I, as a mother, remember the 2008 economic blockade of the Kashmir valley. The helplessness you feel at not being able to provide for your child is unlike any other.
In the summer of 2008, when my first born was not even ten months old, something happened which made me feel the helplessness a mother would always dread.
I had taken temporary transfer to Kashmir, when the state of Jammu and Kashmir was divided on communal lines like never before.
Some decisions taken by the government regarding the land and forest around the holy Amarnath Shrine did not go well with the local population, leading to the first of string of summer agitations that the Kashmir Valley had seen.
Many died, but what happened next was unprecedented. As communal politics took root on both sides, the divide resulted in a blockade.
The traders in the Jammu region decided to stop essential supplies.
The Kashmir Valley, which was connected to rest of the country through an arterial road passing through the mighty Peer Panjal, was shut out.
Even when the government tried to open then Jammu-Srinagar highway, the economic blockade stayed. As a young mother whose child had just begun to eat solid food, I felt helpless.
Baby food ran out of the markets soon. The valley’s supply of poultry was not enough to suffice demands. My son had just started having egg yolk and I found myself in a situation where I could not find eggs. Another thing he could have was bananas, but we do not grow them in Kashmir. Thankfully he was breast fed, but that was not enough.
My husband drove many kilometres from Srinagar to get some baby food and diapers after hearing that some were available in another district.
Unlike many others, we had the means to buy them. But our sense of helplessness was deep. It led me to one day call up a senior editor of a news channel, asking them as to why they are not speaking of the blockade in the strongest terms.
Destruction in the Gaza Strip. Photo: UNICEF/Hassan Islyeh
I fast forward to 2023 and Gaza and I realise how little I suffered. I imagine young mothers and new borns, with no water, food and electricity. I imagine they have a home one minute and they don’t have it the very next.
I imagine the mother has her child in her lap one minute and then the corpse in the next.
I also imagine the child is suckling at the mother’s breast one minute and hanging on to a dead body the next.
Many of us might want to close our eyes and not imagine the half burnt bodies of women, children and men there.
We have the liberty to even switch off the videos and swipe to the next happy Reel on Instagram.
But 2.2 million men, women and children living in the place which is now called the ‘world’s biggest prison’ do not have that liberty.
People are living those videos day in and day out, while we are reposting about this on social media and at the same time feeling frustrated at how the world is not united in stopping this carnage, this genocide.
What Hamas did on October 7 killing thousands of Israelis is an act that needs to be condemned with the strongest of words. My heart goes out to all the innocents killed during those attacks and my prayers are with the families who must still be struggling to come in terms with their loss.
Most of us who believe in humanity would want a world with zero deaths and killings in any name, be it of region or religion or anything else.
But I, as a mother, want to appeal to every mother out there to raise her voice that the innocents in Palestine not be equated with Hamas.
There are millions who have nothing to do with the killings of October 7.
How can the world uphold and make a noise about human rights of a certain section of population and not others?
When someone from a majority white country, infamously during the beginning of Russia-Ukraine war condemned the attack on Ukrainians saying “they look like us”, I thought the statement was vain.
Today, however, I feel that statement spoke of a kind of truth as the human rights of a population which is considered inferior matters very little.
But history will not be kind to us if we continue with this line of thought. Tomorrow’s generation will ask us what were we doing when millions of people were being wiped from the face of this earth. What was the world doing when a nation of innocents was fighting to just be…
Toufiq Rashid is a journalist who has covered the Kashmir conflict, health and wellbeing for top Indian newspapers for nearly two decades. She now works at @Pixstory.
Mere days ago, the Jammu and Kashmir administration decreed, yet again, that high speed internet will not be restored in the Union Territory barring two districts.
Postgraduate studies in the comforts of a metro city and animated with the exchange of ideas, was a privilege that was easy to acknowledge but obscure to understand.
Today, as someone who teaches postgraduate students in Kashmir over 2G network speed, I am faced with the task of introducing texts and complex ideas to my students, who for over one year have not had access to regular university facilities.
Mere days ago, the Jammu and Kashmir administration decreed, yet again, that high speed internet will not be restored in the Union Territory, barring Ganderbal and Udhampur districts, because of reasons related to national security.
In the communications blackout since the Article 370 was scrapped, Kashmir was cut off from the world and students lost a semester worth of classes.
Then, the COVID-19 lockdown came, necessitating use of technology for the flow of ideas and information. The technospaces of Kashmir are characterised by absolute control of communications – electronic and mechanical. Much has already been written about the complete communications blockade since August 5, 2019. The blockade has transported Kashmir to the Stone Ages. However, the impact of this blockade on the education sector has been much worse than any comparison to our primate ancestors.
Since I started teaching, it has always been my belief that students in the social sciences are unusually perceptive. This, in spite of the fact that many choose to study social sciences as a backup option, after not being able to qualify for professional courses.
Given the conflict, I find that students in Kashmir are able to locate power and engage with the capillaries of the Foucauldian Panopticon with such relative ease that it would leave faculty in bigger universities envious.
Kashmiri college students teach children inside a house in an Anchar neighbourhood, during restrictions in the immediate aftermath of August 5. Photo: Reuters/Danish Siddiqui
Yet, it is one thing that a young mind can intuitively decipher the operations of power and another thing to train that mind to channel this intuition as an analytical tool.
A classroom is meant to be a safe space, a space where students and teachers can exchange ideas, where teachers are supposed to push the cognitive boundaries of young minds so that they can engage with their social, cultural, political and economic context better.
However, given that one does not know the extent to which online spaces are compromised by profit-oriented companies or by authorities, this task has been difficult to achieve and has led many to self-censor.
I teach my students over an erratic 2G connection where calls keep getting disconnected. Thus teachers often switch their video feed off and so do students. Students also turn their microphones off so that background sounds does not interrupt the lecture.
Usually, it takes me at least a few minutes to be able to share my screen with my students, and then too I need to enlarge the shared screen for the benefit of those who access classes on phones. There have been times when I discuss important points in a key text, and realise only later that connection (either mine or the students’) was weak and so, at least some of them could neither hear me nor see my screen for a while.
Imagine teaching social science classes for a over a semester now, without being able to see your students, gauge their expressions or ensure that they are mentally or physically present in the lecture or discussion.
Teachers have found the key skills of articulation and framing questions difficult to encourage among students, as they are unable to meet or see them.
Further, on 2G speed it is nearly impossible to attach bigger files – like books or power points. Last month, I needed to share a student’s presentation with the audience of an international seminar where they were scheduled to present. It took me nearly a day to attach that presentation to an email. As students cannot download or share relevant texts at this speed (especially students in their dissertation phase) questions related to access have become important.
A life drawing class for art students over a Zoom internet livestream. Photo: Reuters
This speed also makes it difficult to share readings for classwork or give assignments, usually over private Google Classroom accounts. During last semester’s final exams, I had to grant extended time to students in certain parts of South Kashmir where gunfights had led to a complete internet shutdown.
