Why They Write

Sanjay Kak,editor of Until My Freedom Has Come: The New Intifada in Kashmir,says that in 2009-10 he noticed how the rumblings of blogs and Facebook were pushing mainstream media in a more introspective direction. Other Fahads,writing in this alternative space,have emerged from Kashmir of late. In their late teens and early twenties,some have forsaken conventional careers,in engineering,for example,for one of journalism. Shafaq Shah,a journalism student,whose role models include Barkha Dutt and Karan Thapar,says,“It’s hard for a girl to go out in Kashmir after 8 or 9pm. My journalism teacher had to leave journalism because people used to taunt her. That affects you.” Rifat Rathore,however,believes that with mindsets evolving,girls now have a space,which had been denied. Despite the opposition,Shafaq writes because she wants to reveal. “I hate violence. People might think it is patriotic,but it is not,” she says. These young writers write because they have something to say. And they are quickly learning how to write.

The literary environment of Kashmir doesn’t hinge on book launches and social events. Instead,it is both an intrinsic and informal one. People here live with the verses of Agha Shahid Ali,Ghalib and Faiz Ahmed Faiz. A few new bookshops and second-hand booksellers dot Lal Chowk in Srinagar. Basharat Peer’s Curfewed Night and Mirza Waheed’s The Collaborator are obvious favourites of the young writers.

At workshops,held on Sundays in homes and cafes,by senior journalists,students revel in Animal Farm,drawing parallels between George Orwell’s Snowball and Napoleon and characters from their own life. They read Truman Capote,for his clear prose and Mike Berger for his reporting that painted scenes with words. They scour their imaginations with pieces like,“If I were a balloon”,“If I were a bench”,and “Why I write”. By reading literature,by learning the slippages of grammar,by sharing their work with peers and guides,they are discovering how to write. Kak says,“The writing is coming out of a mahaul of deep local understanding and an openness to the outside world.” We bring this writing to you,from five young voices of the Valley.

Zahid Maqbool,23

Freelance journalist,srinagar

‘It’s important to write,to live’

I never wanted to become a writer. I wanted to become a freedom fighter. A militant. A rebel. A terrorist. The world could call me whatever suited it. But,as they say,a small incident changes destiny. It happened to me as well.

One day,the army picked up my uncle,Rafiq Ahmed,30,and branded him a militant. It was the autumn of 1999. He was taken to the Lariyar camp of the Rashtriya Rifles. He was kept there for five days. He was tortured. We pleaded before the army officer,told him that he was innocent and had nothing to do with militancy. My uncle is an officer in the forest department. The officer didn’t listen,he seemed convinced that my uncle was a militant.

We gave up hope of his release. We feared for his life. One evening,the army knocked on our door. We were scared. We thought,they would take away another family member. I was 13,a student of Class VII. The only grown-up man in our family was my father,Mohammad Maqbool,a government employee. But to our utter surprise,they (the army) had brought my uncle home. The army officials later told us that surrendered militants who had switched over to the army had misled them.

While looking for my uncle,we visited newspaper offices and each morning,I would scan newspapers for the story about my uncle’s innocence. But I could not find my story. I wanted to know why our story had not been published. That is why I wanted to be a writer. This is why I wanted to tell stories — the stories of misery of families like my own,who could not find a way to tell it.

Those five days changed my life. I witnessed the helplessness of my family as they knocked on the doors of politicians and police officers and returned home anguished. That helplessness made me write.

There was a time when I thought of joining the militants. But then I dropped the idea. I knew becoming a militant would mean certain death in a matter of few months or years. Perhaps I was too weak and too scared. Then I thought dying at a young age would not make any difference either. I would only be one more of the thousands buried across Kashmir.

Three years ago,I started scribbling about my family’s ordeal. I wrote and I felt relieved. I want to write about my fear of death. I want to write about my father’s joy when my uncle returned home. In Kashmir,writing may not be the bravest thing a young man can do. But it is important to write,to chronicle and to live. I write because I am alive.

Shafaq Shah,19

Student of journalism,women’s college,srinagar

‘It is my mother’s absence that I want to fill with words’

I was in Class VI when I discovered I could express my anger against my parents’ scolding through poems. It was a young girl’s poetry of rebellion. My mother tore the pages,afraid that my father might beat me for mistakes in grammar.

It has been many years since then. Life has changed and so have I. Now,my mother is no more here to hide my mistakes. Now I am more hurt by life than angry at it. And,it is for my mother that I write. It is to see how well I knew her and how much of her I remember.

I always wanted to be a journalist. And,I always wanted to interview my mother. I would pester her for an interview and she would say she would give me one when I became a journalist. Now,I am nearly a journalist but she isn’t there any more — neither walking around the house nor coming to wake me up. Her dupatta doesn’t leave a trail behind her nor does her laughter fill our home. She now lives only in my memory,and through writing I shall keep her alive.

