1991 February,Saturday Night and an Everlasting Tragedy

“ Lahoo jamne se pehle khoon baha de
Yahan insaaf se Qatil badda hai ’’
-Parvin Shakir

In Kashmir, winter is a season of contemplation, a time for some breathing space and a hiatus in the otherwise dogged cycle of violence that has over the recent years swallowed unarmed men, women, children, and what not. Those wielding the dreaded Kalashnikovs and sniper rifles haven’t been spared either. However,this winter has been different. Upholding the legacy of yesteryear’s summer’s barbarity, it snuffed out nearly a hundred lives reducing as many homes to a mishmash of shrieking mothers, wailing wives and sisters, and perplexed toddlers unable to gauge the gravity of the moment.

This winter has browbeaten me into recounting the tragedy that struck Kunan and Poshpora, a pair of small hamlets, at Kupwara in northern Kashmir back in February 1991. Although I was born a few years later, I can’t bring myself to disregarding the trauma & misery of countless Kashmiri women who have had to endure unbearable pain & social stigma ever since. As I narrate the pain & agony that befell Kunan & Poshpora that Saturday night, I make a futile attempt to beef up the unfeeling parts of my heart.

It was a cold February night and as a norm back in the day, a military operation was launched in & around the twin villages of Kunan & Poshpora. Groups of soldiers and officers of the Indian Army swooped down on the area in a bid to bust militant hideouts. What transpired, however, over the night is something every Kashmiri wants to forget. And remember, both at the same time. The entire military operation turned into a nightmare for the women of the villages. The village men were rounded up & confined to a building. And then, the soldiers went on an alleged rape splurge of isolated women. According to several accounts, as many as fifty women were raped by the soldiers; women of all kinds, young unmarried girls, pregnant women, women freshly married, and women who couldn’t speak. To add to the disgrace & mortification, many of them were stripped of their modesty in front of their children. To my mind, that’s grossly cold-blooded and menacing.
To give the readers an insight into the atrocities committed on that fateful Saturday night, I present below an exclusive excerpt from a book, co-authored by a bunch of young women, documenting the accounts of the victims:
The Knock on Durri’s* Door

My sister and I hugged the kangri even closer. We were scared of that knocking. It seemed someone wanted to break down the door of our house. My grandfather quickly got up and opened the door. I heard a few words. “Kitnai admi ho ghar mai” (how many men are you in the house?). “Koi nahi sahib bas mai hun” (no one, just me). I tried to stand up. I was stopped by someone. It was Amina, she held my hand tight. As I turned towards her, I could see the disapproval on her face. Now I tried to hear more clearly. I noticed Amina and Fatimah were doing the same. In the middle of all this I could hear a female voice. My mother was pleading with someone. Suddenly ‘toth'(dad) screamed “Haa Khudayo” (Oh God!). Within no time an army soldier appeared in front of us. I could smell something awful from him and then I saw that he had a bottle of alcohol in his hand.
My throat was dry. I could not even scream. I could not even stand, it was as if the earth had gripped me. My sister Fatimah and Amina held me tight from both sides. I could feel their fingers digging into my arms. From one the soldiers became six as others joined the first one. I wanted to scream. I could not hear my grandfather speak. I didn’t know where they took my mother. One of them gripped my hair. I held his feet. I remember begging him, “khuda kai liyai humai chhod do, hum nai kuch nahi kiya” (for god’s sake please leave us, we are innocent). I even bowed my forehead onto his shoes. He dragged me to kitchen. My mother was already there. I screamed with all my energy, “Mouji meh bachaay tii” (mother, save me). How could she, I don’t want to share all that I saw and remember happening to her. My pheran was torn and with that my whole life.
When I regained consciousness, my head was blank and I felt numb. My face was wet. I realized I was weeping. I was naked, not just my body but my soul. My mother was in that room with me. She was unconscious or pretending to be. She had turned her face away from me. I heard someone crying. It was my brother, he covered me with something. I don’t remember clearly what it was. I haven’t asked him till now. We never spoke about that night again. But I remember I could not feel my lower body.
That one night has become my life. No matter what I do, where I go or what I think. That night never leaves me. It’s with me all the time, when I pray, when I cook, when I clean myself. I curse them (the army) all the time and will curse them all my life.
Notwithstanding the agony and misery inflicted upon them, the women of Kashmir have unveiled unprecedented mettle, bravery and grit. Their fight for justice continues unabated despite the continual delay in the hearing of the case in the Supreme Court of India. If the reports are to be believed, six victims are already dead. But, the people of Kunan Poshpora are determined to pursue this seemingly unending fight for justice. We can but hope that justice is delivered.
Kashmiris are an integral part of India, said no one. Kashmir is an integral part of India; says everyone. I don’t see the latter belief guaranteeing justice to the inhabitants of this integral part. How many of my fellow countrymen do? The narrative has to change. It must.

Acknowledgements:
Essar Batool, Ifra Bhat, Munaza Rashid, Natasha Rather,Samreena Mushtaq.