Naturally, the quality of education has suffered colossally. And students have been at the receiving end of this.
Not only is the 2G connection erratic, if you have students who are not from urban centres, you can be assured that most of them will have a localised internet shutdown once or twice a month for few days because of ‘encounters’ or gunfights between militants and security forces.
All of this is compounded by the fact that many students in Kashmir do not own personal laptops or have access to private broadband connections (which were only restored in March this year). Teachers have had to remember that not all students have access to the same technology.
This point is of significant importance in the current context, where due to a continued lockdown of 13 months, students have found it hard even to meet university fee requirements. It is therefore imperative to understand that students from rural areas or economically weaker sections find it even harder to access the same education as compared their more privileged classmates.
Situated as the students are in a conflict area, many have lost loved ones to the conflict and some have even lost their homes (or homes of their friends and relatives), which have been gutted during gunfights. They have grown up in highly controlled environments where freedom of expression and movement is restricted – if not penalised – and where parents live under constant fear of their children’s security.
As if being young is not difficult enough, youth here need to reconcile their reality with what has been projected to them as normal by popular culture.
Many of my students, across disciplines, have contacted me telling me that they find it pointless to attend classes online in the current scenario. They speak of a sense of detachment from their surroundings and the difficulty of opening up about these confusing feelings to their families.
They are anxious and isolated, and the lack of adequate mental health infrastructure only aggravates this problem.
A student of mine had stopped attending classes after he was unable to access therapy and medication in his village. His situation did not allow him to travel to one of the cities for regular therapy. It took a great measure of support from his peers and personal strength, for him to rejoin regular classes against all these odds.
Lastly, students who completed their degrees in the last year could not apply for fellowships, scholarships and admissions abroad and in India. I had students who would request relatives, friends or acquaintances outside Kashmir to download forms and books for them and then arrange for these to be sent to them.
Journalists use the internet as they work inside a government-run media centre in Srinagar January 10, 2020. Photo: Reuters/Danish Ismail
Social media and broadband was only restored in March 2020 at 2G speed, granting Kashmiris access to all websites – between January and March only limited ‘whitelisted’ websites were accessible in Kashmir. But by the end of March, the admission process is past application deadlines for most universities. Similarly, many research scholars could not apply for or renew their fellowships and scholarships.
The university where I teach has worked with the student council to address many of the issues raised here. And these issues reflect only some of the challenges that students and faculty in the higher education sector in Kashmir face.
However, the solutions to the woes afflicting the education sector, specifically the higher education sector, can only come through systemic policy level changes, which should include the immediate restoration of regular speed internet and clear directives on digital surveillance.
There is much that needs to be done to study the impact of the internet restrictions on the education sector in Kashmir.
Khatija Khader completed her Ph.D. at Jawaharlal Nehru University. She has worked as a campaigner with Amnesty International India and with Centre for Equity Studies. At present, she is teaching International Relations at the Centre for International Relations, Islamic University for Science and Technology (IUST), which is located in Awantipora, Kashmir.
Dar Yasin, Mukhtar Khan and Channi Anand have expressed joy and said that they never expected the prize.
New Delhi: Photographers Dar Yasin, Mukhtar Khan and Channi Anand, based in Jammu and Kashmir, have been awarded this year’s prestigious Pulitzer Prize for feature photography. The Pulitzer citation said the award was for “striking images of life” by the photographers in what it called “the contested territory of Kashmir” in the aftermath of the August 5, 2019 revocation of its special constitutional status, “executed through a communications blackout.”
— The Pulitzer Prizes (@PulitzerPrizes) May 4, 2020
Yasin and Khan are based in Srinagar while Anand is based in Jammu. All three work with the Associated Press, a news agency. AP executive editor Sally Buzbee said that the Kashmir prize was “a testament to the skill, bravery, ingenuity and teamwork of Dar, Mukhtar, Channi and their colleagues”.
All three have expressed joy and said that they never expected the prize. “Though I knew that there’s a Pulitzer Prize, I never dreamt that one day I would be honoured with it. I am speechless,” Anand toldHindustan Times.
“I would just like to say thank you for standing by us always. It’s an honour and a privilege beyond any we could have ever imagined. It’s overwhelming to receive this honor,” Yasin said on Twitter.
“Dear colleagues and friends I just want to say Thank you and that this award Pulitzer Prizes an honor for us. I could never have imagine in my life time,” Khan said.
Explaining the difficulty of reporting through the shut down of the valley and the communications blockade, AP wrote, “AP journalists had to find out about protests and other news by finding them in person. Khan and Yasin took turns roving the streets in and around the regional capital of Srinagar, Yasin said, facing mistrust from both protesters and troops. The journalists were unable for days to go home or even let their families know they were OK.”
.@AP photographers Dar Yasin, Mukhtar Khan and Channi Anand have been awarded the 2020 Pulitzer Prize in feature photography for extraordinary photojournalism of the crisis and military lockdown in Indian-controlled Kashmir. https://t.co/wl5BwZdCvP
Due to the communications blackout, it was virtually impossible for the photographers to upload their pictures from the valley. Yasin told AP that he would attempt to spot people travelling out from the Srinagar airport and ask them to serve as couriers. This he said reminded him of the 1990s – when militancy was at its peak – and he would ask his relatives travelling to Delhi to deliver films to his office.
Yasin also said that the award feels particularly special as his work also carries a personal meaning. “It’s not the story of the people I am shooting, only, but it’s my story. It’s a great honor to be in the list of Pulitzer winners and to share my story with the world,” he told AP.
National Conference leader Omar Abdullah has congratulated the award winners. “It’s been a difficult year for journalists in Kashmir & that’s saying something considering the last 30 years haven’t exactly been easy. Congratulations to @daryasin, @muukhtark_khan & @channiap on this prestigious award. More power to your cameras,” he said in a tweet
Iltija Mufti, daughter of PDP chief Mehbooba Mufti who continues to be in house arrest, tweeted from her mother’s account. “Congratulations @daryasin @muukhtark_khan for your exemplary photography capturing the humanitarian crisis in Kashmir post illegal abrogation of Article 370. Bizarre that our journalists win accolades abroad but are punished under draconian laws on home turf,” she said.
Two other Indian photographers – Anushree Fadnavis and Adnan Abidi – also won the Pulitzer for breaking news photography as part of the photography staff of Reuters which was awarded for its coverage of the Hong Kong protests last year.
“It’s very humbling and overwhelming to be a part of the team that won the award. The feeling hasn’t sunk in yet,” Fadnavis told the Indian Express.
“I couldn’t be more proud of these fearless journalists. The protests in Hong Kong served as a defining moment of 2019 and across both of these nominations, covered the story from all angles and delivered trusted and reliable journalism to inform our customers and readers,” Reuters president Michael Friedenberg said.
Aamir Ali Bhat says in the past seven months, the Centre’s dilution of Article 370 has had a telling effect on the lives of thousands of people.
Everything in life was going smoothly before the nightmare returned.
