Gunless but Hungry

Unable to earn their livelihood, many former militants in Kashmir are contemplating rejoining the ‘Jihad’.

Unable to earn their livelihood, many former militants in Kashmir are contemplating rejoining the ‘Jihad’.

When Ghulam Mohammed’s blindfold was removed after three months and three weeks, the first thing his eyes were able to focus upon was a rubber flogger. In the dim light of a dungeon called Papa 2, he shivered as he read the three words scribbled on it with what later smelt like Fevicol on his skin: Aan Milo Sajna.

That was the year 1990. Eighteen years later, Papa 2 has been turned into a bungalow for a former Chief Minister. Ghulam Mohammed is back in his village, Sheeri, in north Kashmir.

Very near his house is a cluster of unmarked graves, discovered recently in some parts of Kashmir. “I feel lucky that I did not end up in one of those,” he says. Mohammed is wearing a pathan suit, stitched at Sahadat tailors in Karachi, as a small tag on its upper pocket reveals. Soon, other men join us.

We are sitting in a large, airy room on the top floor of his house. A woman hands over trays filled with plates of local sesame bread. She also brings two samovars of pink, salted tea.

All the men who have assembled here are former militants like Ghulam Mohammed. Having served various terms in prison, they now struggle to bring their lives back on track. Like Mohammed, most of the men don’t know what really prompted them to pick up the gun. When Mohammed himself crossed over in 1988 to receive arms training, he didn’t have a reason. “The conditions were such that we were left with no option,” he says. By 1990, Mohammed was a top commander of the militant outfit, Al-Barq. The same year, he was picked up by the Indian Army and landed up in Papa 2. But Mohammed was no ordinary militant. “Can you imagine, one of my former bodyguards went on to become an MLA,” he says, trying to fit himself in the militant hierarchy for our benefit. Less than a year later, gunmen kidnapped an executive director of Indian Oil Corporation, K Doraiswamy from the outskirts of Srinagar. The men, who later claimed to be from an organisation called the Islamic Front, demanded the release of six dreaded militants, including Ghulam Mohammed. After his release, he joined the organisation that freed him and was active for another year till a burst of fire during an encounter with the security forces left him crippled.

There are thousands of men like Mohammed in Kashmir today, who have been released from prisons and find themselves at the crossroads. Some of them are educated, but given their background, are finding it hard to get a job.

In 1987, Abdul Rashid of Baramulla’s Heewan village was a young college graduate when the news of mass rigging in that year’s Assembly election spread like wild fire in Kashmir. It is believed that the balance was tilted in favour of Farooq Abdullah’s National Conference at the behest of New Delhi. In two years, a number of men had crossed the border. In 1989, when bus conductors in Kashmir would shout, “Sopore, Handwor, Upore (Sopore, Handwara, across)”, Rashid joined a small group of men. Surviving on a ration of dry fruits and stale Kashmiri bread, they managed to reach Muzaffarabad in Pakistan-occupied Kashmir. He stayed in Pakistan for over three years. Upon returning, he was active for another three years till he was arrested during a military crackdown. After three months in jail he was released by a screening committee.

“I am a graduate. My village head, his wife—they are all illiterate. But today, look at their houses and look at mine.”

Rashid is unemployed. He has no means to make ends meet. At home, most of the time, he says, the family is forced to eat rice with salt. “Wife says, ‘Go get a job’. But where do I get one?” he asks. Recently, his wife tried to end her life by drinking poison. “I would have picked the gun again but then I look at my five daughters and I freeze,” he says. “But maybe I will now.”

Abdul Rashid Lone never crossed the border. But he was a militant sympathiser, doing odd jobs for them. An employee of the state electricity department for 18 years, he even has a certificate which says that he took part in election duty in the crucial 1996 election, which ended Governor’s rule in Kashmir. For the risk he took then, he was regularised. In 2005, however, he was jailed for 45 days for ‘subversive activities’. After his release, he continued working.

Then one fine day, in 2007, a letter arrived at his house.

It was a government order. Under directions from the then Chief Minister, Ghulam Nabi Azad, 18 employees had been dismissed. Rashid was one of them.

Today, Rashid doesn’t know what to do. His three daughters, studying in a private school, were asked to leave since he could no longer afford their fees.

“Forget about me, but what crime have my daughters committed?” he asks. “At least the future of our children should be secured. If that doesn’t happen, we may be compelled to pick up the gun again.”

Ghulam Mohammed’s two sons and one daughter are also out of school. “The younger generation needs to be kept away from guns to ensure peace in Kashmir. But look at how they are treating us,” says Mohammed. “A few days ago, after he spotted an Army convoy, my son spat at it,” he adds.

“Our story is over,” says Abdul Rashid, closing his eyes. A few seconds later he fixes his gaze on a ring, a wedding ring, perhaps. “Even now whenever I hear some noise in the night, I get up and run away.”

About The Author

Rahul Pandita

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