying, “Kashmir has become too dangerous to neglect.”

Journalists at the War Zone Freelance Exhibition offered a sneak peek into the dangerous world of freelance journalism in Middle East. The stringers and freelancers remain underpaid and are rarely acclaimed despite their great role in getting out stories.

There are no words to describe how much I loved to hear James Meek speak about his work on how the wealthiest and most powerful in the West have turned the Robinhood myth to their advantage. I had a great time speaking with the environment students at the Oxford who had gathered at the Reuters Institute sponsored Science and Media workshop. It was a great feeling to share stage with veterans like Roger Harrabin, BBC News Environmental Analyst, and other environment experts to discuss ‘what should be role of the media in framing a post-Paris climate agenda?’ The gathering was also significant since my research topic touched the water aspects of the Kashmir conflict.

I had a trip to the House of Commons and House of Lords. In free time we strolled through posh South Kensington neighbourhood, Oxford Street, Trafalgar, Marble Arch and Hyde Park, passing some iconic landmarks on the way. Researching at the grandiose British Library was real fun. The building houses manuscripts, books and records of outstanding importance for all eras, countries and disciplines.

The visit to Imperial War Museum was very useful. One unusual thing that caught my eye was a Pakistan-made Honda motorbike captured by the British forces from the retreating Taliban scouts in Afghanistan. The information plate pasted nearby reads: “Lacking western technology, the Taliban gather intelligence the old fashioned way – in person”. IWM (Imperial War Museum) is a great place to see. It tells the story of people who have lived, fought and died in conflicts involving Britain since the First World War.

The final week ended with a debate on Intolerance. We discussed why and why now, the intolerance has taken different forms in the UK, India and Pakistan? We discussed how media has the tendency in these regions to stoke intolerance and what impact does intolerance has upon culture and freedom of expression?

Overall the fellowship was productive, positive, and enjoyable. The entire trip forced me to question what I thought I knew, and learn how much I had yet to explore in this shared world.

Baba Umar

(Kashmiri journalist Baba Umar works for Times of Oman and is based in Muscat. He was in London on Chevening South Asia Journalism Program (SAJP) fellowship.)

Mohammad Raafi

Route to Pahalgam never stops fascinating you. It is not only ‘picture perfect’, but equally intriguing, making one feel: whether it is meeting the fate of Punjab. Such is the flip the highway down the south Kashmir is getting.

To have a ‘departure from usual’ moment, we left Srinagar early dawn to bypass the traffic snarls. Beyond Panthachowk, the track almost offered no hindrance. After passing through spring-caught fields, we reached Cheeni Wudur, now Apple Valley. We stopped there at a local tea stall to have a tea.

We were told that the village was once the hotbed of militancy. But now, it was responding to tourist-thrown economy. It too housed several signature highway tea stalls and restaurants for tourists and travelers. 15 minutes later, we resumed our drive to Pahalgam.

With our destination still 30km away, the driver drove on the route passing through Bijbehara via Srigufwara to Pahalgam. The route is the new alternate to the erstwhile Khannabal Pahalgam route that was built for Amarnath yatris by the late CM Mufti Muhammad Saeed.

Scenes were no different in Srigufwara: the aromatic fresh air making rounds over the village. With the changing time, the once dreaded bunker was no more dotting the landscape there. It was nearly impossible to travel through the route for the fear of psychological torture that the army would subject one to some years ago. Times have changed so have the mood. Like Cheeni Wudur, Srigufwara was opening to south Kashmir’s tourist rush. It has also become a small business hub, housing scores of restaurants and tea stalls. Many travel-weary tourists stop at these spots to have refreshment.

The route that we followed left us in awe and admiration of nature. We drove through a splendid view of the majestic Himalayan Range. The Lidder River gurgled past us. The water level was high due to the onset of summers.

We were still one good hour away from Pahalgam. As we drove past huts, women carrying pitchers and children walking towards schools, we reached Pahalgam. Snow-capped mountains, lush green and rugged landscape make the health resort—also called the ‘valley of shepherds’—one of the most popular holiday destinations in Kashmir.

The calm and tranquil enveloping the hill station is astounding to say the least. Away from concrete city jungles, the beauty of nature was indeed captivating.

Upon halting at Pahalgam for 30 minutes, our van straightaway drove us to Betaab Valley. The Valley is towards northeast of Pahalgam and falls between Pahalgam and Chandanwadi. It is surrounded by lush green meadows, snowy peaks and covered with dense vegetation. By now we were all not-reachable. The phone signals were down.

Deep into the woods, Betaab Valley turned out to be like any other destinations: concretized and mishandled. Macadamized roads have been built on postcard landscape, thus eroding its beauty quotient. The manhole concrete rings used around trees further take sheen out of the place. Two concrete lavatories and an administrative block have been constructed deep in the jungle. The concretization that has entered into the resort has ended up making mess with it.

But we never let the glaring eyesore spots to derail fun and frolicking. We were now cut off from the rest of the world; chattering, eating melons and enjoying while time was passing. After a break of 1:30 minutes, we drove down to Pahalgam for a scrumptious meal. Quickly, our ride took us to our next destination, Aru.

We drove uphill to Aru Valley, 11km from Pahalgam, nestled at an altitude of 11,800 ft. It was ultimate destination and one of my favorites. The reason why we had travelled 120 odd km from Srinagar, as our boss puts, was to take a break from daily routine. We drove through a wildlife sanctuary that erupts into a riot of colours in April and May.

What a view: snowcapped mountains, deep blue skies! It was an hour-long awe inspiring drive to Aru: a bumpy ride worth every minute. As soon as you step on the grounds of Aru, you need time to let the beauty of your surroundings sink in. Each step we took was like walking through Paradise. Literally!

It’s such a picturesque and serene place. The views kept changing as the Sun set on the mountains.

On both sides of the road, there were the thin branches of the trees erected high. The sky was crystal clear. It was the truest blue I had ever seen. Snow-borne peaks all around had a thick forest cover: the green of the trees visible beneath the white canopy.

For the next few hours, we walked, strolled, hiked and wandered in the valley in total silence. We grew acutely aware that we were trespassing on the un-trodden land.

The 120 odd km 3-hour drive from Srinagar took us along winding roads with the river Lidder flowing beside us and prayer flags fluttering at intervals.

At Aru, it was fascinating to see people braving all odds, taking steep tricky treek, to reach the spot where paragliding was done. Started by Ibrahim, a native of Pahalgam, this adventure sport is a new in thing. A short ride from the ridge costs just Rs 1000. While the longer ride sets you back by Rs 2000. But, every minute of the glide is worth the money you spend. Next time when you are in Aru, make sure you take a glide over lush green meadows, though pine, and land at by the side of white water stream.

Before calling it a day, we sat down by the side of the stream and drank tea. This was one of the best part of our day long journey.

  To my utter surprise, the trip more than replenished my sense of waning cosmic consciousness. It was a soul stirring experience, reaffirming my belief that it is impossible to overcome the lure and fascination of the Himalayas if you love mountains. Right from Pampore onwards, the breath-taking views at every turn of the Srinagar Jammu highway imprint images in the mind.

By: Heena Muzzafar

One fine morning I and my cousin, Nousheen, who is more a friend than a cousin, decided to refurbish an old ancestral structure, located near our home and convert it into a shop.

As we were done with planning and cost estimation part needed for the refurbishing, we impatiently waited to implement it. Since it was the month of Ramadan, we decided to do it after Eid ul Fitar.

After Eid, on July 8, 2016, while sipping tea we began planning the purchase of required raw material. It was evening and we decided to leave early next morning.

Suddenly my sister Nida came running and said, “Tuehyii buezwa Burhan goew shaheed (did u hear Burhan was martyred).”

Thinking she had got it wrong, we teased her, and continued with our plans. But when she showed a picture of Burhan’s corpse in blood, there was no doubt about what Nida had said.

For a while I became numb. I couldn’t feel my hands. Without knowing what to do, I began playing Burhan’s videos, all of them, back-to-back.

Around half-an-hour later, attracted by the noise, I and my cousin went outside to check the situation. There was chaos everywhere, people were shutting their shops in panic; private vehicles were skipping past quickly, trying to avoid trouble. Not knowing what coming days had in store, we went back to our respective homes and began mourning silently.

That night dinner was served with an air of uncertainty as everybody kept his fingers crossed. The night passed slowly. I began thinking that “normalcy” will return in a few days, at most in a week’s time. But I was wrong.

The next morning, at 6 am, I was woken by the noise of whistles. I tried to find out the source of noise but found nothing as our house is located on the back side of Nallah Mar road. Still, I kept looking out of my bedroom window. Instantly, I was reminded of long curfews I had witnessed as a kid.

To be honest, though the noise was disturbing, but I was not afraid. Living in downtown or Shehr-e-Khas helps you overcome such fears.

In order to get update about other parts of Kashmir I logged into a news website, but, as I had perceived, the internet connection was already snapped. Later I realised that even making a call is not possible from a pre-paid phone.

In the meanwhile, I heard one of uncles shout: “Yimaw zalemow duet ni nimazi nearnii, choett anninich channi kathii (These oppressors did not even allow us to say prayers, buying bread is out of question).”

I tried to sleep again but could not because of the noise. Instead, I offered prayers and had breakfast. With nothing else to do, I grabbed a copy of the newspaper and began reading.  The news of Burhan’s killed ruled the entire front page. With no working phone, no internet and no way to go outside as curfew was imposed in entire old city, it felt like living in the dark ages.

With no communication, I began to worry about my father’s cousin sister, Rafiqa Sana-u-llah, who was battling stage four small celled lung cancer.

I vividly remembered her last visit to our house in June. Actually, she had insisted my father for one ‘last visit’ to our house, where she had grown up as a kid. When she arrived, I remember how frail she had turned because of the illness. As the news of her arrival spread, all our relatives and friends from the locality came to visit her. After everybody left, I sat alone with her. Suddenly she said: mea treawzii aabi naer (I want you to pour some water when they give me burial bath). I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. On July 18, exactly tenth day after Burhan’s death, she died in Zakura, 7 kms from our home. A cousin of mine, who braved all odds, and reached our home at night to let us know about her death.

After the news of her death sunk in, we began exploring ways of visiting Zakura. Since we had just two cars available, and the situation outside was tense, I and a few other cousins were asked to stay back. For the entire night I wept for not honouring her last wish.

The next morning, while she was carried for burial, mourners were stopped by CRPF at Mirza Kamil (RA) chowk and asked to go back. Only four people were allowed to accompany her for burial.

The following days proved even painful for entire Kashmir, especially for those living in downtown who had limited access to essentials. In order to feed their families people used to visit Sabzi Mandi in wee hours and get stock of vegetable that would last weeks. The spirit of unity made people share things with those who were less fortunate and economically weak. As houses are constructed in close proximity in old city, distributing eatables among the needy was easy.

Every morning, at 6 am, CRPF men would come and start terrorizing people by blowing whistles with such intensity that would wake us all. They would beat shop shutter, abuse randomly and kick everything that they could. It was like our daily alarm, but an unwanted one. Around daytime, youngsters would gather on the streets and engage forces in pitched stone pelting battles. Forces would often retaliate by firing tear-gas shells leaving people gasping for fresh air.

One day at 6 pm, we forgot to keep our front gate closed, before the stone pelting started. When I rushed out to close the gate, I heard a loud bang hitting the gate. It was a pellet shot fired by a CRPF person, stationed nearby. Had I not closed the door on time, I might have been hit. Then I heard another noise, this time a different one. The same CRPF person has hit a car’s windshield with his gun, smashing the glass into pieces.