It was on August 4, 2019. The night was awfully dark. I just had dinner with my family and was planning to send some story ideas to my editors. My cell phone was repeatedly beeping and some notifications on the screen grabbed my attention.
Rumours about the revocation of Jammu and Kashmir’s autonomy, a possible war between Indian and Pakistan and an indefinite crackdown from next day in Kashmir were running rampant. Rumours that were lacking in specifics had already created confusion and panic in the Valley, after the government had asked tourists, non-locals and Hindu pilgrims to the Kedarnath shrine to leave. People had stocked up on essentials – food, grocery, medicines and fuel. They withdrew cash from bank accounts.
It was going to be a long and dreadful night for us. My friends, colleagues and relatives were repeatedly sending me messages, asking, “What are they going to do with us?” Sinister thoughts were crossing everyone’s mind. A decision that would change Kashmir forever was afoot, but no official was ready to clear up the confusion.
In the next hour, all forms of internet services, mobile calling and landline connections were shut down. We were disconnected from each other and the rest of the world. A silenced prevailed over the whole valley. It was the silence before the storm.
Next day, we woke up to a curfew or we can call it a military siege, stricter and more threatening than what we had witnessed in Kashmir before. Streets, lanes and bylanes that connect one area with the other were sealed with barbed wires. Everywhere, only gun-toting paramilitary troops with orders to foil any kind of resistance were present on the roads.
I was watching television and at around 10:30 am, news channels reported that home minister Amit Shah had presented a Bill in the upper house of parliament to revoke Jammu and Kashmir’s autonomy.
I was born when the armed insurgency in Kashmir had been ignited against New Delhi’s rule. I grow up with encounters, curfews, protests, crackdowns and allegations of massacres, killings, torture, rape, detentions and shooting. This time, I got a sense from the news that it was going to be a very long crackdown.
Union home minister Amit Shah delivers his speech in the Rajya Sabha on August 5. Photo: Twitter
Homes turned into prisons
I have been working as an independent journalist for more than two years. Like other young Kashmiris, New Delhi’s crackdown brought all my plans to a standstill. Our homes were turned into prisons as soldiers were not allowing anyone to move outside.
Two days after restrictions were placed, I went outside to observe the situation. When I reached the main road, I was chased by soldiers who swore at me. They behaved in an uncouth manner and didn’t even let me tell them that I am a journalist.
I was left without any work, like hundreds of thousands of other young Kashmiris whose careers were in peril and who were looking for new opportunities. My plans were falling apart before me and I felt distressed at home. It was difficult to concentrate on anything, as rumours about killings, detention of youth and protests were circling. Every night, I kept tossing and turning in bed, thinking about the future of my people. I wanted to amplify their voices, as their human rights were being brazenly violated. But I was helpless.
A month after the communication blockade was imposed, landline telephones – an almost obsolete form of communication – was restored. Because of the regular internet blockade in 2018, the deadliest year in a decade in Kashmir, I had taken a BSNL broadband connection. When news about the restoration of landline telephones spread, in a short time, distraught and frightened neighbours poured out to my home, just to make a phone call to their loved ones who were studying or employed outside the Valley. A young girl, who had applied for a job before the clampdown was imposed, came to my house in a hurry. She made two phone calls and dropped the phone in disappointment. She had lost the opportunity as the interview call had never reached her, thanks to communication blockade.
The decision to revoke Kashmir’s autonomy was taken in the peak tourist and marriage season. Some families cancelled marriage ceremonies while others toned down the celebration. In South Kashmir’s Anantnag district, I met a groom who had planned a big marriage party. He had drawn up a long list of relatives, friends and neighbours whom he wanted to invite. As the clampdown continued, he decided to tone down the celebration and invited only close relatives. “When your own people are in grief, your conscience does not allow you to celebrate,” the groom told me. He had to renege on agreements he had with the waza (a Kashmiri Chef), decorator, gyawun woel (a singer), videographer, among others.
Plans to report on the situation
Around 40 days after the lockdown, I spoke to a photojournalist friend with the idea to report on the situation in South Kashmir and then travel to Jammu, which is around 210 kilometres away from my hometown. Here, broadband internet was working and we could file stories.
In South Kashmir districts people told us horrific tales of torture, detention and loss. Most people looked frightened and refused to talk to us. It was as if an invisible tape bound their mouth or there was a gun to their heads, asking them to accept the decision that had changed their lives drastically and had been made without counting their opinion.
Kashmiri journalists protest against the internet shutdown in Srinagar in November. Photo: PTI/S. Irfan
During my career, I have mostly covered South Kashmir, where hundreds of people were killed during the last few years of anti-militancy operations and violent protests. I had never met a local who was reluctant to talk to the media. In fact, they were always vocal. The one phrase that was often repeated to us while interviewing people was, “Kasheer Karikh Khatim (Kashmir has been destroyed).”
When my photojournalist friend and I reached Jammu, the paramilitary forces had removed barriers and concertina wires to allow the movement of traffic. Shops had also been opened. We stayed at the semi-finished house of my friend. Locals informed us that access to the Internet was only available at a cybercafé located 12 kilometres away.
When I went to the cybercafé, it was jam-packed with students, job hunters and many others. Mobile internet had not been restored in Jammu also. I had to wait in queue for an hour for my turn and I accessed the Internet the first time in 50 days. I found most of the stories that we had collected had already been published by news outlets. We stayed in Jammu for around 20 days and managed to do a couple of stories.
One afternoon, we went to a nearby hotel to have lunch. A Kashmiri man, probably in his 40s and wearing a salwar kameez, was sitting at the table before us. He looked distressed and tired and started to converse with us. He had come to Jammu all the way from Shopian, a hotbed of militancy in South Kashmir, to meet his elder brother, who was incarcerated in the Kot Bhalwal Jail in Jammu. The brother had been picked up by the police from his home two days after the dilution of Article 370.
As he wasn’t able to make any contact with his brother, two days ago, he had left his home early morning under clampdown. He had passed through scores of barricades and security checkpoints. He walked by foot, hitchhiked up to Anantnag, around 35 kilometres from Shopian, where he boarded a cab to Jammu.
While speaking to us, the man was almost in tears. He was running out of money and wanted to leave Jammu as soon as possible. “Before leaving home, I collected some cash from family members and took a cheque with me,” the man told me. “I thought I would withdraw it in Jammu as the banks were still closed in Shopian.”
When he went to the bank to withdraw money, the cheque got bounced because of an incorrect signature. He couldn’t even contact his family. Before leaving the hotel, the man turned toward us and said, “Assi Kya Korukh (What has been done to us?).”
Lost opportunities
When I returned home, I began feeling frustrated again. In Jammu, I came to know that I had been shortlisted for the ‘Young Journalist Award 2019’ run by Thomson Foundation in collaboration with the Foreign Press Association. I was waiting for news on who would be the three finalists, as they would be flown to London to attend the Gala Award Ceremony.
