War-games on the border (shooting….but crying)

Then
there wasn’t a single light. From the top of the mountain a light
blinked every once in a while as if giving out a signal. Were there any
eyes focused upon us, wondering why we were standing so close to the
river so late in the night? Were there any soldiers eyeing us through
their scopes and wondering whether they will be able to take us down in
one shot?

For years, there has been peace here and no bullet has
crossed the river from either side but that does not mean that paranoia
doesn’t exist. They still look at us with suspicion and we do the same
to them. A few years ago we would have been shot for standing so close
to the Line of Control, we had been told.

The Mujahidin once used to cross from here.

I
tried imagining a trip into the Indian part of Kashmir. The first step
would be to cross this freezing water flowing with vengeance. The next
step would be to navigate through the jungles of Kashmir in the darkness
of the night, worried about the wild animals that live here and focused
on avoiding the Indian soldiers who patrolled these forests. Once
someone is caught, then start the tales of torture.

“Look at that
mountain,” said Awais, our host at a small guesthouse. It was a bright
day. Behind the mountain I could see the depth of a clear blue sky and a
few clouds. I tried following the direction of Awais’ finger carefully
and noticed the silhouette of a wire fence. Next to it there was a
wooden platform for the sentry.

“Is that India?” I asked my host.
“No. That’s Indian-occupied territory,” he replied. “That fence has
been raised by the Indian army in the past few years and a lot of hue
and cry was raised by the Pakistani government.”

“Is this where the Mujahidin used to cross over to Indian-occupied Kashmir?” I asked.

The
inhabitants were made to leave during the time of insurgency, when
Mujahidin used to cross over from here. Most of these empty houses have
been taken over by Indian forces. The locals on the Pakistani side tell
me there are many Kashmiris from the Indian side of Karen who have now
come here too.

“Every Sunday, divided families gather on both
sides of the river and wave each other,” said Awais. I glanced at the
river and realise that given its width and noise, it would be impossible
to talk. Waving is all one could do. “During the winters, the river is
one-fourth of what it is right now. At that time, one can easily talk to
the person on the other side. There are many divided families here at
Karen. A mother would be here while the daughter would be there. So many
families.”

A poster next
to the army checkpoint depicted a picture of a young child with a leg
missing. There were pictures of an aircraft missile and a landmine next
to it. “Beware of the moves of the enemy,” it stated. The poster
cautioned children not to play with unidentified objects and to inform
army officials in case anyone comes across any.

The younger
officer at the army checkpoint returned my identity card. “Are there a
lot of unused missiles and landmines in this region?” I asked him. “Yes,
of course,” he said. “The enemy is right across.” The army checkpoint
was hidden by a concrete wall. A board here said that it was prohibited
to photograph the checkpoint. The cautionary poster was located on one
of the walls of the checkpoint. I wasn’t sure if the rule applied to the
poster as well. I did not want to find out.

Since our departure
from Muzaffarabad, this had been the fifth time that I had been stopped
by an army checkpoint. At every stop they entered my information into a
register, asked me where I was coming from and where I was heading. This
historical village of Karen, established some time in the tenth
century, has become a tourist destination since the ceasefire in this
region. It is about 80 km from Muzaffarabad, a journey that takes about
four hours on the treacherous mountainous road.

A few kilometres
north of the city of Muzaffarabad, the river Jhelum turned further west,
while the Neelum tok it place. The fast-moving river is a continuous
companion to a traveller on this road. As one heads further away from
the capital of Azad Kashmir, or Pakistan-administered Kashmir, the LoC
gets closer. Soon this narrow river remains the only thing that
separates the two arch-rivals, both armed with nuclear weapons and one
of the largest standing armies of the world.

Sometimes Indian
Kashmir recedes from the river and sometimes it touches the bank of the
river. While travelling on this road, my wife and I constantly tried to
figure out whether the mountain and the houses on the other side of the
river were still Pakistani or had become Indian.

Standing
on the top of the mountain, it is hard to tell which peak is occupied
by India and which belongs to Pakistan. The river flows, unaware of the
raging battles above it. It snakes through the valley dividing
mountains, communities, villages and families on both sides of the LoC.

Standing
next to us was a young mentally challenged man. He had been following
us up this mountain. There are many here throughout the Neelum valley.
My wife, who was training to be a therapist, had reason to believe that
their condition is linked to the firing that ravaged this valley for
years.

We stopped at a tea shop and sat in a garden. From here,
we could see the village and the river below us. On both the sides the
army was camouflaged behind trees. Only the villagers were left
uncovered.

Mohsin, the shop vendor, was born in 1988, a year
before the escalation of insurgency in Kashmir valley on the Indian
side. “There were hardly any local Kashmir Mujahidin being trained in
the camps,” he told me as he made tea for us. “There used to be a few
from the Indian side. Then there were Pathans, Punjabis, Chechnyians,
etc.” Everyone knew where these camps were.

But that did not mean
that sympathy for Kashmir’s liberation did not exist in Pakistani
Kashmir. They supported the insurgents. Sometimes, if the Mujahidin were
traveling with too many bags, the locals would help them cross the LoC.
That’s what Mohsin told me.

“There used to be regular firing
here from both the sides but that did not affect life here at the
village,” claimed Mohsin. “They never used to fire at the village. They
would only fire at army posts. If they wanted to attack the village
would they have left us stay here? Look at us. We are completely
exposed. As children, the firing used to be a sport for us.

“We
would hide in corners and see the armies firing at each other from
across the mountains. It was very exciting for us. This road that you
came by was not open for business but there were other roads that
connected us with Muzaffarabad and Pakistan. That road could only be
travelled on jeeps but the villagers used to travel regularly on them.”

“Would our soldiers fire on Indian villages across the LoC?” I asked him.“They can never do that. That is Pakistan as well. There are Muslims living there.”

“I was told that about 3,000 people died here due to cross LoC firing?”“That’s not true. At most only four to five people have died due to the firing. Here they like to count as shaheed even those who died after falling off a mountain.”

We
climbed the ancient set of stairs to reach the ancient university of
Sharda. A board here stated that this was once an ancient Buddhist
university. It is a lonely structure standing in the midst of a
protective wall. There is an army unit deposited under the university. I
was forbidden from taking any photographs of the army unit.