On September 5, I remember vividly the terror filled moments, when CRFP men almost entered our house. It was 7 pm and everyone was busy watching news. All of a sudden we heard our neighbour shout for help. Our neighbour’s daughter climbed from the window and entered first floor of our house, to save herself from the wrath of CRPF men, who were trying to break into their house. CRPF men had already broken all window panes of her house. In frustration, the CRPF men broke into our neighbour’s pen, and took out a chicken and held it in air by its neck. It literally chocked the poor soul to death.

From 10 am till mid-night, mosques would play pro-freedom songs praising Burhan’s martyrdom. However, despite provocations from both sides, there were no fatalities in downtown.

On August 3, the first causality from downtown was Riyaz Ahmed Shah, 23, an ATM guard of Chattabal. Entire pellet cartridge was emptied into his stomach by CRPF men stationed near his house. His killing triggered massive protests.

Next day stringent curfew was placed and people were not allowed to move even through lane and by lanes.

The next bad news came on August 22, with the death of Irfan Ahmad, a 17-year-old boy from Fateh Kadal.

Irfan was the sole bread earner of his family, who died after a “non lethal” tear gas shell hit him in the chest. As his body was taken for funeral to Eidgah, announcements were made from the mosque loud speakers, asking people to come out.

I remember sitting in the third storey, alone, engrossed in my thoughts, feeling helpless. A week later, I and my cousins visited Zakura to mourn our aunt’s death. On our way back, we saw people sitting on the roadside, keeping a vigil, trying to stay together as they feared CRPF might attack their houses at night.

After offering my condolences, I finally got chance to sit with my cousin Nousheen, the same one with whom I had made plans to start a business. But instead of talking about our venture, she reminded me how our aunt waited for me till her last breath. We also talked about how we survived these difficult times at our respective houses.

Then on September 1, another boy named Danish Haroon, who was just 12, was chased to death by CRPF men in Noorbagh. He jumped in to Jhelum River to evade arrest. Before his killing nocturnal raids in parts of downtown had become a routine. The entire locality looked like a war zone from some movie. People had covered their windows with blankets and ply board sheets. This was done to protect windows from CRPF men, who would often throw stones at residential houses.

On September 9, I went to attend a cousin’s nikkah ceremony, originally to be held in August. The same day CRPF men allegedly beat Abdul Qayoom Wangnoo of Aali Kadal to death at Hyderpora. I heard about Qayoom’s death while coming back from my friend’s house.

Even today I cannot forget how teargas shells, pepper gas and PAVA shells, “a chilli based less lethal munition”  that is strong enough to temporary paralyze the target, almost chocked me to death.

I thought if I given a choice between pepper gas and PAVA, I would definitely choose pepper, as I had somehow become accustomed to it. But PAVA is like slow poison. It chokes you.

A day later, one of woman from our neighbourhood broke her arm, while chasing an armoured vehicle, who had come to raid a local Hurriyat leader’s house. In retaliation CRPF men hit her hard and broke her arm. Within days another young boy, who was barely 12, was killed by CRPF men in Saidapora. I still remember his name: Junaid Ahmad Akhoon. He was hit by in the chest and head with pellets. It took lots of efforts and protesting to get his body from the forces.

One evening I left home with my cousin Suhail Shafi thinking situation has normalized a bit, but I guess we were wrong.

When we reached near Noorbagh chowk, we came across hundreds of people, who held candles in their hands, and had burned tires and wood on the road. We were asked to stop by a group of boys who instructed us to switch off the headlights of our car. It was both scary and impossible to judge the road in darkness. Still my cousin somehow managed to drive me to the safety of my home. Once home I heard a neighbour’s one-year-old kid say loudly: Azaadi.

The post Curfew Diaries appeared first on Kashmir Life.

By: Tabish Rafiq Mir

Author with his friends in Chennai

Streetlights and supermarkets, shopping malls and ships, traffic lights and terraces, autos with meters and buses with tickets (and not sprouting with people): I hadn’t been warned.

Men with women, animal rights and MNCs, automatic automobiles and cleanliness drives: I hadn’t been warned.

Female drivers and polite police, freedom of speech and right to information, successful businessmen and criminals in prison: I hadn’t been warned.

The rivalry and subconscious animosity between the two hemispheres of the Indian subcontinent that has been much spoken and debated about almost evaporates when you are from Kashmir. It is perhaps because we find more in common far down south than we do anywhere on the way down south: dissent and tradition, traditional dissent, seditious tradition, and traditional seditious dissent.

What I had been warned of was pot-bellied burly men, curly moustaches, and omnipresent knives dripping with blood, and the nerve-racking language gap.

I was also warned of nubile teenagers with sweaty palms, and machine brains. And coconut oil: lots of it. And flower garlands: a lot many of them. Personally, I am neither a fan of nature, nor technology. But I like to observe. I like to see what people do with it, and what it does to them.

“The unbiased transitional review of a Kashmiri in South India,” I thought to myself.

The roads were big and the traffic was fluidly mobile, long lanes of parallel traffic coursing through the veins of the city. Under streetlights which were: working and not stolen. The pedestrians stayed on the footpaths too: strange phenomenon.

The roads weren’t dark and desolate after 8 pm, and in fact, the world worked all night as well. Night shifts: never heard of them before.

Six years away from home and I had forgotten what power cuts felt like. I had forgotten the warm light cast by the candles before the Inverter-Generator-renaissance began. The power cuts – I had almost missed them.

From the airport to the apartment, I saw countless local movie posters, most of them a strange mix of sweet romance and bloody battles. Later, I saw none of the either in the people who live here. Typical Indian cinema: always failing to represent the life as it is.

This was my first day in Hyderabad.

Now that I know better, the cinema here almost sets a trail or a trend you can pick on. The Telugu theatre for fantasy -heroism; Tamil theatre for realism; and the Malayali for the much needed utopia, parts of which can be found in whatever movies the Kashmiri cinema manages to make, which also has a lot in common with the Persian counterpart.

I had been outside Kashmir before, of course: multiple times on vacation. But to experience something, you have to live it, and be part of it; in the form of an academic degree, or a deportation. For a Kashmiri, there isn’t much difference.

My first day at school was… strange. I could swear something was missing. Ah, the bittersweet smell of intense deodorants and hairstyles from every head. Instead, I saw productivity. I saw debates and seminars, and science fairs and fashion shows, and everything one could manage to fit on a productive scale of diversity.

In Kashmir, one does not replicate hairstyles from local men travelling to India anymore. This is the age of the internet. Whatever is famous all over the world is brought to us as immediately as it is to the rest of the aesthetics-loving audience every-else-where in the world.

Men and women compete in grooming, and the competition is intense, sometimes paralleling the political rivalries. Sometimes, even for the top grossing lipsticks. May god smite me if I am lying?

While Kashmir has an idea of a woman as a different sex, meant for a different set of work, women in the rest of (South) India are partners, both at home and at work.

It would be redundant to mention that the condition is the same in rural areas, both in Kashmir and in the South making a reluctant, hesitant run for it. The politics there seem to be more promising, though.

Females back home are elusive, which is why they are looked upon as something you have to impress in order to achieve validation or credibility. The eternal thirst for the forbidden fruit, I think. In Biscoe, we would deliberately pass by and through the girls’ Mallinson to show off our new rebellious shoes, loose ties, and ornamental Cleopatric hairstyles. Most of us, had in fact, spent an hour or two on the same every morning. Long lumberjack beards (which I could never boast of), and bleached facial hair otherwise: The oxymoronic blend of primitive manliness and the colloquial contemporary effeminacy.

We could live with an insufficient diet over the summers to save up for clothing brands. It was contagious. I wouldn’t be surprised. Winters were particularly expensive with bigger bulkier (more expensive) clothing.

Convent Girls School was the exotic fraternity every teenager longed to impress.

Your life circles around making lives better and/or worse for the women, and that is why a Kashmiri finds living outside Kashmir a social and a cultural challenge. There is only so much that isn’t unethical or offensive.

The biggest worries on our minds included acne. Do not blame us. We had enough data packs, and insufficient syllabi and overabundant strikes and curfews to waste our time.

What do a people do when there are no jobs and very little education? What do god-fearing Sufi romantics do? They style their hair, and perfume their clothes.

There is the traditional religious Tamil Nadu, and then there is the traditional Sufi Kashmir.

There are the culturally aware and proud Tamilians, and then there are the culturally proud Kashmiris.

There are the Dhotis for the summer extremes, and there are the Phirans for winter atrocities.

There is the South, and then there is the North.

“The unbiased transitional cultural review of a Kashmiri and a Tamilian,” I think to myself.

The post Streetlights and Hairstyles appeared first on Kashmir Life.

Kabita Kharka

I had always heard about the beauty of Kashmir. Snow-capped mountains, lush green forests, fresh meadows and a variety of flowers is how I used to picture Kashmir. Beside this, I was also aware that Kashmir is an active conflict zone.

Before coming here I tried to find Kashmir in Google maps. I just wanted to get an idea about its geography etc. Then I clicked to check the picture of the place. But to my surprise, hundreds of pictures with men wearing Pheran popped up. The pictures included Indian army men roaming in civilian areas. There were endless pictures of common people who looked traumatized with terror. Then onwards, I started to picturize Kashmir in a way which I had never before.

However, Google could not change my decision of enrolling for a master’s program in Kashmir University. And my speculations about the place changed completely once I landed here. The heavy deployment of men in uniform and continuous strikes welcomed me during my initial days.

Being a resident of South Bhutan and having travelled the Indian border highways throughout West Bengal and Assam, it was not an unusual scenario for me.  There were many commonalities. I found myself relating my experience in Assam to that of Kashmir.

Months passed and we got into a busy schedule in the department. Soon the autumn came and trees started to shed their leaves. Chinars started glowing with its beautiful red and golden leaves. The entire area around KU was lit with golden and yellow trees. It was that time of the year when I would just sit under a tree and immerse myself in the beauty of nature.

Soon days became colder, and before the chillakalan finally arrived, we were back to our country for a month long vacation.

In Bhutan, people would stare blankly when I would tell them I am pursuing a master’s program in Kashmir University since last one year. One person asked me, “How are you even alive? Did they not shoot you?”

It was difficult to stop them from looking at Kashmir through the prism of security. It is time to break the stereotype. I thought, one has to die first to see the heaven. People need to visit Kashmir at least once to understand the place.

Author alongwith other South Asian and native students at one of their friends’ home in North Kashmir’s Sopore in summer this year.

Despite such breathtaking natural beauty Kashmir’s tourism industry is suffering. There is no infrastructure for tourists. Even the basic amenities are missing. I guess 26 years of conflict has taken a toll on tourism. Media can play an important role in creating a positive image of the place. It can help in breaking the stereotypes.

In order to understand Kashmir and its people, one must visit a Kashmiri household. My visit to native friends homes is always memorable. I love the way my friends’ mothers kiss and hug me  before letting me in their homes. In my country such warmth is only shared between close family members or blood relations.

Reading books and a little research about Kashmir helped me to understand the place in a better way. I understood that Kashmir’s geographical location has made it an important link between South Asia and the Central Asia.

Many religions and sects like Shaivism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam and Sufism flourished here without any problem.  To this day one can find Sufi shrines all over the valley, which draws millions of people throughout the year. Same way Shaivism flourished in the Valley. One can relate it with the Amarnath Yatra, which begins from the pristine valley of Pahalgam, drawing millions of Hindu pilgrims each year.

However, I was interested to understand Buddhism in Kashmir. So I travelled North to Ladakh. To my surprise when I reached Leh I found that it was just like Bhutan.