I gave access to my email to a friend who was working in Delhi in a private firm. He was checking my email everyday day. I wasn’t one of the three finalists, but I was given an opportunity to sign up for a free online course offered by the Thomson Foundation. I was unable to utilise that opportunity as the Internet was still disconnected in Kashmir.
To work around the restrictions, I had begun to dictate story ideas to my friend in Delhi, who sending emails to editors on my behalf.
Although the administration had opened the Media Facilitation Centre in Srinagar, the lone internet access point for journalists in Kashmir, it was cumbersome. People from other district were expected to travel to Srinagar and back every day to file stories. With restrictions on movement still in place, this was next to impossible. If I were to go to the facilitation Centre, I would have had to travel 150 kilometres each day and spent around Rs 500, just to send an email.
Journalists use the internet as they work inside a government-run media centre in Srinagar January 10, 2020. Photo: Reuters/Danish Ismail
In December last year, internet access was given to journalists in our area at the district administration’s office. I felt happy and rushed to access the Internet. However, I was astonished when I was asked to get approval from a ‘concerned official’. I was required to present an authorisation letter from the news outlet. He further said that my reports will be checked by a government official before I send them to my editors. When I asked him why, he said they couldn’t allow “anti-government and conflict-related reports” to be published. He also said that I had to give my email and password to a government official, who will send emails on my behalf. I decided not to use the Internet under these conditions.
In the months preceding August 5, 2019, I was regularly writing reports from Kashmir. During the last six months, I only managed to file four reports. The Internet blockade in Kashmir has already surpassed 200 days. On January 25, a painfully slow speed mobile internet was restored with access limited to just government-approved whitelisted websites. It was mere eyewash, just to show the outside world that ‘normalcy’ has returned to Kashmir.
The ongoing situation in Kashmir and the continuing Internet blockade has left me wondering if I should remain as a journalist or seek another profession. Scores of my colleagues have already left journalism and took up other professions to earn their livelihood. They cannot be called ‘failures’ or their careers be judged unsuccessful. We, Kashmiris, have been pushed to the brink, where limited options are available for survival.
Apart from stifling journalism, the prolonged internet ban has severely damaged businesses and has left Kashmiri students in distress. And still, we do not know when the restrictions will be lifted.
Can you imagine living in today’s digital world without the Internet, under a prolonged military siege? Have you ever witnessed raids in the dark of the night and widespread detentions? Have you ever stayed in your own home as a prisoner for months?
We, Kashmiris, have lived that life, not once, but many times.
While maybe not a traditional social media application, the app allows video and voice calling, apart from group conversations.
Jammu: Even though social media apps that allow peer-to-peer communication are strictly barred as part of the broader restrictions on Internet connectivity in Jammu and Kashmir (J&K), Mukesh Ambani-owned JioChat has been included in the government-approved white-list of 301 ‘websites’ that work on 2G networks in the Union Territory.
Over the last month, the J&K administration has restored partial Internet connectivity in a phased manner, with the latest orders on Friday evening restoring 2G services throughout the UT.
However, the home department order states that there would be a complete restriction on social media applications allowing ‘peer-to-peer’ (person to person) communication and virtual private network applications for the time being.
This has raised questions about JioChat which – while maybe not a traditional social media application like Facebook or Twitter – not only allows video-calling and voice-calling but also group conversations with a 500-member limit.
No other social media or chat application has been allowed. This includes WhatsApp, Telegram, Signal and Hike.
As per the order, one of the primary reasons for the Internet shutdown is that “anti-national elements” are trying to spread fake news and targeted messages over the Internet. The government has also argued that the shutdown is necessary to block communication between militants.
The operative paragraph reads as follows:
“Whereas the police authorities have brought to notice material relating to the terror modules operating in the UT of J&K, including handlers from across the border, and activities of separatists/anti-national elements within who are attempting to aid and incite people by transmission of fake news and targeted messages through the use of internet to propagate terrorism, indulge in rumour-mongering, support fallacious proxy wars, spread propaganda/ideologies, and cause disaffection and discontent.”
In this context, the order appears to advocate a complete blockade of apps that provide a Voice Over Internet Protocol (VoIP) function and more broadly any form of encrypted or mass communication. That is the reason why all social media networking sites such as Facebook, Instagram, Twitter along with social media applications allowing peer-to-peer communication such as WhatsApp, Signal, Telegram etc have been barred.
Social media platforms. Illustration: The Wire
But JioChat, which is essentially a video calling app available on Android, iPhone and JioPhone, has been allowed and is classified under the category “Utilities” on the whitelist. JioChat allows one-to-one chat options as well as group chat wherein one can create large groups up to 500 members. WhatsApp restricts its group to 256 members.
Technology experts have over the last week wondered how an app like JioChat – merely the name of the Reliance Industries application is on the list – would find itself on a list that otherwise consists of only websites.
As a video shot by this reporter below shows, JioChat functions normally under 2G networks in J&K, but WhatsApp does not. However, because the app stores for both Android and Apple don’t work, only pre-existing JioChat users in J&K can use the service. Non-users, therefore, cannot download the app and start using it. Market analysts claim that JioChat would have a 400 million-strong user-base by March 2020, but it’s unclear how many of these are daily or active users.
Encryption or no?
Another important question is whether JioChat provides end-to-end encryption, a feature that WhatsApp uses as a marketing point. Reliance doesn’t appear to give any information about encryption or the duration for which messages are stored on their server in their privacy policy.
One news report from April 2017 had claimed that JioChat secures its messages with QuArKStechnology for end-to-end encryption, but The Wire could not independently verify this.
Hike, which is also developed in India and owned by telecom giant Bharti Airtel gives an option of end-to-end encryption as an added layer of privacy to its users. But even there, it is an opt-in feature and works only when the device is connected to WiFi.
This does raise a question over why JioChat was chosen to be on the list of whitelisted websites and applications over other applications. If it was a lapse on the part of the administration, the same continued when the list of white-listed websites was modified to include approximately 55 news websites in its latest order on Friday.
“Personal Information will be kept confidential to the maximum possible extent.”
“[Jio] may provide your information or data to its partners, associates, advertisers, service providers or other third parties to provide, advertise or market their legitimate products”. It doesn’t specify whether the shared information is personal information or Non-Personal information.
Furthermore, the privacy policy states:
“The Company uses reasonable security measures, at the minimum those mandated under the Information Technology Act, 2000 as amended and read with Information Technology (Reasonable Security Practices and Procedures and Sensitive Personal Data or Information) Rules, 2011, to safeguard and protect your data and information.”
The IT Act 2000 which the company adheres to as its “minimum security measures” has a controversial Section 69 which allows intercepting of any information and asking for information decryption if “it is necessary or expedient so to do in the interest of the sovereignty or integrity of India, the security of the State, friendly relations with foreign States or public order or for preventing incitement to the commission of any cognizable offence”.
To refuse decryption is an offence punishable with imprisonment up to seven years and a possible fine. This section has laid the ground for surveillance when Ministry of Home Affairs in December 2018 authorised ten Central agencies to intercept, monitor, and decrypt “any information generated, transmitted, received or stored in any computer.”