I remember Sunday afternoons that smelled of hair oil. Mother would massage my hair playfully. I remember her hands holding my fingers,trimming my nails with the greatest care and then painting them red. It is those afternoons I want to write about and those evenings when she would help me with homework. I want to write about her coyness and her beautiful dimples that I loved. I want to tell her how I miss her on my birthdays; I miss her when I am alone,and I miss her smile and her voice. I miss her in the kitchen,her favourite place; I miss her when I come across her clothes which still have her smell and I miss her in the garden where I see everyone laughing except her. It is her absence that I want to fill with words,hoping that she will come alive in my work.

I often sit on the chair she sat in so often. The last time I saw her,she was slumped in it. When I sit in it,I strangely feel her presence as well as her absence; and I realise that I have lost my best friend. Mother often gave away my clothes to people who were in need. I hid my clothes from her. I hated poor people then for taking away my clothes. Now,I wonder how the poor feel when they wear discarded clothes,done-away skins and leftovers of the rich. Mother’s death showed me life’s injustices and I felt closer to those wronged by the system. And now,I want to write about them.

Fahad Shah,21

Founder and editor,the kashmir walla

‘I write to tell the world about my people’

Why do I write? This question compels me to ponder who I am. What makes me write? I was born when militancy began in the Valley,when guns replaced cricket bats of young people,when newborns heard the thunder of blasts instead of lullabies,when blood was sprinkled on the streets. I am one of those children,who never lived a day in peaceful Kashmir. Since my childhood little has changed in Kashmir. The bunkers may have been reduced but fear still exists on the streets.

But I have heard of peace,of those nights when markets were buzzing till late in the evenings. I listened to my grandfather’s stories about his walk on the Bund,the Jhelum banks,when there were no concertina wires,no army bunkers and no fear of getting killed or arrested. But with these stories of peace,I also heard stories of how my ancestors were pushed into forced labour. I heard of a brutal regime of the Dogra maharajas.

Like my grandfather,I wasn’t lucky to walk on the streets of Kashmir without the presence of the army. I was growing up. Day by day,I was living the life of a “child of conflict”. I remember how one day my older brother and I were caught in an exchange of fire between the army and militants while on our way to school. I remember how a woman pulled us inside her house and saved us from getting killed. I survived that day. I survived a decade.

In my teenage,I thought of engineering. My family supported the idea and I started to prepare for it. I could never understand mathematical theorems. I tried. But luck didn’t favour me.

As time passed,I found something else. I had seen bloodshed. I had dreams of being hit by a bullet,arrested or being beaten up ruthlessly. These events shaped my future.

I have been writing for some years now. I write to find out the truth which has been overshadowed by competing narratives,from India and Pakistan,from “mainstream” and “separatists”. I write to draw lines between truth and falsehood. I write to distinguish between pain and joy. I write to tell the world about my people,about their sufferings. I write to translate and narrate the pain of my people. Writing is a tool for me. It’s a tool which leads me to do my work,to play a part for my land.

Yusra Khan,18

Student of multimedia and mass communication,women’s college,srinagar

‘I write for my friend’

I first started to write in Class VI — it was an entry in my diary. I would keep a diary to pen down my feelings,my emotions. There was no one to listen to me and my thoughts. No one was ready to listen to what I wanted,what I needed,whom I hated and whom I loved — only my diary had the patience.

In my childhood,I lived with my aunt and uncle. My hesitation to share my thoughts with them made me take refuge in my diary. Writing then was a weapon to kill my loneliness.

This didn’t last long. I soon realised that I had a friend — my second cousin Faiza. I started to talk to her. And as I learned how to talk,I tore apart my diaries. I quit writing.

In 2009,I lost her in a car accident,she who would listen to me without interrupting. Her loss took me back to my diary. I again started to write. But this time it was for her and not for me. What I can’t express through my speech,I share through my writing. I can’t speak to her any more but yes,I can write for her. Like her,nobody will interrupt me while I write. So,I have reverted to writing.

Rifat Rathore,19

Student of journalism,women’s college,Srinagar

‘Here,everyone has a story to tell’

Why should I write? Why should I not be one among the masses whose pain is never spoken,whose sighs never heard? Why take the pain and responsibilities of being a writer? Here,“writers” live in every nook and corner; almost everyone has a story to tell and every heartbroken lover is a poet.

I was born in the ’90s in Srinagar,and my life was greeted with guns and grenades in curfews and crackdowns. Life was a shadow of what it is now. Now,the blasts have gone but the noise still resounds. It is,perhaps,to shut out these voices forever that I want to confront them and their meanings in my life. I once had ambitions of being an engineer,building roads and bridges,but I realised at some point that I needed to make a bridge of words for myself,to cross over from the memories of the infernal childhood whose flames still burn my dreams.

It is by telling my own story and the stories of my people that I want to raise my voice against injustice. My pen yearns to tell of Kashmir’s dead,half-dead,half-widows and children who don’t know whether they are orphans or whether their fathers are alive. I feel that these women are forgotten and ignored and also are the worst sufferers of this conflict. They silently bear pain and live a long life of loneliness burdened by responsibility. I,as a woman,understand them and I want to write about their stories of pain and resilience.