There are hundreds of Stupas, Monasteries, Goenpas, Palaces built in Tibetan architecture, by mighty Buddhist kings. The great King Kanishka (78AD-114AD) had built many temples and monasteries throughout the Indian   subcontinent including Ladakh.

Kabita Kharka (Third from right), a Bhutanese, along with her other South Asian mates in Gulmarg in 2014.

Holy Buddhist texts, scriptures and relics were carefully preserved in Leh Palace and Thiksey monastery.

Huge statues of guru Padmasambhava, Lord Buddha and many other deities, gods and goddesses are still found inside those temples. Buddhist schools are located in various parts of the city, one could hear monks praying and reciting the holy books. I was immediately taken back to my country where I would visit any monastery and sit silently for hours listening to those hymns.

After talking to locals I found out that due to religious affinity and cultural similarities Ladakhis are very warm towards Bhutanese. They circled me and started asking about Bhutan and its people.

I met a few Tibetan refugees who have now settled in Leh. They speak Tibetan fluently which I could understand almost entirely because Bhutanese also speak Dzongkha, which has basically originated from Tibetan script.

For a region which has so much to share, history, culture, religion, and language, it is very important for us to connect with each other. Though borders have divided us, one needs to have indivisible connections to link with each other. Our history, our past needs to be instilled in us and passed on to generations to come. Who would have thought I would find a mini Bhutan in Kashmir!

The post Bhutan In Kashmir appeared first on Kashmir Life.

By Shah Faesal

On February 16, morning I started off from Baglihar with my team of engineers to take stock of pre-construction works of one of the most ambitious hydropower-projects of J&K – 1856 MW Sawalkote HEP – first conceived in early 1960’s. For me, it was a unique journey because I had never been to any place in the interiors of Jammu division. No doubt I have always justified my ignorance as a part of the larger disconnect between people from three regions of the J&K State – Jammu, Kashmir, Laddakh – with very few of us in one region interested in the life and culture of people in the other region. But nevertheless, this ignorance has always bothered.

We followed the narrow road that takes off from Srinagar-Jammu National Highway towards Tanger. If it rains, it is very risky to travel in this area due to likelihood of shooting-stones and landslides. But the weather was pleasant. The road winds along the mountains on the left bank of mighty river Chenab, goes up and up in a dizzying spiral, pine enclaves, glacial streams, scattered habitations and blind curves making it a roller-coaster ride. All along the journey, I was calculating with myself the likely expanse of future Sawalkote reservoir and the submergence it would cause. The age old dilemmas of maintaining a balance between needs of the man and needs of the nature, the imperatives of sustainable development were running in a loop inside my mind. The mountains echoed with so many questions that accompany the process of development.

Nevertheless, we drove with care along the meandering mountain road, the under-construction railway track running along the ridge-line on our left like an evenly placed razor-cut in the cheek of a beautiful child. At many places where the side-slopes had shed their burden of gravel, a few yellow-coloured earth-movers moved their dreadful tentacles, scooping loose soil with anger, more so because their sahib was on tour. It was an interesting sight to see machines trying to please a man. I was told that in-spite of hundreds of crores of investment, the mountain was just not ready to yield and while we cleared the track ahead the mountain filled it back behind us. This tussle between the mountain and our engineers has been going on for long now and both sides have not been giving up.

Gazebo-Temple

At Tanger, while we talked about minimizing the environmental impact of the project, I noticed an amazing ancient pyramid-like structure built entirely of wood.

The locals informed me that it was a very old Naga Devta temple that has been there in the village for-ever. I called it a Temple Gazebo because it was a beautiful structure of shingles raised over four large beams of wood in a square foundation. There is a small stone-ridge in the centre of the temple which reminded me of Harmukh. In fact I had a little theory that may be the temple had been constructed to replicate the shape of Harmukh Mountain along with the conical rock underneath. Harmukh is the home of Shiva, one of the principal deities of Kashmiri Hindus.

It was a pleasant coincidence that I had come across this lesser-known monument at a time when Kashmiris were celebrating Herath– a festival deeply rooted in the inclusive culture of Kashmir.

At around hundred metres from this site, I found the ruins of an ancient temple along with two mounted rock-horses.

These rock-horses are regularly found in this area and some researchers say these have Greek markings and may have something to with arrival of Alexander the Great to this part of the world many centuries back. Some say that these rock monoliths depict the life of Gujjar-Bakerwal nomads who undertake seasonal migration- transhumance. Yet another opinion is that these are like the Terracota Army of Qin Shi Huang the first emperor of China. This mystery has not been resolved yet.

Then, I traced a rock panel with many deities carved on it. This sculpture shows a female with something like a pitcher over head. I have not found any record related to this so far. May be the mystery can be solved by archaeologists.

This sculpture shows a female with something like a pitcher over head. I have not found any record related to this so far. May be the mystery can be solved by archaeologists.

Local residents told me that although this village has a mixed population, the Hinuds and Muslims have been living in perfect harmony. Due to onset of developmental activities in the area, people are happy that they are getting jobs at their door-step. But development also brings along tensions and greed and it was heartening to see that the locals want to enjoy the developmental spin-offs associated with mega-project without giving up on their traditional values of brotherhood.

There is extensive tunnel-work going on in this area, bridges are under-construction, nallas are being tamed. While I was happy that the project may bring in an economic turn-around for the state, I also realised the immense responsibility that such projects put on our shoulders to minimise damage to local culture and environment. We promised the local community that we would continue visiting the place and will work closely with them.

(Shah Feasal, IAS is the Managing Director of J&K’s fully owned State Power Development Corporation.)

The post The mountain Stone Horse appeared first on Kashmir Life.

By: Shams Irfan

Phi Phi Island in Phuket, Thailand.                                                                                                                              Pics: Shams Irfan

As the airbus began to descend towards Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport, a mélange of hues: green, neon, grey, blue and red, started to illuminate outside my window.

The first look of Bangkok city, still a few hundred feet below, was both fascinating and breathtaking.

I could see highways crisscross through vast green patches, visible from above like a perfect geometry, as if drawn by a perfectionist. Then, as the plane took a sharp right turn, a number of waterways, interspersed between skyscrapers, tall pagoda style buildings, partly hidden by green cover, became visible.

It was around 6 pm (local time) when we finally touched down.

Unlike New Delhi airport, the immigration was quick and hassle free. The word Srinagar on my passport meant nothing here, except, it was part of my identity. Nobody asked me what I do, or what I think of Kashmir, Pakistan and India.

I still recall how I tried to avoid the immigration officer at New Delhi airport who asked me bluntly, “Why do Kashmiris make trouble all the time and get themselves killed?”

I couldn’t help but wonder how conveniently he passed a judgment, without a hint of remorse in his voice. I said nothing and just gave him a look that I thought conveyed my disgust.

But Thailand was different. Here I was a free man, at least to speak my mind, and feel proud of my identity.

Author (extreme right) and his friends with a local Muslim restaurant owner in Bangkok.

Once outside the airport, we took a bus for Pattaya city, our first destination in Thailand.

Without entering the Bangkok city, our driver, who wore a light blue uniform, drove through a network of beautiful roads, before taking the highway to Pattaya.

The highway, or the motorway as it is called here, reminded me of my travel from Lahore to Islamabad in Pakistan last year. In both cases, I kept looking out of the window, wondering when we will have similar infrastructure in Kashmir! But then my thoughts got shadowed by the bloody summer of 2016, and everything else took a backseat.

After 90 minutes drive we were finally in Pattaya city, around 148 kms from the capital Bangkok. As we got off the bus, we realized that we are still about a kilometer from our hotel. A new place, language barrier and a skeptic mind, made things worse as we failed to find a taxi.

Then one of our friends Rohail, a tech savvy banker, resorted to google for directions.

With phone in one hand, Rohail led us through busy roads, across a small market place, and down a dark alley, towards our hotel. It was quite a sight as we followed him like baby ducklings follow their mother. Only difference was the noise of strollers that we dragged along.

After quick showers, we set out to find something to eat, as the last meal we had was on Thai airways plane somewhere over Bay of Bengal.

It was quarter past midnight when we finally reached the market; but little did we know that our quest to find good food will leave us high and dry.

As we walked past eateries in Pattaya, we could see most of them offer ham (pork) as well, and it put us off instantly.

While planning our trip we had promised each other that we will try seafood, as it is both exotic and halal.

But even the thought of eating seafood at a restaurant serving ham, as most of the restaurants in Pattaya do, sounded a bad idea. For next half-an-hour, the four of us, moved from one restaurant to another asking for halal food.

Then all of a sudden, my cousin Gowher Bhat jumped with joy as he spotted a small Turkish national flag pasted on a shop front. Next to the flag was a rectangular sticker with halal inscribed on it in Arabic. Later we came to know that the sticker is issued by the Central Islamic Committee of Thailand (CICT), certifying that the eatery sells halal food.

As we relished shawarmas, the owner of the eatery told us that the halal sign is mandatory for all products and eateries that adhere to CICT norms.

It made our stay easy as almost every consumer product including milk, cream, juices, bread, chocolates, toothpaste, and even bottled water and eggs, had halal written on them.

Once the food issue was resolved, the next morning, we rented two scooties, and set out to explore the city.

These scooties became indispensible as they saved both time and money, and helped us navigate the city interactively.

It also helped us understand some basics about traffic rules, which we knew but never cared to follow. This ‘I don’t give a damn attitude’ left us poorer by a few hundred Baht (Thai currency), but rich in experience. The first challan was for taking the helmet off at a traffic signal; the second one, when we took a left turn thinking its free; and the third for riding with Kashmiri licenses’ instead of an international one.

Three challans later we were perfectly in sync with the local laws, as we observed how dedicatedly people follow traffic rules. Unlike Kashmir, nobody is in rush here.

There are dedicated lanes for both cyclists and scooties, and no car or bus drives in these lanes, no-matter how congested it is on the main road.

A Friday gathering in a mosque in Phuket, Thailand.

As we rode from one place to another, we realized how organized, tourist friendly, and diverse this country is.

The same evening google helped us trace Amir Restaurants, a halal food joint owned by a Malaysian family in south Pattaya. As we walked in, beautiful edifice of Toatilla mosque, located across the street, caught our attention.

After tasting a variety of delicacies including steamed fish, we decided to offer Magrib prayers at the mosque. But there was an issue; all of us were wearing shorts.

The manager of the restaurant, a beautiful girl in her mid-twenties, who saw us discuss our options said, ‘Don’t worry; they have robes for tourists at the mosque.’

The mosques in Thailand are more like community centers with a host of facilities like internet, computers, gowns for tourists like us who are not properly dressed for prayers, medical kits, a standby ambulance, special ramps for specially abled people, a spacious waiting room with sofas, a separate sections for women, a room for kids etc.

The three days stay in Pattaya helped us understand what a tourist friendly place actually looks like.

Pristine Phuket

As the plane descended for landing at Phuket airport, small islands popped up outside my window like a set of pearls.

I still cherish the moment when I saw sun melt into the vast ocean, as our plane took a final turn before landing.

After an hour’s drive we were finally at our hotel in Patong area, a beautiful beach side tourist hub known for seafood, surfing and loud music.

The next morning, at 7 am, we boarded a taxi, sent by the tour operator, for our trip to Phi Phi Islands.

After a fifteen minute quick lecture at the pier about what-to-do and what-not-to-do while in sea, we were put on a speed boat. It was my first ‘sea voyage’ and I must admit I was a bit nervous initially.

But the jolly hearted captain, his assistant nicknamed as banana man, and our ever smiling guide, made our journey both comfortable and a memorable one.