As for JioChat, the user accepts the risk of sharing unencrypted information when they use the app since another clause in the privacy policy states: “You accept the inherent security implications of providing unencrypted information over Internet/ cellular/data/ Wi-Fi networks and will not hold the Company responsible for any breach of security or the disclosure of personal information unless the Company has been grossly and wilfully negligent.”
Mukesh Ambani’s Reliance has also supported recent efforts of the Centre to support tracing the origin of messages to curb fake news, even if it means breaking encryption.
According to a 2015 report by NewsLaundry, Anonymous India – a hackers’ group – had also raised serious questions about the app’s security features saying that “there is no encryption of users’ personal data in the application.” The group also alleged that Jio Chat uses a Chinese mapping service, Amap, instead of Google Maps, the industry-standard. This too, according to Anonymous India, is not encrypted. The lack of encryption, the group claims, could lead to mass surveillance.
It is imperative to mention that “acts of government, computer hacking, unauthorized access to computer data and storage device” have also been mentioned as things that the company shall not be held responsible for in case of damage or misuse of your information as it will be considered a “Force Majeure Event” that is beyond the reasonable control of the company.
As the latest order mentions that the whitelisting of sites will be a continuous process it is yet to be seen whether JioChat remains on the list or not.
Pallavi Sareen is a journalist based in Jammu and Kashmir. She is the editor-in-chief of Straight Line and can be contacted at pallavisareen99@gmail.com
The state should remember that its repression will only deepen solidarities amongst persecuted minorities and also Hindus who recognise the perversion of their faith.
On January 19, many Indians mourned what is considered to be the darkest episode in Kashmir’s history: the mass exodus of Kashmiri Pandits from the Valley in 1990 after they became the targets of heightened militancy in the region.
A decade after their exodus, Kashmir’s Sikh minority feared that they were the new targets of militants when unidentified gunmen killed thirty-five Sikh men on March 20, 2000, in a small hamlet named Chithi Singhpora in the Anantnag district.
Shocked at this turn of events, many in Kashmir feared a second exodus, this time of Kashmir’s Sikh community. But almost two decades later, a majority of the community continues to live in the Valley. Kashmiri Sikhs, who have now been in the region for over three generations, live in harmony with their Muslim counterparts, despite pervasive violence from both militants and the state.
I spent a year in Kashmir in 2018 as part of my PhD dissertation trying to understand why the Sikhs, a micro-minority like the Pandits, stayed. I interviewed over 70 Sikh families and 30 Muslim families.
What I learned was as eye-opening as it was unexpected.
When the calm returned and new facts emerged, the Indian state’s narrative surrounding Chithi Singhpora’s killers, which it alleged were militants from Lashkar-e-Taiba and Hizbul Mujahideen trained in Pakistan, started to fall apart. Inconsistencies in the investigation and the revelation that the alleged militants on whom the blame was pinned were actually locals from a village called Panchalthan (killed in the Pathribal encounter five days later), made people believe that this was the ‘deep state’ at work.
Who perpetrated the Chithi Singhpora massacre might never be known, but for both Muslims and Sikhs in Kashmir, it was a reminder of their precarious position as minorities in the Indian Union. As 60-year old Nanak Singh, the only survivor of the Chithi Singhpora massacre articulated, “we are scapegoats”.
Over time, with hopes of any fair inquiry fading, Sikh anger against the Muslims dissipated and the difficult work of reconciliation began. Rather than leading to a mass exodus like that of the Kashmiri Pandits, both the Sikh and Muslim communities recognised the communal intent of the massacre and worked hard to prevent the weaponisation of this tragedy.
While reconciliation is never a process that is complete, it has led to the emergence of important solidarities between the two communities. Tested as they are by the difficult circumstances in the Valley, their persistence makes it possible for Sikhs to continue living in Kashmir.
Despite violence, most of my respondents made it clear that they faced no religious persecution from Muslims in Kashmir. I asked Geet Kaur*, who lost her husband in the massacre, whether she feared another massacre. She smiled at me before replying and said, “(E) kende ne asi kyun mariye apne Sikh bhravan nu? Aaj kitni militancy chal rahi hai, kade ni sadde naal kuch kitta. Kade police waliyan nu maarde ne ta Sikh hai ya Muslim hai nahin dekhde (They ask, why should we kill our Sikh brothers? Even in this heightened militancy, they haven’t let any harm come upon us. When they (the mujahideen) kill the police, they don’t see whether he is Muslim or Sikh)”.
Recounting the events of Chithi Singhpora, Kirpal, a 20-year-old prominent Sikh activist, told The Wire, “Jad Chithi Singhpora hoya si, saare leader sadde agge aake maafi mangde si (When Chitti Singhpora happened, all the [Muslim] leaders asked for our forgiveness)”.
In contrast, he said, India’s leaders showed little empathy when over 3,000 Sikhs were killed in the 1984 pogrom in Delhi and other cities following Indira Gandhi’s assassination. Amanpreet, a 20-year-old student and Sikh activist, reiterated this sentiment and noted that if anything happened to the Sikhs here, the entire political leadership “will come within minutes and apologise”.
Not only is there mutual respect for the ‘other’ but there is the explicit recognition and practice of religious pluralism on the ground – what sociologist T.K. Oommen calls ‘consensual equilibrium’. One example of this is the relaxation on mobility restrictions that Kashmir’s local administration often makes to accommodate the practice of Sikh religious events. Yet another is the convivial acceptance of not eating together because of the different techniques of meat preparation in Sikh and Muslim customs.
For Kashmir’s Sikhs and Muslims, there is little trust in, and no willingness to depend on a state that they believe has failed them on numerous counts. The Sikhs feel deeply hurt that little has been done to deliver justice for victims of Chithi Singhpora and Delhi, as do the Muslims for the routine state excesses that have gone unpunished.
By building cross-community solidarities, both find, as sociologist Shruti Devgan writes, legitimacy for their own suffering in the experiences of the other.
As minority communities that have faced violence at the hands of the Indian state, and at different points of time, have fought for their independence from India, both Sikhs and Muslims in Kashmir harbour a shared understanding of the dangers that minorities face in an increasingly polarised India.
Many of my respondents commonly expressed empathy with Kashmiri Muslims during interviews and explained this by saying, “Assi ta sab dekheya hai (we have witnessed all this before)”, while drawing connections to Punjab’s own independence movement.
The shared sense of persecution saw Sikhs come out in support of Kashmiri Muslims the day after the Pulwama attack in February 2019, helping Kashmiris find their way back to safety; they were also among the loudest constituencies protesting the mistreatment meted out to Kashmiri Muslims in the rest of the country after Kashmir’s special status was scrapped.
In these times of divisiveness, the examples of Sikh-Muslim solidarities in Kashmir should serve as an important lesson for India’s current administration.
Despite trying hard to reign in protests that erupted after the Citizenship Amendment Act was signed into law, both through force and misinformation, the Modi government has been struggling to contain the fallout.
