Over the years, Kashmir has witnessed infinite episodes of violence – brutality that simply can’t be put in words.
We have witnessed murders, abductions, torture, and rapes by gun-toting men, both in uniform and otherwise. We have been caged and confined. We have suffered immensely.
I have suffered personally.
And yet, resistance has always been part of life here. But what transpired on the intervening night of 22 and 23 June, on the auspicious night of Shab-E-Qadr, is beyond my comprehension.
The Gruesome Murder That Shook Us All
The incident cannot be justified. There is no other word for it. A man was lynched right in front of my eyes by an angry crowd of young men. His naked and lifeless body was then dragged through the road, before being flung into a corner of the street in downtown Srinagar.
Some of you reading this will call me an apologist. You will put me in brackets of different shades. Some of you will be quick to label us all as vicious murderers who deserve the pain we have been forced to bear for all these years. You’ll only believe in what you want to believe, no matter what I tell you. I don’t blame you for that. But unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury. I will have to believe in only what I saw. And, what I saw is another indefensible moment.
The gruesome murder of DSP Mohd Ayub Pandith warrants strong condemnation from everyone, irrespective of their political positions – just like those other instances of systematic violence that have collectively become part of our memories and life here in Kashmir. There is nothing normal here, but this was madness.
A Night I Will Never Forget
Like I do every year, I was with my friends from Soura on the night of Qadr. We had ventured out with little to no intention of actually offering prayers. On the way, we picked up a few other friends in our car before reaching Jamia Masjid in Nowhatta. We parked the car in front of a closed shop in the corner. The mood was festive. Men, women and children crowded Nowhatta Chowk. Thousands were praying inside the grand mosque. “This is beautiful,” a friend quipped.
At the main gate, we ran into a few other friends. We stood there chatting, when suddenly someone in the crowd shouted “mukbhir ha rothook” (an informer has been caught). Nobody seemed to pay much attention to it. Then suddenly, a man ran inside the mosque compound from the road. A group of young men chased him. There were already hundreds of people inside the mosque compound. They caught up with him in a corner near the closed shops inside.
This wasn’t the first time that the people had caught a “mukhbir” in downtown Srinagar. It has happened before, during intense protests in the area. But usually, they would be let off after being roughed up. I’ve witnessed it too. Somebody will step in, I thought.
We went inside the gate. There was no way we could reach the exact spot where the crowd had cornered the man. It was 50 metres away and the place was very crowded.
A group of men climbed up the wall to land on top of the shops in the mosque compound for a better view. Some of the members of the crowd were kicking and punching the man. It went on for at least 20 minutes. We all stood there. As I moved close to the other gate on the main road, I heard gunshots.
Nobody on the main road moved – almost as if they didn’t register any of it; perhaps the loudspeakers had muffled the noise.
But within a few seconds, the men on top of the shops inside the compound were all jumping back out onto the main road. People started to run away before coming back within a minute. By this time, a young boy who had been shot in the thigh was carried out of the gate and bundled into a passing car.
One of boys who carried him out had blood all over him. He was barely 14. We tried to stop them from beating the man, he told us. “We were trying to shield him. We told them its ‘gunaah’ (sin) to beat someone but they were not listening”.
He told us his back was burning. We thought he was injured. Thankfully, he was not. But he was shaking. Everyone was asking him questions. “Meh wanomak ye tchu gunaah” (I told them it’s a sin to beat someone), he mumbled, over and over again.
‘He is Dead, His Head is Hanging’
I went inside again from the second gate. The place had emptied out by then. The man who was being beaten was also missing. There was blood on the stairs and close to the shuttered shops where the crowd had circled him. Some men came to cover up the blood with cardboard boxes. “There is another guy with a gun. He ran away,” one man said.
Sensing danger, we decided to turn back to our car. Within seconds, everything was back to normal, almost as if nothing had happened. The shops were still open, the main road was packed with people. Cars were moving. I would be lying if I said I was worried for the person who had been beaten up. Perhaps the daily violence here has made us numb. Death has become a part of life.
As we were about to get back inside the car, a group of masked young men emerged from the first gate. They were dragging Ayub’s naked body and were followed by hundreds of onlookers – young and old. The masked men kept the body in the Chowk. They kicked and punched the corpse and shouted slogans in favour of Ex-HM commander Zakir Musa.
We climbed up the railing in the center of the road. I could only see the man’s bruised shoulders and legs. “Yeha mood amis tche kardan aalond” (He is dead. His neck is hanging) a friend exclaimed in shock. We saw Ayub’s body being taken away before being thrown into a corner.
The crowd dispersed. People went back to doing what they were doing. The shops didn’t close. The traffic didn’t stop. We got inside the car. A friend went out to buy cigarettes from a shop. We smoked a few before driving away.
Seven years ago, I attended the funeral of young Umar Qayoom. I had seen similar bruises on his body. I knew him as a young kid. The only son of the local Imam, Umar lived right next to our school in Soura. He was allegedly beaten to death in police custody. I was in college then.
Over the next few years, I visited his house a number of times. Not because I was full of sympathy for the family, or because his death had impacted me. For me, it was a story and I needed quotes. It’s what I do. But I can tell you I saw that family disintegrate into hopelessness while they fought for justice for their son. Nobody cared for them afterwards. Soura used to shut down on his death anniversary for a few years. But even that doesn’t happen anymore. It’s all normal here.
(Adnan Bhat is a Srinagar-based journalist.)
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