After 45 minutes ride through rough and calm, our captain took a sharp right, and then slowly cruised through two giant landmasses, to reach beautiful Maya Bay Island.

The water was so clear that one could see the sea bed, and hundreds of small colourful fishes that swam in it, without a care in the world.

Encouraged by my cousins Gowher and Sajad, who are both in advertising business and travel quite often, Rohail and I jumped into the water despite the fact we knew nothing about swimming. But the experience turned out to be a memorable one.

At our next stop, I put on the snorkeling gear including fins, which we rented at the pier, and jumped into the crystal clear water.

But with no swimming experience whatsoever it turned out to be a bad idea as I almost sank into neck-deep waters!

However, at Sajad’s insistence, Rohail and I decided to give it one more shot. But when I jumped, it felt like I was going down without a surface in sight. Instantly I shouted for help and Sajad, who was nearby, grabbed my hand and helped me get back on the boat.

These scooties helped us explore Thailand the way we wanted to.

With a bit of regret and disappointment, we zoomed off towards Phi Phi Island for buffet lunch. This Island is inhibited by native Muslims, we were told.

On our way back, we stopped at two more islands, both mesmerizing in their own right.

At 6 pm, after spending around eight hours in sea, we were back to Patong.

Next day, as we decided to explore Old Town Phuket on our own, we hired two scooties, and rode off.

I have made number of trips on beautiful Srinagar-Jammu highway in my reliable Ford hatchback; I have also trekked world’s highest motorable road, Khardung La in Ladakh, but the ride from Patong to Phuket Old Town, stands out by all proportions.

Connected by a scenic road that snakes through a small hillock, we had to accelerate our scooties to their limits to summit the height.

Once at top, one could see the beautiful Phuket town, its eye catching beaches, vast bazaars, and a few minarets, spread like a three-dimension map.

It took around 45 minutes to reach Thalang Road, a narrow street dotted with cafés, restaurants and souvenir shops, built more than a century ago in beautiful Sino-Portuguese architecture.

It was quite an experience to see how every shop and restaurant offers you high speed free internet, irrespective of the fact you make a purchase or not. The way Thai people treat their guests (read tourists) is worth emulating, especially for us as we often boost of our hospitality!

After spending three days in Phuket we flew back to Bangkok, our final destination in Thailand.

Unlike other parts of this country, Bangkok is mega metropolis. First day we spent in exploring its mega malls, bazaars, eateries, etc.

I clearly recall how an interesting entry in visitor’s book at Throne Hall in Dusit Palace transported me back to my homeland. The visitor, who had praised the architectural marvels of this royal palace, has concluded his entry by mentioning his residence as: Republic of Kashmir.

The same evening we went to China Town. As the name suggests, this was literally a piece of China in Thailand.

Next morning we drove for an hour to see the Floating Markets on the outskirts of Bangkok. It was almost like our own vegetable market in Dal Lake, but lot more maintained and clean. Every structure constructed on the banks was in sync with the nature.

As our motor boat made its way through the backwaters, we began to work out plans to restore Dal Lake’s to its former glory. However we also knew that we live in a different world, with altogether different sets of rules, and rulers.

Next evening, after dinner, as we were strolling through a market place, we stopped at a small sweets shop. The owner of the shop, a young man in his early twenties, introduced himself as Monzer Nhan from Damascus, Syria.

Author (L) with Monzer Nhan, a Syrian national who runs a bakery in Bangkok.

When we introduced ourselves as Kashmiris, he couldn’t help but smile at the irony. A few hugs and warm smiles later, we asked each other that uncomfortable but unavoidable question: how is situation back home?

He told us how he and his family fled Syria at the peak of conflict, and what it is like to live a refugee’s life. He also told us that he is glad to be alive despite living far away from his home. And when he asked us about Kashmir, all we could say was: we need each other’s prayers, brother.

That meeting ended our trip on a high note as we had explored Thailand the other way round!

The post Thailand: Sea, Sand and Sunshine appeared first on Kashmir Life.

PDP’s youth activist Javaid Trali spent 30 days in the US under State Department funded International Visitors Leadership Programme (IVLP). He says Americans impressed him more than America

People are the real driving force behind every nation’s prosperity and growth; policies and their implementation come later.  People determine which way a country would go – backward or forward. Nothing shall impress any one about anything unless we look at its basics. Foundations are important, rest is detail. It is true in case of a mansion or a country.

During my trip to US, nothing impressed me the most but its people. Wide range of discussions and interactions with the people of different opinion and thought gave me a new insight about working of the country, the only super-power. If US is dictating terms to the world it is only because its people have made it capable to challenge anything. America is a powerful nation because of its people.

Listening to them made me understand how concerned they are about their nation, its problems and issues. Not at a single interaction I saw them boasting about their successes, but they would always make an honest opinion about functioning of their system and its flaws.

At the societal and governmental level, the US is facing a number of challenges. The rosy picture we carry about America is not totally true. There is poverty too. One comes across homeless and jobless people. Even beggars can be seen on footpaths with placards asking for help. People are seen sleeping under bridges. Their citizenry too undergoes hardships at different levels. They are finding it hard to fight racism, which is eating its vitals. Drug and liquor addiction is common. Use of guns both licensed and unlicensed has turned out to a big menace and is the most debated issue. Gender bias and violence against women is not endemic to our society only.

Deepening economic disparity has made people frustrated. The gap between the rich and poor has widened.  People with whom I interacted were honest in detailing all this. But they also said: “We will overcome this.”

How cultured, meticulous, refined and disciplined the people can be, I started realizing it when I landed at the Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey. Nervous, I was anticipating hassles at the airport given the huge security threat the country claims it has, but it turned out to be a totally different story.

After checking my passport and other travel documents, the immigration desk lady greeted me with ‘happy birthday’. No questions, she allowed me to go. That was sweet and surprising; given the system we have in place back home.

Out of airport, the weather was beautiful. The freshness of early morning breeze added to the ecstasy. Our liaison escorted us to the domestic terminal for flying us to Washington DC.

Washington was my first stop where I started the actual interaction with the people during my visits to various places of historical and political importance. Aesthetically built, the city is calm and beautiful. No traffic mess, no honking on roads, no chocked streets, Washington DC is a green and pollution free.  From commoners to officials and the people manning NGOs, every interaction was a learning experience.

On my first official day, I toured the whole city. It surprised me to see the White House, the office and residence of the US president open for everyone. People in large number, both local and foreigners, come and click photos and spend some time amid lush green environs there. Same is the case with Capitol Hill, seat of US Congress. The reason for keeping open such sensitive places for general public, I think, is to remain connected with the people unlike us, who will humiliate people by asking them to sit in long queues bracing heat and rain outside the civil secretariat.

Two meetings, one each with Dr Frederic Grare, Senior Associate, Carnegic Endowment for International Peace and Sanjay Puri, Chairman and founder USINPAC, were significant and interesting. Dr Grare is keeping a close eye over Kashmir and Indo-Pak politics. He has been visiting Kashmir in the past and knows everyone in political establishment here. He spoke high of veteran Kashmiri leader, Abdul Gani Lone. Given the interaction with him all I could conclude is that Kashmir is an issue per se but does not interest anybody now at the global level. He suggested us to strengthen our institutions of governance and move forward.

Puri is an influential Indo-American who lives in Virginia. His organization USINPAC is the voice of over 3.2 million Indian Americans and works on issues that concern the society. He assured full support from powerful Indian diaspora in certain key areas like education, skill development for youth, global warming, solid waste management in Kashmir.

In Cleveland, Ohio – my second destination, I specifically learned about constituent outreach, women in politics, transparency and accountability in government. These topics were discussed in detail with prominent officials, academicians, politicians and community based volunteer organizations. Here I got an opportunity to volunteer alongside the residents of Cleveland at a local food bank— Greater Cleveland Food Bank. The food bank is the largest hunger relief organization in Northeast Ohio, having provided 45 million meals in 2014 to hungry people locally. Later I visited many other states as well and observed many aspects of American social, economic, political, cultural and educational institutions and practices.

More and more people I met and interacted with, I found them brutally honest, extremely hardworking, punctual and highly helpful. The smiling faces will greet you everywhere, be it on roads, offices or hotel elevators. Americans love to work hard; it is their culture, I believe. Their love and concern for humanity, animals and environment is exemplary. Most of them have divided their time between working for themselves and the community. American spirit of volunteerism is proverbial.

Americans are born honest. They are genuine. They won’t cheat you but will guide and help you out even at the cost of their own time.They value time but when it comes to helping others and working for the community they don’t care. If you ask any passerby about any address, he will get his cell-phone out and GPS it to help you out.

The people won’t mind doing any sort of job. Part-time jobs are common as it has become necessary given the high cost of living. An iphone technician is a driver during his free time. An extremely intelligent and academically sound little girl and the only child of her rich parents, who is in tenth standard at school surprised me when she informed that she in her part-time cleans utensils and wipes off tables at a restaurant. When asked what she does with this money, her reply was more astonishing, “I buy books of my interest with it.” This is deliberately allowed only to prepare the children for life and developing skills of self-reliance and independence in them; and no social stigma is attached to it.

Similarly, a 75-year-old lady, who lost her husband few years back and lives a lonely life now, cleans her beautiful house, cooks food, buys grocery, manages the garden in the backyards of her house, drives her own car and works with an NGO as a volunteer.

There is no concept of having peon in any office, private or public. And, also no helpers are hired to work at homes otherwise a norm and status symbol here. Americans love to do their own work by themselves.

Raising funds for community welfare and giving charity is also a common practice. Instead of waiting for the government, people raise enough funds for any civic initiative.

Giving tips at restaurants and hotels to waiters and baristas is a tradition. Not giving tips is a grave insult. Even bad service gets a tip. Actually, these types of workers are underpaid and to ensure their economic stability and value their time the people find it a duty to give them tips.

Americans not erecting walls around their houses was somewhat baffling for me. The lawns have to be kept open and some portion of it is used to build cycle tracks.

 (Author is associated with the Youth Wing of J&K Peoples Democratic Party (PDP))

The post With ‘Super’ People appeared first on Kashmir Life.

By: Khursheed Wani

April has never been wet in two decades in a colossal way as this year in Kashmir. The cyclonic circulation induced by the western disturbances kept on hovering over the Valley’s skies, triggering profuse showers every time in one or the other corner. When the riot of colours began in the famed Tulip Garden in Srinagar, one of the largest such gardens in south Asia, the rain gods, turned hostile again like several previous years. A short week of continued downpour and the millions of flowers silently withered away without creating a flutter.  An unusual layer of snow at the beginning of spring enveloped the entire city including the tulip carpets sprayed in the lap of Zabarwan hills overlooking the brimming Dal Lake. The Jhelum River flowed closer to the brink with its trademark majesty.

The winter was harsher with a plenty of snow and bone-chilling cold wave. Kashmir remained cut-off for weeks and people confined to homes or short distances. The most anybody ventured out was to ski-resort of Gulmarg where winter is the best bet for hangouts. A trickle of enthusiasts stole the moments though I was not lucky this time.

Come spring, and everyone in Kashmir, native or not, has an eagerness to hit a hill station to break the winter monotony and rejuvenate by breathing some fresh air from the hills. This spring the sunshine was more tempting and the gang was, for a change, not ready to hit the trodden tracks. “Let’s go to a place we have never been to,” shouted Haroon and we began searching for the destination. A few phone calls to our friends in north Kashmir helped to zero in on Khodgu-Monglu hills in Sopore sub-division. It is yet another exclusive combination of lake and hills, something special to Kashmir. Wullar Lake, the largest freshwater lake in Asia, is visible from every observation point on these hills, emphasized Bilal, a Sopore resident and a mountain freak with special interest in Kashmir’s flora and fauna.