Over the last few days, Indians of all denominations have come out on the streets in support of their Muslim counterparts, contesting the Prime Minister’s suggestion that those who create violence can be identified by their clothes, and defying the administration’s attempts to paint these protests as ‘Muslim only’.
At Shaheen Bagh, the government’s attempts to add communal hues to the protest are actively being been countered. Hundreds of people at Shaheen Bagh commemorated the Pandit exodus with a two-minute silence. Prominent Pandit activist M.K. Raina, who was invited to speak at the protest site, remarked that the show of solidarity by Shaheen Bagh reflected a shared understanding of the pain that persecuted minorities have experienced in India. Just days before, a Sikh jatha performed kirtan, Hindus performed yagna, Muslims read from the Quran and Christians from the Bible.
For the many who continue to protest at Shaheen Bagh, it is not merely the site of India’s modern-day satyagraha, it is a space for shared commemoration. Of the injustice that Sikhs remember from years of state brutality in Punjab. The forgotten promises made to Pandits to repatriate them to their homeland. The demonisation that Muslims face every day in the nation they chose allegiance to after its painful partition. The caste violence that continues to dehumanise Dalits.
In coming together against the attack on India’s constitutionally enshrined secularism, the protestors at Shaheen Bagh are challenging the state’s hegemonic narratives surrounding the CAA and articulating resistance to any one monolithic idea of India, by draping the tricolour and singing Faiz in one voice, while still openly expressing their respective faiths and identities.
Far from being a deterrent, the state should remember that its repression will only deepen solidarities not only among persecuted minorities, but also among Hindus who recognise the perversion of their faith, and students who don’t want to inherit a bigoted country.
*Names have been changed to protect identities.
Data for this article has been retrieved from interviews conducted by the author between March-October 2018 in the Kashmir Valley, as part of her dissertation research.
Khushdeep Kaur Malhotra is a fifth-year PhD candidate in Geography and Urban Studies at Temple University.
An empty question, cynically recycled in tweets and speeches, needs to be replaced with actual questions about healing for Kashmiri Pandits, their culture, and for Kashmir itself.
This month marks 30 years of exile for the Kashmiri Pandit community. The question, ‘what about the Kashmiri Pandits?’ rings again in our ears. But if the past is anything to go by, there will be no answers.
‘What about the Kashmiri Pandits?’ has become an empty question, recycled in tweets, op-eds and speeches for political mileage, deflection, or for whatever purpose anyone wants. But this glib question has consequences: It forces Kashmiri Pandits to relive their traumas. It raises then dashes any hope of closure. And it deepens hostility towards Kashmiri Muslims, and even towards Muslims across India.
I left Srinagar with my family 30 years ago, thinking we were going for a short vacation, and ended up never returning from Delhi, now tagged as a Kashmiri Pandit migrant. I want to commemorate this 30th year by asking three questions – actual questions about healing and dignity for Kashmiri Pandits.
First, how do we seek justice for those who were killed, and get to the truth of what happened in 1990?
Second, how can the Kashmiri Pandit identity survive as a distinctive and distinguished cultural group?
Third, what does a real future look like in which Kashmiri Pandits might return to their homes in the Valley?
Seeking actual justice
Hundreds of thousands of Kashmiri Pandits were forced to flee Kashmir from 1989 onwards. We still have no verified numbers for how many were killed. A few FIRs have been filed; convictions have been even fewer.
In 2017, the Supreme Court rejected a review petition asking to reopen 215 cases on the killing of over 700 Kashmiri Pandits. If the government and the people of India care so much, why have we never had a judicial commission to establish the facts – which should mean the killings of all Kashmiris, both Pandits and Muslims?
Instead of all the conspiracy theories that abound, we could have the rule of law, offer some closure through transparent and fair trials, and some sense of justice.
To actually do justice to the memory of those who were killed, we need to hold specific individuals to account for specific acts: Who killed whom? And why were the state and its functionaries unable to protect and reassure a minority community?
Instead, we either hear remarks like “It was years ago, Kashmiri Pandits have done well – it’s time to move on” – Or else we hear, “Everyone was in on it, They have always been like this”. Both push us further from truth or justice.
Hannah Arendt, the foremost political theorist of post-Nazi Germany, reminds us: “Where everyone is guilty, no one is.” We cannot accept ‘mass hysteria’ or ‘mob thinking’ as an explanation; this is how we have always allowed riots to tear India apart without any consequences for those orchestrating them.
File photo: A Kashmiri pandit holds a lighted earthen lamp as he prays during an annual Hindu festival at a shrine in Khirbhawani, 30 km east of Srinagar, May 31, 2009. Photo: Reuters/Danish Ismail
Those who did commit the violence find strength in imaginary numbers. Those who didn’t participate feel wronged – some weren’t even born in 1990, and others had nothing to do with the violence. The cycle of resentment keeps on turning.
Worst of all, this attitude uses the suffering of one group to justify new and ongoing violence against others. The ‘action-reaction’ logic normalises violence – making it into a universal law. Is that the best we can do to honour the memory of those killed and those who have suffered?
Surviving as a culture
In 2004, I visited Kashmir for the first time in 14 years. When I saw kids playing cricket and shouting at each other, I felt an unexpected delight at hearing my mother-tongue spoken in public. I felt a comfort that I didn’t even know existed – a comfort of not hiding your strange language and mannerisms, and finding my Kashmiri self, to some extent, at home in a public setting.
In the years since 1990, the great loss of the Kashmiri Pandit community has been the dissolution of their cultural world. People say Kashmiri Pandits have done well and have comfortable lives across India and abroad. But this comfort is undermined by the real loss that exile brings.
Being Indian doesn’t mean you stop speaking Marathi, Tamil, Assamese or any of dozens of mother-tongues. For Kashmiri Pandits, survival has meant assimilation into north India; surviving at the cost of living inside their language and culture.
Instead of cultural chauvinism or tokenism, there is need for better and more accessible histories of Kashmir, extensive language programs, and creative and varied thinking, dialogue, and work in Kashmiri— the ingredients for a living culture.
But above all, linguistic culture has to fight terrible odds to survive if it has no locality. And the fact is that the only place where Kashmiri Pandits’ language and culture are at home is the Valley.
Last August, the government decided to repeal Article 35A. The law had problems that needed fixing, but it recognised that Kashmir was a unique place – if not for other social, historical, and geographical reasons, then at the least as the one place that had resisted the logic of Partition.
Despite 30 years in exile, I remained a ‘state subject’ under 35A. Removing this law willy-nilly has exposed all culture of all Kashmiris, regardless of religion, to erosion.
Some people take great pride in Kashmiri culture, yet want a ‘demographic transformation’ by flooding the Valley with outsiders. Let’s call it for what it is – an act of spite, and of mutually assured destruction.
