.... and a tale of two villages in kashmir...
Jupinderjit Singh
Amidst the Euphoria over Kasab's hanging and a feeling of poetic justice among most of our countrymen, my mind wanders off to two border villages in the strife-torn state of Jammu and Kashmir.
One, set in Poonch district of Jammu division witnessed the handiwork of Indian and Pak agencies in using the members of an extended family living in Pakistan and India in smuggling, espionage and sheltering terrorists.
The second, whose name can be shared, is the village Sultan Dhakki, located dangerously close to the Jhelum river and the Indo-Pak border in Uri district of Kashmir.
The first one in Poonch district saw the arrest of an elderly villager in an alleged fake currency racket. What turned out was a heart wrenching tale of a divided family living in both nations. Divided by borders but united by love, blood relations and above all the need to survive- the families virtually lived off the Indian and Pakistan security agencies.
The accused and his brother lived on either side of a rivulet through the hills. The rivulet also worked as the LOC between the two countries. Their ancestors used to live together and owned land on both sides of the rivulet. They had never dreamt that the rivulet would one day become border between two nations. The partition left
the family with no option but to live in separate countries to save their land.
With limited agriculture and fencing around the village, the brothers eventually had no option but to play in the hands of Indo-Pak security agencies. As cross-border terrorism increased, security agencies started raiding their houses forcing them to comply with their demands.
They helped in spying; they helped in terrorism; they helped in crossing border; they helped in smuggling arms, drugs and fake currency. Their houses became transit points for spies and terrorists.
The brothers and their sons and the grandchildren including girls double crossed both nations to survive. The security agencies helped them as this eventually helped the agencies in getting information and reap benefits.
All went well till one of the grandchildren either refused or tried to outsmart both the agencies. He was killed in a shootout at the border and his grandfather on Indian side was arrested for smuggling fake currency. The family was neither Indian nor Pakistani. They were just humans struggling to survive.
It was in 2003 that I visited Sultan Dhakki, better known as village of the commanders of different militant outfits, on a special assignment by The Tribune. During those days, all vehicles heading towards the border villages or returning from it were checked at several nakkas. Passengers were frisked a number of times. Only those having Identity-Cards were allowed to go.
In the villages, two children had died in shelling between the countries. It was no big news for media. Such incidents happened at regular intervals. But for an outsider on a short assignment to the state, it called for a visit.
The tragic deaths apart, the village turned out to be the village of retired terrorists. Almost every second person was once a Lashkar-e-Toiba militant or even a Commander. But after several deaths in encounters with Army and realization of the designs of the enemy state, most of the surviving ones became teachers.
One of the ex-militant accompanied us all day. He told tales of militancy from different angles. Later, in the evening, a young captain of the Indian Army and I sat down for a game of chess. We had settled well in what was a five-star arrangement in that god-forbidden place. The Army had constructed the rooms in a cave-like vacant space in a hill on the Indian side of the border. This protected them in winter but more importantly from the shelling across the border.
The ex- LeT militant sat close-by in a thoughtful look on his face. He saw me happy at winning a piece in exchange of a pawn. "You also lost a piece," he said. "Yes, I have. But it was just a pawn. They are meant to be sacrificed."
"Very true, Sir. Like us,” he whispered. Silence engulfed the room.
The resigned look on his face has remained with me since then. It haunted me more as the news of the hanging of the butcher from Faridkot in Pakistan hit us. Just a day before, I had returned from Faridkot city in the Indian Punjab. A love yarn in the form of Shruti kidnapping/elopement case had shaken the state. The society was
debating the future of a minor girl impregnated by an alleged
notorious criminal.
Media was making beeline to this Fardikot. And media was making beeline to the Faridkot in Pakistan side as well, though for different reasons altogether. At one, it was a matter of heart. At the other, it was a matter of who Kasab was - a rebel or a patriot?
For Indians like me, he would be a butcher, a terrorist but for his countrymen, he would be a hero, a great patriot. George Barnard Shaw,the great English writer had so rightly said ," The difference between a rebel and a patriot depends on whose side you are."
One can add one more thing- The Kasabs may be rebels or patriots for
different persons but in reality they are just a pawn to be sacrificed at the will of the invisible masters. Kasabs will continue to die. Sarabjit's will continue to suffer. Till their masters end this butchery.
Or, till someone gets hold of the masters.
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