On a misty April 20 morning, we began our journey on famed Srinagar-Muzaffarabad road, once the most important road-link to the outer world, now restricted to a few weekly cross-Line of Control bus and truck runs. The poplars grown majestically on both sides of the road, showcased in many Bollywood movies of the 1970s golden era, have either withered or chopped off. As we swished past the shrinking Hokera and Haigam wetlands, only a few migratory birds were seen taking flights. Maybe these are the last flights they took off this spring as most winged guests of their tribe have already left for their summer destinations as far away as Siberia and Afghanistan. Their aerial travel is not restricted.

An hour-long journey takes to Sangrama, a highway township where north Kashmir travelers split for their destinations. Straight travel leads to Baramulla and Uri and for entry into vast districts of Kupwara and Bandipora, a right turn towards historic Sopore town is required. We moved towards the right with Bilal’s advice in mind to avoid getting into traffic snarls inside the most congested and unplanned towns of the Valley, also known as apple town for its massive fruit produce. Fortunately, the town was beginning its day and horse-carts or tangas, now a rare site in Kashmir except in Sopore, were not dominating the roads. We maneuvered quickly and in half-an-hour, were out of the town and rich with Bilal’s company, on the road towards Bandipora and Gurez. The cool breeze emanating from Wullar Lake was quite refreshing.

The ascendance towards Khodgu-Monglu Mountain starts at Botengu, a village 10 kilometers from Sopore town. On the right side is Baba Shukruddin’s shrine atop a plateau overlooking the Wullar Lake. Thousands of devotees visit the shrine every year. A hotelier suggested to pay obeisance at the shrine on our return from the mountains. We packed some food stuff before beginning our journey towards the mountains.

The challenging journey begins at the beginning. The movement our car embarked on the road, a 60 degree slope welcomed it. A few yards away, the road seemed to be ending but then appeared a widened curve and a parallel stretch. After every hundred years, the road gives birth to a new curve followed by another on the neatly macadamized road. No bumps and potholes are visible probably because the inclined road does not retain water. On the sides of the road, ascending the foothill, craftily pruned apple trees are seen in countless rows with their shiny branches ready to sprout the darling buds. Occasionally, a cab descended from the opposite side alerting our driver but mostly the journey was uninterrupted.

As we reached the middle of the mountain, the length between the road curves increased. On the sides appeared small plateaus dotted with green conifers. There are countless stumps of pine and cedar trees like a scalp facing hair loss for years. A few decades ago, a villager told us, the forests were very dense. The sunrays were shining the needle leaves of the conifers and never got a chance to kiss the earth. Now the silver rays also descend on the lifeless barks though the dense forest exists after every stretch. The conifers are standing everywhere, sometimes only inches from the road. We halted at a plateau, almost a kilometer up from the water level to watch the majestic Wullar Lake, now in front of our eyes with its massive expanse, framed all sides with green trees. The mirror images of snow-capped mountains surrounding the still lake offer a kaleidoscope of colours. The fishermen rowing in their canoes appear to be like dots moving on the water surface. It is soothing to watch birds aimlessly flying in the enormous space between the Wullar’s surface and the blue sky dotted with clouds. Their limit of flight is much lower than we have already attained at this observation point. The sight of Wullar Lake from various points on way to Hardu-Munglu is most rewarding. This face of Wullar, like a canvas spread by the nature, cannot be viewed discreetly from any other place.

The arduous road snakes into grove of conifers and every time offers an unexpected site. Hundreds of young pine trees are uprooted, some of them chopped and turned into logs on the roadside. A villager Muhammad Shaban says the forest encountered the unexpected and somewhat unprecedented devastation during the snowfall in the first week of April. “This was a peculiar snow—wet, heavy and untimely when trees were loaded with leaves. It uprooted a large number of conifers. The road was blocked for several days until villagers and the forest officials cleared the blocks,” he said.

After an hour, we reached the highest point on the mountain and on the other side of the slope we could see clusters of houses, the only traces of human life in the lap of these lofty mountains. Shaban told us the Rampur and Rajpur villages used to remain cut-off from the outer world for most of the year and the dwellers, in extreme situations, used to trek the slopes or ride on horsebacks to approach the civilization in the valley. A decade back, their miseries ended with the construction of this serpentine road. “Our life underwent a transformation after the road was connected,” he says with a grin on his face.

Interestingly, the end-point of the road arrived as we found ourselves in the yard of a government-owned high school. The boys were exercising and a handful of girls watched them from a cemented block. We immediately mingled with the teachers and students who initially took us as seldom-seen government officials.

Mohammad Akbar Lone, a teacher said the village owes its stability and prosperity to a saint who is buried in the vicinity along-with his five sons and disciples. “The saint takes care of us even in the worst situations,” Lone says.

The twin villages of Rampur and Rajpur exist for around five centuries, Lone says. “Look at this mountain. It is called Trimakh (meaning three faces). It is a daylong trek to reach its peak that has three faces, one each towards Kupwara, Bandipora and Baramulla districts,” he informs. The famed Lolab Valley is on the other side of the mountain. From the Trimakh, we can count around 50 villages of Lolab Valley. We know that village is Diver, Sogam or Lalpora. They are so clearly visible from the peak, he says.

The village doesn’t have mobile connectivity, sometimes most cherished by the visitors. Lone shares an interesting tale. “We have found a huge slab in the lap of this mountain where mobile connectivity is excellent. When any villager has to talk on mobile or connect through internet, he walks up to the rock. This rock locally known as Pal has now been christened as Whatsapp Pal.

Most of the villagers live in old wooden houses though brick and mortar houses are fast replacing them. A woman offered us water as we requested to click pictures of her house. She cautioned on honey bees, which were coming out from a hole in the front wall of their house. “It is called Tamboor (traditional beehive) that gives us original honey,” she said. Behind the Tamboor was the cowshed and the family lived on the first floor.

We spent a few hours with the villagers listening to their tales of history, lifestyle, hardship and resilience. They referred to Proangam, a village that has been wiped out by the vagaries of time. “The ruminants of the village are still found. Our forefathers told us that the village might have disappeared because of famine. We usually face scarcity of water,” Abdul Khaliq, another villager said.

On our return, we stopped at a pine grove to relish well-earned lunch. Bilal was gracious enough to have packed fried chicken, kebabs and Rogan Josh. We sat on the natural green, slightly wet carpet for the lunch. Occasionally, a cab passed by and the commuters offered strange looks, sometimes a hesitant smile. While descending the mountain slope on our way back, the Wullar Lake was brimming again offered an entirely different afternoon look.

As usual, we complained that it was a short trip and required more time to absorb the essence of this bewitchingly beautiful hill station. We promised to return to the place on an elaborate trip. By the mid-summer, we were told, the local schools would make beeline to the place.

The post In Nature’s lap appeared first on Kashmir Life.

The ground realities could be hugely different from what the TV cameras record. Masood Hussain details his first-hand account about a gun battle in the village he was born and brought up

A file pic of army personnel in action during a search operation in Shopian.

It was around 6 am, on April 13, the non-stop phone rings literally forced me to get out of the bed and pick up the phone. It was my younger brother on the line.

“We are in a crackdown and there is firing as well,” my brother, speaking from Shopian’s Gahind village, informed. “Do you have any idea what is happening here?”

I had no idea. But it did not remain a mystery for long. An hour later, it was known everywhere that two militants were killed. Now I got a second call: “where?” Again, I had no idea. How could a person, 60 kms away, know the details? I did not panic because gun battles in south Kashmir are just part of the new ‘normalcy’.

By around 10 am, I got another call: “Lot of angry youth have assembled in the village and they are pelting stones on the army and police. Shelling is going on.”

This caused panicky. Reason: If peppers are in action, what will happen to my father who has to use oxygen concentrator every two hours? And what happens to the tiny twins who were born barely five months back to my youngest brother. Rest of all was all right.

By afternoon, tensions were over as my brothers told me that the army had moved out along with two corpses and the recoveries. There were no civilian losses as the action was in the village periphery, in the open fields, although there were a few arrests from the crowds.

The next morning, I started quite early and took the chances of crossing the highway, otherwise closed for the civilian traffic, to reach home. For a 10 meter crossover, I was told to take a few kilometres long route. Finally, I reached the Nowgam junction to Pulwama road.

As I reached my village, I was shocked to see hundreds of cars and bikes parked on every possible space, outside homes, orchards, the small road and the courtyards. The footfall was massive. After some efforts, more than 24 hours after the twin killings, when I finally managed to park the car, I started enquiring about the huge rush of people in the small village. “They are coming to see the spot where the encounter took place,” a resident said. “It is quite a thin attendance; yesterday it was huge.”

The conversation led me to seek details about the spot that unveiled an interesting thing.

People living in cities and towns know villages have names. What they do not know is that in a village, every spot has its own name: rice fields, apple orchards, vegetable gardens or even wasteland. These names, some of them enigmatic, are interesting and have been there for centuries. These names are as physical as the spaces they denote. From my childhood, I have known these names as these were part of the eco-system that brought me up: the Katri daur, Kadihoul, Palshouth, Daiwus, Shouth, Toungripath, Satwouth, Bahwouth, Reshdar, Lamean. These innumerable names are part of the local geography. These names work as geographic coordinates for the residents though these revenue records have khasra numbers only.

During the conversation, an interesting name erupted – Kanisuond. This periphery of the village is something I have dreaded throughout my life. This area is a network of high land apple orchards, separated by deep gorges through which the toungri rivulet, a tributary to Jhelum that emerges from Ahrabal waterfall, roars out. It has narrow passages and dense vegetation. Throughout my life, the family has ensured that I avoid visiting the area because it has Tasruf as a lot of Djins live there!

Army searching for militant hideouts somewhere in South Kashmir.

Throughout my life, I have perhaps once used this trek to reach home when I was writing my BSc final year examination in 1986. The KMD bus that was carrying passengers home from Khanabal had a fault midway that delayed it. Late in the evening, somebody suggested to me that it was the shortest trek home from the road. I took the advice but the 15-minute trek was the most horrifying moments of my life. A pin-drop silence being broken by the cold winter winds creating interesting symphony as I walked on frozen snow and the foot-track deep in the mountains being interrupted by sudden owl flights was dreadful. As I reached home, it took me many hours to stabilise, and later when the reality dawned on my parents, it took them many hours more.

It was in these orchards that the militants had their hideout. Intelligently dug on the slope side of the rivulet, the cave was completely hidden from everyone. It was in the congested plantation with no trespass.

I could not visit the site, perhaps the Djins in my sub-conscious still prevailed. But everybody around was talking about it and everyone had something interesting to reveal:

“It was enough of space for five people but the entry was difficult.”

“They had enough of material for survival, the LPG, the utensils, and they had actually cooked a chicken that morning when it was raided.”

“The army had lobbed something inside and everything had roasted.”

“By God, it seemingly was an old hideout and we never knew it.”

“I cannot forget the scene when the sister of one of the slain militants cried in that cave.”

“It was so craftily dug that the army scanned the area twice before actually locating it.”

While getting into my parents’ home, I could sense that I was not the only ‘guest’. There were many others who had come to see my parents, mostly relatives from different villages. They had first come to see the “hide”, a reference to the cave, and then dropped in to ask about the welfare of my parents. It took me some time to understand the phenomenon and talk to my parents about how they managed peppers and tear smoke suffocation. They had actually moved to the basement and tightly closed the door to prevent the gases in. The residents were angry over the youth from other villages “invading” the village and taking over the streets.