Himachal, the north-eastern states, and other tribal areas have legislative protections to preserve their identity. Kashmir deserves the same – for Muslims and Pandits together. Otherwise, the disappearance of Kashmiri and Kashmiri Pandit identity completes what some believe was the goal of the perpetrators of the violence in 1990: the final ethnic cleansing.
Returning to what?
In 2015, my mother and I returned to Srinagar to visit – her first visit in 25 years. In our old neighbourhood, my mother scurried away, looking for our neighbours. I braced myself for a bitter experience. But just a little while later, we were all sitting in our neighbour’s house, as my mother and her neighbour shared with each other all that they had lost in the intervening years – people, places, things; entire possible lives.
The conversation was a fraught one, of course. But it showed me that we could speak with each other and not just shout at each other. The rupture of 1990 had not yet obliterated the recognition of a life together. My mother and her neighbour could still speak of their own mothers borrowing haakh from each other.
The BJP, Congress, NC, PDP, Hurriyat – nearly everyone agrees that Kashmiri Pandits have a right to return to the Valley. But rehabilitation schemes on paper and transit camps on the periphery is not much to show for all this consensus.
Still in exile after all these years: Kashmiri Pandits offer prayers at the replica of the Kheer Bhawani temple in Jammu on the occasion of the annual Kheer Bhawani Mela on Sunday. Credit: PTI
When Kashmiri Pandits say hum wapas aayenge, what does the return look like? And what does the Valley look like?
It can’t be the return of a terrified minority group. That’s where they were before 1989, and that history could still repeat itself. It can’t be the return to ghettos (or for the rich, gated communities) next to army barracks, like we have now.
It also can’t be a return to an apartheid Kashmir, where the Valley is divided into Muslim and Pandit enclaves, as some in the Kashmiri Pandit community have suggested. If we create another border in a divided state, another wall between these Kashmirs, will anyone be safe?
How would we apportion land between Kashmiri Muslims – who are 95% of the population – and Pandits, who would be 5% at most? Which areas? These supposed solutions will protract the conflict rather than allow KPs to return with security and honour.
A Kashmir where Kashmiri Pandits have full democratic and human rights, where they live as citizens without fear, can only be a Kashmir where everyone has these rights.
This future is only possible through a process of truth and reconciliation, allowing for both reparative and restorative justice. That could mean economic support for those whose homes were destroyed or taken over since 1990. It could mean rebuilding cultural and religious sites.
But more importantly, it would mean active peacebuilding measures between Kashmiri Muslims, Kashmiri Pandits, and other communities. This is not work that needs to happen after justice is delivered, but simultaneously, if the Valley is to be home to both Muslims and Hindus.
Luckily, we can learn from similar efforts in South Africa, in Mindanao, in Northern Ireland and Colombia. If nothing else, both Kashmiri Pandits and Kashmiri Muslims have common ground in their losses and grief. It is in working through this grief that we may begin to see each other anew.
Instead, we are trapped in silos where the same horror stories reverberate, with no dialogue, and our grief turning into rage which creates more grief in the world.
Thirty years marks a generation, and a critical crossroads. We have a whole generation born since 1990, with entrenched trauma and little hope of healing – people whose only understanding is of a Kashmir torn and destroyed. On the other hand, there are those with memories of a shared existence, which now face the headwinds of oblivion.
The question we need to ask instead of “What about the Kashmiri Pandits” is this: Do we wish to extend lives of trauma and oppression for all Kashmiris, or to pivot back, lending our faith to a Kashmir where they all live with dignity?
Anmol Tikoo is a filmmaker and an educator currently living in Pune.
Conspicuously absent from the list that includes Gmail, Netflix, Zomato, Oyo Rooms and Paytm are news and social media websites.
New Delhi: While limited Internet and mobile connectivity services have begun in certain parts of the Jammu and Kashmir Union territory, residents will only be able to access 153 government-approved websites.
Details of this “whitelist” – which was first announced on January 14, when Internet service providers were ordered to install the necessary firewalls – have now become public.
The websites that have been included the white-list fall under ten categories: mail (Gmail, Yahoo), banking (most prominent banks), education, employment, entertainment, services, travel, utilities, weather, web services and automobiles.
What is conspicuously absent though is any dedicated news website, a development that is concerning especially because traditional media have also faced issues in freely disseminating news in the union territory since August 2019. While Hotstar (which contains access to the feeds of certain TV news channels) and Reliance Industries-owned Moneycontrol.com (which publishes business news) are on the list, they are not mainstream or dedicated general news websites.
In addition to this, social media websites like Facebook and Twitter have also not been allowed.
As the list below shows, the government has approved four-email services, 15 banking websites, three employment websites and over 35 educational websites.
The ‘entertainment websites allowed on the white-list include Netflix, Amazon Prime and Hotstar, while government websites such as income tax e-filing, passport and UIDAI can also be accessed.
Note: This story was updated at 5:25 PM to add that Hotstar, which is on the whitelist, contains access to the feeds of certain TV news channels.
The order allows people to have extremely limited access to the Internet over mobiles for the first time since August 5, 2019. Broadband internet remains banned.
Jammu: The government of Jammu and Kashmir (J&K), in consultation with the security agencies on Saturday decided to restore 2G speed mobile internet services on post-paid mobiles across Jammu division and in two districts of Kashmir valley, allowing people there to have extremely limited access to the Internet for the first time since August 5, 2019.
The order issued by the home department of the newly carved Union Territory said there was no decision, as of now, on the remaining districts of Kashmir by the government, even as the situation largely remained peaceful after the scrapping of the special status of the erstwhile J&K state.
Two districts of Kashmir – Kulgam and Bandipora – can avail 2G internet services from Saturday until January 24, according to the order.
The other districts – Srinagar, Budgam, Ganderbal, Baramulla, Anantnag, Kulgam, Shopian and Pulwama – will have to wait a few more weeks, when the security agencies may recommend the restoration of internet services after assessing the situation.
Sharing details with mediapersons in Jammu, government spokesperson Rohit Kansal said 2G mobile data services on post-paid mobiles will be allowed in all ten districts of the Jammu region.
The government’s spokesperson said that the voice and SMS facility will be restored on all local pre-paid SIM cards across Jammu and Kashmir.
However, before activating the provision of mobile internet connectivity on such SIM cards, the telecom service providers will initiate a process for verification of credentials, which will be similar to the process followed when taking a post-paid connection.
Meanwhile, the Inspector of General of Police (IGP) in Jammu and Kashmir has been directed to ensure the implementation of the government’s directions. The directions will be effective from January 18 to January 24, 2020, unless modified earlier.
The government had earlier cited security concerns to block internet services across Jammu and Kashmir after the erstwhile state was bifurcated into two Union Territories. The administration has argued that the suspension of the Internet is necessary to cut off communication between militants who may be planning an attack after the Centre diluted Article 370 and to stop the spread of “rumours” and “fake news”.
Even as some peaceful protests against the government have occurred in Kashmir and Kargil (Ladakh), the situation has remained peaceful. The communication shutdown, however, is now in its sixth month.
People in Jammu, including student organisations, opposition political parties and civil society members, staging demonstrations forced the government to restore the Internet. Initially, it was restored in five districts of Jammu – Jammu, Kathua, Samba, Udhampur and Reasi. These districts have a strong BJP vote bank and resentment among the people pressurised the government to resume internet services, though only low speed connectivity was restored.
Last week, the Supreme Court said that a blanket Internet ban, without limiting it to a particular duration, violates the telecom rules. It also violates the freedom of speech and expression granted by the Constitution, the apex court said, asking the administration to review all restrictive orders within a week.
After the August 5 shutdown, incomes have fallen drastically and a sense of disenchantment is creeping in among the community.
Even as the Dal Lake in Srinagar shrinks and chokes with pollution, it continues to sustain a livelihood for the haq haenz of Kashmir. Literally translating to ‘vegetable boatmen’ owing to the aquatic landscape that forms the backdrop of their agricultural practice, this community, living and farming on the interior fringes of the Dal, provides the Valley with some of its best haq and nadru. Amidst allegations of encroachment, the farmers invoke milkiyat, insisting that these marshes have been used by their families long before the very departments making these accusations were formed, and that cultivating them has been their traditional occupation down centuries.
Swamps are consolidated to form roughly quadrangular parcels of earth and separated by channels of water where shikaras patrol, creating the impression of lush islands, where several varieties of green leafy vegetables, turnips, cauliflowers, cucumbers, and tomatoes grow in abundance. The produce is first transported to wholesale markets around the Valley, to then be forwarded to individual shops at the neighbourhood level.
It is not a lucrative value chain to begin with, but the abject poverty that its stakeholders have now been subjected to, with the tight shuttering down of markets after August 5, 2019 is unprecedented. For the producers, suppliers, and sellers of Kashmir’s fruit and vegetable industry, the dilution of Article 370 and the slew of curfews and hartals that have broken out in the Valley in its wake, have brought about a reality far more sinister than can be fathomed. From a net-zero income over the month of August, this community has struggled over four months of lockdown to having only recently reached a fifth of what their income used to be till July.
While most of their spring and summer crops have rotted away to closed markets, fall and winter yields are being sold now at half of their actual prices in what appears to be an endless distress sale. Even with the markets slowly renewing operations, demand is yet to catch up with supply, and field after field of the current produces remain unharvested.
Riyaz Ahmed of Parimpora sabzi mandi.
On August 5 itself, Riyaz Ahmed of Parimpora sabzi mandi incurred a loss of Rs 20,000 as he was forced to let perish his entire stock of vegetables. Business has gone downhill since, and from making an average of Rs 50,000 per month to Rs 10,000. With this meagre sales, he must keep his shop running, braving the winter sleet with only a kangri for warmth and the cover of a tarpaulin sheet to keep out the rain. Closing operations because of bad weather is a luxury that sellers like him can no longer afford. And yet, as Riyaz points out himself, losses suffered by the producers working at the grass-root level have been far more devastating than his own. For every 15 carriers that used to source vegetables from farmers of the Dal Lake’s agricultural fringes for the Mandi, barely 5 make the trip now.
Thick mist rolls down the slopes of the Zabarwan mountains,
On the early winter morning when we set off to meet the producers, a thick mist rolls down the slopes of the Zabarwan mountains, engulfing the hilltop structures of the Shankaracharya Hill and the Koh-e-Maran. It camouflages the white dome of Dargah Hazratbal that can usually be relied upon to stand sentinel on the bank of Dal. Our shikara makes slow progress from the Nishat Ghat, gliding noiselessly across the lake – through the historic arch of Oont Kadal, past the few fishermen and fodder collectors who have ventured out defying the biting chill, and on to Moti Mohalla where the majority of Dal’s haq haenz live and work.
The settlement of Moti Mohalla.
From where our shikara moors under the willows, a raised dirt path leads into the settlement of Moti Mohalla. The area was badly affected by the 2014 floods and is visibly still struggling to recuperate. Clusters of seven-eight sheds and houses, some still being built, are organised around large open spaces that act as common work areas for residents. Odd pots, pans, and sacks line this central space where children play, livestock stand tethered upon layers of gently molding hay. Chicken and ducks peck listlessly away at the dirt, and tinsel from some festivity long past flutter and rustle overhead. It is a Kashmir very different from the picturesque image that tourists in the Valley are used to seeing and are discouraged from imagining.
Women sort and clean heaps of leafy greens.
In one of these open spaces, defying the general appearance of squalor sits a lively circle of women, sorting and cleaning through heaps of leafy greens. From preparing the earth to planting, from nurturing the crop to its harvesting, from sorting produce to its final packaging, it is the women that are in charge here. Men chip in only with the final steps of transporting and marketing the produce.
The women chat with us as their hands continue to work with practiced ease – sorting through the produce and making neat bundles of 7 -10 fresh leaves, each bundle tied together by their own stalk – to confirm what Riyaz has already told us at the mandi. From an average earning of Rs 6,000-7,000 per household per month, the income has come crashing down to Rs 1,000-1,500 now.
A shikara.
Nearby, 5 shikaras hover on the waters of an expansive nadr zameen – waters where the lotus plant is cultivated – gathering nadru, raw material for the celebrated Kashmiri delicacy that is the lotus tuber. Using a long stick attached with a sharp hook on one end, in one swift move they fish out pieces of nadru. In a day, between 100 and 250 pieces are gathered from the submerged lotus plantation, depending upon the quality of cultivation.
The extraction technique takes decades to perfect, and labourers gathering nadru usually earn around Rs 900 per day as skilled workers from actual owners of the plantations. But once again, with markets closed and demands reduced, they are now forced to work for a third of their wages, at only Rs 300 a day.
Youth give a tour of their family fields.
For the past five months, the youth of Moti Mahal have been idle. With their educational institutions functioned and their help not required in cultivation, they promptly agree to give us a tour of their family fields. While their lucid narration is proof of the immense first-hand knowledge of cultivation that they possess, their disenchantment is evident. They trample over the yellowing leaves of unharvested haq and turnips ripe for plucking. Both production and produce have ceased to hold any value to them, and they vow to abandon the profession as soon as they can.
Ali Mohammad, grand patriarch of one of the homes.
Ali Mohammad, grand patriarch of one of the older houses in Moti Mohalla is smoking his hookah in the sun, as his family of four sons and numerous grandchildren gather around him. Like others, their family has also been relying heavily on savings to cover household expenses since August 5. He hopes their savings will not run dry before December ends. Our conversation turns to the challenges that come with the new year, and surviving the chilla kalan (the forty coldest days of the Kashmiri calendar, when the Dal freezes over and life comes to a standstill in the Valley with sub-zero temperatures).
“Allah Malik,” he says, resigned.
All photos by Parshati Dutta and Nawal Ali Watali.
Parshati Dutta is a cultural heritage researcher and photographer based in New Delhi. Nawal Ali Watali is a freelance photo-journalist from Jammu and Kashmir.