The real impact of the incident unveiled after my mother suggested me to offer condolences to two families who have lost a member each in the last few months. In both the homes, I saw a lot many people, having tea and talking about the incident. They were their concerned relatives.

By around 5 pm, I asked for my nephew; the 11-year-old was born a year after his infant elder brother died in an accident at home. We gave the newborn his brother’s name and he retained his characteristics completely.

“Where were you for the whole day?” I asked him when finally he responded to the frequent summons.

“I had gone to see the cave. I went there nine times today,” he responded nonchalantly.

“But why?” I asked, almost in shock.

“Because everybody goes there,” he replied innocently. “All these people who come from andgam (other villages) go there.”

Before I could conclude the conversation, he finally had a “request”: “I have shot a video of the cave, can you put it on your Facebook!”

In Srinagar, almost 24 hours later, I had another call, again by my brother. While I was working in my office, he dropped the bombshell: “Rasul Maam Guzreav. Khas Jald” (Uncle Ghulam Rasool is no more, come fast).

I rang up other relatives in Srinagar and we left quickly but before we could leave the city, we were tasked to get his three kids studying in Srinagar. They provided a number and it was on call divert that devoured 90 minutes. By around 9:30 pm, we finally collected the two brothers and their sister, and then for next 80 minutes, our two cars were moving through harrowing silence in pitch dark to reach home, avoiding the garrisons and the patrols, ubiquitous in south Kashmir. By the time, we reached home, it was 10:30 pm and the elders had decided against going for the burial same night.

It was a long night of mourning with the corpse literally “sleeping” in the room. Born in 1947 summer, Rasul Maam died at 71. An interesting human being and part of my upbringing, he was the son of my grandfather’s cousin whom he brought up as his own son and protected the orphans’ inheritance until he settled in life. I have never seen him angry and never seen him miss a prayer.

Ghulam Rasool Rather Gahind

His death was a reality but how did it happen? That was another interesting story. That morning, April 15, 2019, he had gone to see his sister in a distant village, almost 12 km, walking on foot. Although he owned a car he loved walking.

With his sister, he had lunch, and by around 4 pm, he decided to leave. But there were some other relatives who had also gone to see a recapturing lady, who offered him a lift. As they reached home, the host driver was inquisitive about the “cave” and requested him to show him. He could not disagree though he had personally gone there twice. The “guide” took them along and they were about to reach the cave when he stopped abruptly. He stopped and could not get up. There were some young men from Kokernag who sensed the crisis; they got water but he could not take a drop in. In minutes, they drove him to the nearest dispensary where he was formally declared dead. We laid him to rest the next morning.

Back home on Tuesday, as I was halting between the whistling CRPF men on the highway, I was trying to make out how complex the situation has gone? How effortlessly things are getting into the folklore and how the indoctrination, if at all it is around, is taking place informally. For the next 100 years, when the village will remember the always-smiling Ghulam Rasool, the cave will come in and with cave will the situation re-emerge that Kashmir is trying to come out from. The ground realities are completely different from the way the policymakers see it, or I presume so.

Journalist Sheikh Qayoom is a grandfather but has not forgotten his childhood winters which were quite different, adventurous and interesting then

The winter of my childhood was the season of Arabian Nights – long school vacations, unending sittings with the story teller, and mouth watering foods like smoked fish, dried brinjals, pumpkins, tomatoes, fat goose, rooster and pulses cooked by the World’s greatest chef, my mother.

Precariously hanging icicles, tons of snow, the magic of light and shade created in black and white by that feeble lantern light, a warm Kangri under a tweed Pheran and a carefree age when yesterday and tomorrow did not exist, you lived only in today and made most of it during my childhood.

We had a small poultry and when the fattest rooster was taken out; we knew mother had chosen to prepare a Shabdeg. The preparation of this special dish is something the present generations, I am sure, hasn’t even heard of!

Rooster feathers would be carefully removed so as to leave its skin intact. Turnips extracted from Khau, a deep hole dug in the family’s kitchen garden for winter storing, usually covered by dry straw, would be washed and cut into manageable pieces.

After adding all the required spices, the properly fried rooster and turnips were placed in Deag, a nickel coated copper vessel. The vessel lid was sealed with dough. Over the simmering fire of the traditional Kashmiri hearth lit with firewood the dish would be cooked during the entire night so as to bring the delicacy to right flavour and taste.

Opening of the Shabdeg vessel lid was an occasion. The small kitchen where the family ate lunch and dinner would be filed with an aroma that still teases my taste buds.

Like a master whose work of art was about to be placed on exhibition, mother would serve the dish to all of us. As a matter of rule, mother always ensured that servants of the family ate alongside me and my father. She, of course, would be last in the family to have her lunch and dinner.

Each evening, an elderly relative known to me as Wali Maam would tell a story after dinner. His stories never ended until I felt fast asleep.

He had the magic to transport you into the world of fairies and demons. He spoke of a mammoth bird called the Rook that would left a human being in his claws and drop him on the Koh-e-Kaff. Later, as I grew up, I came to know there actually is a mountain so named in Chechnya!

Maam’s tales always had an indelible moral, the triumph of good over evil. Smitten with the beauty of a girl, the king’s son always abdicated the crown in Maam’s winter tales. I wonder whether princes still do that?  Not that the era of kings and princes has ended in our age.

We still have them as sons of powerful politicians and filthy rich businessmen with just one difference– none of the present day princes have the heart of Maam’s princes and princesses of yore.

The blissful calm of a winter night was neither broken by the mechanical rattle of a motor car nor the rattle of automatic gunfire from an encounter. There were few vehicles around. Those car owners were engrossed enjoying fruits of prosperity that they hardly bothered to disturb the sleep of the less privileged.

Yes, I did occasionally go to see a movie in my childhood which had to be with the explicit permission of father. No child in my childhood could go to the ‘talkie’ unless permitted by the parents.

My mother hardly intervened negatively when I sought permission to see a film. She would fondly throw her hands around me and request father to arrange for the fulfillment of my desire.

I still remember watching Benhur, Solomon and Sheba, and many other classic Hollywood movies. Not that the magic and thrill of Bollywood was any less. Boot Polish, Awara, Aan, Azad, and Madhumati are some of the Talkies I watched in Regal Cinema.

No cinema hall had an electric generator. Whenever, electric supply failed during a ‘film’ there would be  riot among in the ‘Third Class’.

They would howl and shout till supply resumed and sometimes it took hours for the same to happen. Nobody would leave the hall till electricity resumed and the projector rolled the spools.

Women hardly went to the ‘talkies’ in my childhood, or at least I fail to recall if they did.

The type of socializing we see nowadays among children and youth across genders was considered morally inappropriate. I still do not shake hands with women.

I never heard of essential supplies running short because of the blockade of Jammu-Srinagar highway. I hardly even remember an announcement on Radio during my childhood that spoke of the highway blockade hitting supplies.

The Valley definitely had much lesser population, but its survival strength was far greater than it is now. Never were mutton, poultry, eggs and milk imported from outside. The Valley had enough stocks. Though purchasing power of an average Kashmiri was far lesser than what it is today, his power of survival and self-sufficiency was much greater.

Nobody cribbed because the markets are not flooded with junk food. Nobody ate junk food then. It was only the upper middle class that wore Pherans of imported tweed. We had Potu, our own tweed that went into the making of warm clothes including Pherans in winter.

I cannot fully thank the winters of my childhood because of the number of books we would read during those long nights under the feeble lantern light.

Believe it or not, I did my entire early reading of history and fiction during my childhood and youth in winter months. Sherlock Holmes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Thomas Hardy, Perry Mason series, Agatha Christie and Ibn Saifi’s Urdu crime thrillers, all these made my winter evenings delightful when Maam chose to go home to his Islamabad village.

Playing in knee deep snow would often cause chilblains which mother treated by washing our hands and feet with warm magnesia water. Ointments like Iodex hadn’t come into the market then.

Shams Irfan

Carrying a thousand Salams (greeting) for the Pak Watan (Sacred nation) – from friends, relatives, neighbours, acquaintances, people I know and I don’t know – along with twenty boxes of Kashmiri Kehwa, and a few grams of Saffron, apart from my clothes, I set out on my journey. It was no ordinary journey; after all I was visiting Pakistan.

I was excited; at the same time a bit nervous too. For someone who has not been to Pakistan, or the land of “lawlessness”, as media portrays, being nervous was understood.

With same curiosity and apprehension, I set out towards Pakistan embassy located in central Delhi’s posh Chanakyapuri area.

It was almost noon when me and my cousin Iftikhar Ali Khan, a physiotherapist from Patiala, Punjab reached there. The winter sun was shining over blue dome of this beautiful edifice. After introducing ourselves at the main entrance, we were ushered into a small vacant waiting lounge.

After waiting for half-an-hour we were introduced to a visa officer named Ahmad. He looked more like a military man than a desk officer. It was hard to trace smile on his no-nonsense face. Still, I tried my best shot to expedite the process as we were already late. I told him, “I am from Srinagar.” Then after a short pause I added, “Srinagar, Kashmir.”

He didn’t react. He took our passports and left without saying anything. After two hours or so another officer, this time a bit friendlier one, showed up with our passports. We were finally given visa.

But there was a small issue. We were not given police enquiry exemption. I told the officer that I am visiting Pakistan for a short duration and without exemption most of my travel time will be wasted in visiting police stations.

“The policy has changed. I am sorry I cannot help you,” he shot back without listening to my pleas.

“But I thought you treat Kashmiris a bit differently,” I asked.

“Sorry. But the policy is same for every Indian,” he said in an authoritative tone.

In the evening we left towards Patiala, and then next evening, after getting currency exchanged, we headed towards Amritsar. Next morning, December 18, 2015, we were at the Wagha border post. At the Indian immigration, after being given mandatory polio drops and a certificate that I had been administered them, I was finally in front of the immigration officer.

“You are from Srinagar,” he asked while looking at my passport.

“Yes, I am,” I replied.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“I am a journalist,” I said.

“Kiske khilaaf likhte ho (against whom you write),” he asked while looking at me.

I said nothing but smiled at him. After completing the formalities, including checking of luggage etc. we were finally at the six-inch wide white line that divides India and Pakistan.

The officer at the Indian side, after taking a final look at our passports, said, “aap ja sakte ho (You can go)”.

For first one minute after crossing the line I was numb. I had no idea how to react. I was finally in Pakistan. But just to be sure I kept asking my cousin, “Are we there yet.”

The answer came when, a beautiful girl, probably in her late twenties, who was sitting behind the immigration desk, greeted me saying, “Salam Alaikum. Pakistan mai apka khairmakdam hai. (Greeting. You are welcome in Pakistan).”

Then after looking at my passport she said in a rather excited tone, “Aap Srinagar, Kashmir se ho? (Are you from Srinagar, Kashmir).”

I nodded my head in affirmation. Then with same excitement she added, “InshAllah jaldi azaad hoga. (It will be free soon).”

After meeting my cousin, who had come to receive us at Wagha border, we were finally driving towards his home in Lahore city.

From the day me and my cousin planned our trip I was trying to sketch a rough picture of Pakistan in my mind. But all I could manage, mostly based on images seen on television and internet, was a lawless, insecure and a failed nation that is desperate to get rid of its “terrorist safe heaven” tag.

But as we inched towards Lahore city an altogether different world unfolded in front of me. I was looking out of the window with both excitement and curiosity. Excited to see twelve lane roads crisscross almost entire stretch, and curious to see so many foreign made vehicles plying on the roads.

Lahore is one of the most vibrant and lively cities I have been to so far. I could not agree more when my Pakistani cousin, after my arrival remarked: Jeeney Lahore nahi dekhiya oh jamiyah he nahi (One who has not seen Lahore is not born yet).

After meeting my uncle Saeed Ahmad Khan, who retired as chief accountant of Sohrab Cycle Factory, and other relatives whom I had only known through stories and Eastman colour pictures, we set out to explore Lahore.

It was already midnight when we left home for a drive around the city. I was apprehensive to leave at such late hours because of what I had read or heard about Pakistan. Our first stop was famous Lahore Food Street. There, night was still young, and people were arriving with their families for dinner. Yes, dinner. There is no set time for dinner in Lahore. You will find people coming out with their families at even 2:30 AM for catching quick bite or roadside snacks. It was like being part of an unending festivity that stretches the entire length and breadth of this beautiful historic city.

After tasting a few quick delicacies we went to the interiors of the walled city. Inside one of the 12 gates that once housed entire Lahore city, we ordered tea from one of the famous roadside stalls.

One thing that is common to people across the social and economic gulf is love for food. You will find bon appetite scribed all across their faces when they welcome you in their homes.

One of my cousins said that if you want to offend a Lahorei just tell him that you didn’t like the food he has served. It is the ultimate insult that you can inflict on a Lahorei.

The next day, we went to Androon Lahore (interior Lahore) to taste Taka Tak. It is a fine chop of lamb ribs, chicken heart and many other parts cooked, rather sliced, for an hour on a big pan with half a kg of butter. When the owner of the shop came to know that I am from Srinagar, Kashmir he put some extra butter as a mark of hospitality.

Later in the night, at around 2 AM, I and my Pakistani cousin drove to Bahria Town, some 20 kms from main city Lahore, to drop one of his friends at home. Bahria town is one of the many townships that have cropped up on the outskirts of Lahore in the recent past. Apart from a sprawling bungalow that allegedly belongs to PPP’s political heir Bilawal Bhutto, it houses upper middle class of Lahore.

At this odd hour most of the shops, showrooms, eateries and other stores were open and full of people. We stopped over outside one such shopping arena that houses a movie theatre. As my cousin was clicking picture I saw a group of young boys and girls, dressed up for their night out, step out of their car for late night show. I was told the last late night show starts at around 2:30 AM! Bharia town also houses the eleventh largest mosque in the world famous as Grand Jamia.

Next day, our day usually started afternoon as Lahore is to be enjoyed after the sundown, we visited Badshahi Masjid, Lahore fort and Minar-e-Pakistan.

What I sensed after hours of interaction with common Pakistanis – across the political, economic and social spectrum – is that there is an urge for setting things right. They (people of Pakistan) know that this is their moment of truth. Either they can set themselves free from the chains of corruption, sectarianism, extremism, hatred, and terrorism, or they can fall deeper into the bottomless pit. The choices are discussed at every eatery, on roadside tea stalls, inside busy markets places, in Masjids, schools, colleges, hospitals, virtually, everywhere. The common sentiment is: enough is enough, let’s just cut the crap and move on with living.

The sentiment found voice when few years back government in Punjab proposed a name change for famous Sir Ganga Ram Hospital located in Lahore. Sir Ganga Ram, a philanthropist who is often described as the architect of modern Lahore, has practically supervised the construction of almost every building worth a visit in Lahore. “There was a civil movement against the proposed name change,” said one of the volunteers whom I met at National College of Arts in Lahore.

In the aftermath of Babri Masjid demolition in 1992, Sir Ganga Ram’s Samadhi (tomb) was destroyed by miscreants including many temples in Lahore. Mention that and you could see a sense of guilt taking over almost every youngster’s face. “That was a maddening era,” said one of my cousins during our long interactions. “It was our cultural heritage. That should have been preserved.”

After offering prayers at Dr Sir Mohammad Iqbal’s (RA) tomb, located outside the main gate of Badshahi Masjid, me and my cousins went to National College of Arts (NCA).

Once inside NCA, you feel like entering an altogether different world; it is very much unlike Pakistan that you know or have been told about. It is one of the most progressive and liberal institutes of Pakistan. Founded by British as Mayo College of Arts in 1875, it has produced some of the greatest artists from Pakistan.

As one of my cousins, Majid Saeed Khan heads Films and Television Department of NCA, I had the privilege of interacting with faculty and the students. Though the interaction was brief, it helped bust a few myths.

First of all, India or the politics surrounding it is a non-issue for the younger generation; rather they love to talk about importance of art in a society, how one should look at ones cultural assets, how creativity should not have any limitation – religious, social or otherwise – how exchanging ideas or respecting diverse opinions help a society progress, why one must resist renaming of pre-1947 landmarks and much more. “India rhetoric is thing of the past for us. We don’t relate ourselves with that. Please!” said one of the faculty members whom I met at NCA.

A walk around the campus helps you understand why NCA, despite on-and-off criticism from Mullas, has evolved as a symbol of ‘new Pakistan’. Its walls are full of ideas/artworks that defy the dictates of a society that loves to live by self imposed censorship.

Later, I was shown some of the painting done by the students of NCA. It was really surprising to know that most of the paintings were already sold off. I was told that during annual exhibition of work done by the students, people from all over Pakistan visit NCA to appreciate art and buy paintings. It is one grand event people wait for. A students painting is usually sold somewhere between PKR 80 thousand to 5 lakh. And a film, if taken by a private satellite channel can even fetch students up to PKR 2 million.

The success of artists can be gauged by the fact that almost every drawing room I visited in Pakistan has a collection of oil on canvas. It is part of a legacy left by the Britishers who ruled the subcontinent for over 200 years. And Pakistan is still carrying that legacy gracefully.

On our way back from NCA we drove past a shop selling NATO goods. Located on the first floor, the shop’s windows displays military camouflages, gas masks, military boots, and other items customised for American army stationed in Afghanistan. One can buy a good quality protective suit meant for chemical war for just PKR 3000!

There is an interesting story behind how and from where these goods come from. But let us save it for some other time.

Journey to Islamabad

After spending five days in Lahore, which by any case is insufficient to explore this magnificent city, I and my cousins set out towards Islamabad.

The 367 km motorway or M2 that connects Lahore with capital city Islamabad is one of the best roads that you can drive on. Such is the quality of M2 that on many occasions Pakistani Air Force has used this motorway as runway to land, takeoff and refuel its fighter jets! After an hour’s drive, covering more than one third (130 kms) of our journey, we stopped at one of the government facilitated refreshment areas. Interestingly, there is no construction on either side of the M2 right up to Islamabad. One can literally see the changing hues of landscape, vast fields, and green vegetable gardens zoom past while you comfortably cruise at 120 kms/hour.  Every refreshment area has a fuel station, a Masjid, a highway police assistance booth, parking lot, KFC, music shop, eateries offering local cuisines, a free of cost rest room for anybody who feels tired, well maintained washroom, besides a shawarma shop. One can spend entire day at these restrooms. Throughout M2, special arrangements are made for truck drivers who ply during the night, including special rest rooms with comfortable beds.

After three and half hours, including the time we spent at KFC, we were in Islamabad. It was strange for a person like me who has to spend almost an hour daily to commute a distance of 12 kms from Pampore to Srinagar!

If Lahore is loud and lively, Islamabad is sophisticated and silent. You rarely find people honking behind you – it is considered uncivilized.

In Islamabad, we were hosted by my cousin Amir Mateen, a senior journalist and analyst who currently hosts a talk show on ARY News with Rauf Klasra.

Before arriving in Islamabad my cousin Abid Saeed Khan, an artist, painter and a freelance architect, sort of warned me that don’t expect the kind of life you experienced in Lahore here. Unlike Lahore, this city believes in indoor parties held inside well furnished drawing rooms where friends get together to talk politics, literature, art, theatre etc. The highpoint of these parties is food; yes food is central to even Islamabad’s life.

Thanks to Amir Bhai, who threw one such party for us, I got an opportunity to meet some wonderful people. The high point of the party was interaction with Anwar Aziz Chaudhary, a former federal minister in Z A Bhutto’s cabinet, who hails from Shakargarh Tehsil in Punjab, Pakistan. At the prime age of eighty five, Chaudhary Sahab, as fondly called by his friends, is one of the lively souls you can come across in life. As Choudhary Sahab was sharing anecdotes from his illustrious life, it was hard to tell when evening turned into night, and night into dawn.

For the occasion, cooks were specially brought from Peshawar to prepare Dumbah Dum Pukht. Dim light, delicious food, poetry recited by Choudhary Sahab, and a gathering comprising who is who of Pakistan’s media, what else can one ask for!     

My Islamabad trip coincided with PM Modi’s dramatic Lahore stopover. The visit created a buzz in Pakistani media circle, evoking a mix of responses from people across the spectrum. This was probably the first time I found people talking about Kashmir. Though the sentiment viz-a-viz Kashmir is there, but it is not what they live and breathe all day. There are other day-to-day issues that dominate their daily discourse like any other society. But yes, when you tell them that you are from Srinagar, Kashmir, they treat you specially.

There is a visible urgency in people for peace. They have seen enough of bloodshed. You will hardly come across people, and by people I mean all across the social class, who get angry at a mere mention of India. In fact, they feel bad, or rather sad, the way India is reacting to issues related to minorities. “We have been there once. We have been intolerant too. But thank Allah that phase is over. What you see is a new Pakistan,” said a senior journalist. “We don’t want to go back while the world around us is in a fast forward mode.”

Next few days I spent visiting landmarks in Islamabad including Shah Fesal Masjid, Margalla hills etc. In the meantime, I got a chance to attend a wedding in Islamabad. It was quite an experience to know that people strictly adhere to one dish norm in vogue after January 2015 Supreme Court of Pakistan ruling. At half past nine lights were dim inside the marriage hall signalling guests to wind up quickly as 10 PM is the official deadline for all functions. Just five minutes before clock struck 10, bride and bridegroom made their way out of the hall and drove off.

Unlike Lahore, after 10 PM, you will find only chemists and a few essential stores open, rest is all closed.

Reason. The city knows how to celebrate life within the four walls of their homes!

On our way back to Lahore, while resting my head on the back cushion of my cousin’s automatic V8 Mitsubishi Gallant, I began to rewind key points of my visit. The night lights zooming past us played on my mind like the strings of an electric guitar. But, despite a wonderful trip, there was something missing.

On the last day of our stay in Pakistan, my cousin took us for shopping to Liberty Market in Lahore. A semi-circular neat-and-clean market that buzzes with life round the clock, Liberty is a shopper’s delight. On the back side of the market, there are small open air eateries where you can relish your taste buds with chicken Shawarms, mutton kebabs, mutton and beef burgers, fish finger chips etc.

Overwhelmed by the emotions, I took out my cell phone and decided to capture the moment for future. As I was clicking pictures, a tall bearded man, clad in light brown kameez-pajama and a leather jacket, that he had complimented with a Peshawari cap, tapped me on my shoulder.

“Why are you taking picture,” he asked in a rather suspicious tone.

“I am a tourist that’s why,” I replied courteously.

“Where are you from?” he asked in the same tone.

“Srinagar, Kashmir,” I replied.

No sooner I mentioned Srinagar and Kashmir that his expressions changed suddenly; he shook my hands, and after clearing his throat, said, “Aap to hamare khaas mehmaan ho. Jitni photo khenchni hai khencho (You are our special guest. Take as many pictures you want).”

Before I could react, he went from one shop to another, pointing towards me and telling the shopkeepers that I was from Kashmir.

Within no time I was surrounded by shopkeepers, shoppers, passersby and who not. They were shaking my hand, hugging me, inviting me inside their shops, asking me to have tea, dinner, snacks etc. with them. The man with Peshawari cap and leather jacket introduced himself as Sheraz Khan. He earns his living by selling ‘selfie sticks’ (PKR 1200 per piece), at Liberty Market. With tears in his eyes he told me that his ancestors are from a village near Gulmarg in Kashmir. His great grandfather, who was a hakeem by profession, migrated to what is now Pakistani Kashmir some hundred years back. Since then his family is living in Pakistan. “I wish I can go to Gulmarg just once. I want to see the land of my ancestors,” he said emotionally while people circling around us patted him in consolation.

As it was getting late, I took my leave from the crowd, and from Sheraz, promising him to return someday and talk to him about his ancestral land. “Insha Allah, Insha Allah,” he said and handed me a ‘selfie stick’ as a gift.

I refused to take the gift thinking that PKR 1200 mean a lot for Sheraz, but he was not ready to let me go without the gift, so was the crowd.

Finally, I took the gift as the crowd around us cheered with joy. Before I bid goodbye I insisted Sheraz Khan to have a picture with me to which he obliged happily. While leaving Liberty Market, I now knew what I was missing. It was the love of Pakistani people that I had to carry back, if not the soil – for which I have been receiving demands in my inbox from Kashmiri friends.

The next morning I and my cousin crossed back with a promise to visit again.

Goodbye Pakistan!

(The author was on a personal visit to Pakistan.)

London first stuck in my mind like glue when I was a boy. Zan Chi Landan Gatsun (As if you’re going to London), I remember the parental refrain.

Finally I visited United Kingdom, this year. Honestly speaking, the culture shock in the beginning was enormous. I thought the clock fast-forwarded to 2316. The fashion, mannerism, cheerfulness, multi-culturism, buildings, roads and the overall history were overcoming. I found materialistic London tremendously practical.

I had seen London only in movies on the TV sets of Kashmir – plagued by perpetual conflict, militarized minds and borders. But as days passed by, it seemed a familiar territory. I started finding resemblances between the UK and Kashmir. London appeared home away from home. Its lofty Big Ben looked like Kashmir’s Ghanta Ghar – a grandpa figure watching its broods move around.

Thames became my Jhelum

In Kashmir when people speak of UK, it reminds one of the great old days of foreign tourism dominated by the British wanderers and the American hippies. Today it is either the people from Indian plains avoiding the scorching summer sun or the Israeli vacationers trying to figure out if Kashmiris are among the lost Jewish tribes or if prophet Jesus is really buried at Kashmir’s Rozabal neighbourhood.

Our luxurious houseboats are a legacy introduced by the British to Kashmir lakes.

Some of the oldest structures in Kashmir – bombed in the deadly fighting over the years – had British make up. Even the Grindlays Bank – acquired by J&K Bank – overlooking the meandering river Jhelum gives a feel of London in Kashmir.

The upscale market Polo View looks like any shopping lane of the Oxford, mighty Chinar trees replacing slightly short maple trees.

Who could forget cashmere! The mountain-goat-drawn wool and the shawl industry continue to bind the British fashion aficionados with the local Kashmir artists. A cashmere shawl of 1860 and a mid-nineteenth century English lady’s surcoat formed of Kashmir shawl pieces displayed inside the Ashmolean museum at the Oxford explains further the colonial connections.

Even weather is pretty much similar. Only that it doesn’t snow in London these days and Srinagar. Unlike UK, Kashmir’s almost zero contribution to the massive global pollution does not help Srinagar get better snowfall. Srinagar had dry winter in 2016.

It was at the fag end of January when I was told about my selection for the prestigious Chevening South Asia Journalism Program (SAJP) fellowship. I was soon packing my stuff in Oman and rushing to Delhi for my visa. The nine-hour British Airways flight overflew half of the world before landing at Heathrow.

Some friends would always complain about frisking at the Heathrow airport. I was supposed to get goose bumps. But I found it normal. In fact, Kashmir has the world’s strictest airport followed by Tel Aviv’s. The fright of over-frisking and scans at Heathrow proved pure exaggeration.

The first day at London began with a river trip. I was cheery. So were the seven Pakistani and six Indian journalists who would be my colleagues and friends for rest of the two months.

The winter sun shone like a bride in the clear London skies. Thames’ sparkling waters, flying gulls and the tour guide’s narration of London’s history meant the entire trip was going to be delightful and educative. The jet lagging continued for a week though. Many a times I woke up at two in the night thinking it’s morning by the Asian standards. The body clock desperately needed adjustments.

The United Kingdom is a geographic amalgam of England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland regions. Scotland recently chose to stay with the UK in a referendum vote thus ending speculations of a new country emerging from the northern tip of the island nation. Allowing such resolutions is the hallmark of mature democracies like the UK. Mature, because the region I come from is a witness to militarized governance that peddles democracy. A peace-line divides protestant and catholic neighborhoods of Northern Ireland. From 18 in the early 1990s there number rose to 48 since the Good Friday Agreement of 1998 or Belfast agreement – reached after nearly two years of talks and 30 years of conflict that killed around 3600 people and injured thousands.

The Irish-model has been for long proposed to be one of the solutions to Kashmir dispute that will give away Hindu and Muslim provinces of the region to India and Pakistan – both nuclear rivals locked in a bitter conflict over the Himalayan territory since 1947 when Britain ended its rule in the sub continent.  This is something on the lines of Sir Dixon Plan of 1950 as well that suggested Chenab as the border.

Chevening SAJP fellowship allows a peek into British media practices and the politics. I was told print media in the UK is fast shrinking and has declined by almost 40 percent in the last ten years only. The Independent stopped publishing recently. In fact I grabbed the last Independent on Sunday copy at the airport (March 20) while flying back to Muscat. The last print edition of The Independent was published on March 26. At its summit, sales hit around 428,000 copies a day and 25 years later, it sold only 28,000.

Online media has offered a strong belligerence to the traditional print media over the years.  Sales of almost all print outlets including The Guardian, The Telegraph, Daily Mirror and others have gone down drastically. Media jobs are hard to get.  Downsizing is rampant. Interestingly, free paper London Evening Standard is the winner. Launched 188 years ago, its circulation is touching a million. In 2015, it urged people to support the Tories in the election. It’s handed over to passersby and pedestrians at all busy nerves of London. Others grab a copy at the kiosks inside tubes, shops, and supermarkets. 90 percent of the waste at the tubes, buses and parks could include this paper. Rest is often pigeon droppings.

In the past few months, debate on Brexit – wordplay of ‘Britain’ and ‘exit EU’ – has dominated the news space. Come June UK will decide whether or not it should remain in the EU. Refugees of Middle East and threats from ISIS are often discussed in news and commentaries. UK’s flagship anti-radicalization strategy – Prevent – is also debated often. Pummeled by critics it’s seen as pure racial, cultural and religious profiling that targets Muslims mostly.

I discussed Prevent with a Kashmiri family living outside London for past 48 years. “Those days the UK needed us. Today it doesn’t,” they said describing their flight emigration from Mirpur (PaK) in 70s and growing Islamphobia in this decade that has torn the social fabric in most of the country.

Most of the Pakistanis came from PaK as economic migrants. Besides remaining media-illiterates, they remain fragmented and lack professional training in working with the media thus allowing the dominant narrative work against them.

A top Pakistani government official stationed in London said: “Our Kashmiris need to adopt UK as their home now. But they are still stuck in a time warp of 70s.” Unlike other Asian immigrants, Pakistani Kashmiris have lagged way behind in education. Their youngsters are more concerned about making money by hard work than education. The marriages often occur amongst first or second cousins who share the same lineage or Birdari (clan) back in PaK.

Nowhere else is Kashmiri diaspora as large as UK. Unlike Palestinians, they are weak and mired in their own issues and lack capacity to strengthen Pakistan’s soft power in UK or lobby for Kashmir.

I also found Pakistan and India both critical and important to the UK’s foreign policy. The Chinese investment of $46bn in Pakistan is looked upon with doubt despite China investing $60bn in the UK too. With India, the UK looks forward to a strong relationship. Both countries are on the same page when it comes to India’s bid to enter permanently in the UNSC or Global Nuclear Suppliers Group.

While the UK wants to see de-escalation of tensions between both Pakistan and India, its stance on Kashmir is “neutral”. This is despite Kashmir dispute is considered as British legacy in subcontinent.

The fellowship also offered me an opportunity to interact with all the Pakistani colleagues who came from different backgrounds and circumstances. One thing I will always cherish is their love for Kashmiris. The male journalists were very vocal. Every night we would play Pashtoon, Kashmiri or Punjabi songs and relish the delicious food cooked by a Pashtoon journalist. Debates over cricket and then conflict would often end up with pledges to work hard for our societies. While we sharing our stories, we found we all came from modest backgrounds who had to struggle to sustain studies.

Some of the best brains for this fellowship came from India as well. It was a group of very strong journalists who knew their work and have already won laurels for their effort in journalism. It was fun to listen to their arguments and share my experiences as a Kashmiri journalist.

Together we spent a great time visiting many UK media outlets and NGOs. Our visits to BBC, The Economist and NGOs like English PEN, Chattam House, Reprieve and Transparency International were momentous. Listening to experts was a huge experience. Insights of Andy Sparrow on Media Credibility in the Age of Internet and Insurgency, Jean Seaton on Intolerance and Media: Case study Northern Ireland, Rosie Thomas on Bombay Before Bollywood: Film City Fantasies and Aaqil Ahmed on Challenges and Opportunities of Religious Programming in the UK were outstanding. Listening to Kashmir dispute expert Victoria Schofield at the House of Lords was incredible. She pushed for resolution of the Asia’s eyesore saying, “Kashmir has become too dangerous to neglect.”

Journalists at the War Zone Freelance Exhibition offered a sneak peek into the dangerous world of freelance journalism in Middle East. The stringers and freelancers remain underpaid and are rarely acclaimed despite their great role in getting out stories.

There are no words to describe how much I loved to hear James Meek speak about his work on how the wealthiest and most powerful in the West have turned the Robinhood myth to their advantage. I had a great time speaking with the environment students at the Oxford who had gathered at the Reuters Institute sponsored Science and Media workshop. It was a great feeling to share stage with veterans like Roger Harrabin, BBC News Environmental Analyst, and other environment experts to discuss ‘what should be role of the media in framing a post-Paris climate agenda?’ The gathering was also significant since my research topic touched the water aspects of the Kashmir conflict.

I had a trip to the House of Commons and House of Lords. In free time we strolled through posh South Kensington neighbourhood, Oxford Street, Trafalgar, Marble Arch and Hyde Park, passing some iconic landmarks on the way. Researching at the grandiose British Library was real fun. The building houses manuscripts, books and records of outstanding importance for all eras, countries and disciplines.

The visit to Imperial War Museum was very useful. One unusual thing that caught my eye was a Pakistan-made Honda motorbike captured by the British forces from the retreating Taliban scouts in Afghanistan. The information plate pasted nearby reads: “Lacking western technology, the Taliban gather intelligence the old fashioned way – in person”. IWM (Imperial War Museum) is a great place to see. It tells the story of people who have lived, fought and died in conflicts involving Britain since the First World War.

The final week ended with a debate on Intolerance. We discussed why and why now, the intolerance has taken different forms in the UK, India and Pakistan? We discussed how media has the tendency in these regions to stoke intolerance and what impact does intolerance has upon culture and freedom of expression?

Overall the fellowship was productive, positive, and enjoyable. The entire trip forced me to question what I thought I knew, and learn how much I had yet to explore in this shared world.

(Kashmiri journalist Baba Umar works for Times of Oman and is based in Muscat. He was in London on Chevening South Asia Journalism Program (SAJP) fellowship.)