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Tosa Maidan: Victims of National Interest

By Omkar Khandekar

06 May, 2014
Countercurrents.org

A barbed wire, erected by the army a few years ago in an area that has been the grazing spot for decades, separates the village of Sitaharan from the designated firing range.

BUDGAM, J&K: For as long as most of the residents of Sitaharan, a hamlet in Budgam district of Kashmir, can remember, the onset of summer accompanies an inevitable announcement from the local mosque. It is that time of the year when the hitherto snow-crusted mountains in their backyard start becoming less hostile, allowing villagers and their cattle living in its laps to ascend into their huts and pastures at the top. But the seasonal relief is dispelled by the annual call from the loudspeaker broadcasting the arrival of the Indian Army.

In the coming days, men-in-camouflage take their positions, some in the fields, some barely a hundred metres from school yards, and aim at the mountain ranges, focussing their viewfinders and locking in the target: Tosa Maidan. The meadow sprawling over 11,200 ha was a designated firing range till April 18, 2014. Until 2013, from May to November, sometimes spilling over into the next month, artillery shells rained from LMGs to Bofors as numerous regiments lined up for their annual practice drill.

At this time of the year, Mohammad Akram Shaikh (40) is a short, lanky man one would find wrapped in a traditional pheran. He is also the Vice-Chairman of Tosa Maidan Bachao Front, a committee consisting of members from 52 villages located in the periphery of the meadow, including Sitaharan.

“In places like Srinagar,” he says, “whenever there is an accident due to the army, there is so much of agitation. There are also hartals at times. In our case, there have been 63 people who have been killed over the years but not one protest. Why?”

One can look for an answer to Akram’s rhetoric in the mechanics of conversations with victims and relatives of the deceased. It can manifest itself in the simplest of inquiries like how old a person is. More often than not, the respondent withdraws into himself, looking around for an external consultant. Abdul Ahmad Mantu, a resident of Sitaharan, lost both his wife and daughter in last two decades to unexploded ammunition. To field this question, he turns to his sarpanch and the two put their heads together. Finally, it’s the latter that emerges triumphantly: “Fifty five.”

In 2011, members of the Jammu & Kashmir RTI Movement sought to assess the casualties due to the firing range. On the basis of the information furnished by the Senior Superintendent of Police of Budgam district, it was found that there were 63 deaths caused due to shells that remained unexploded when fired. Furthermore, 43 villagers were left permanently disabled. The outrage that followed in the next couple of years has been significantly responsible in moulding the political ambiance in the valley, augmenting in the wake of the general elections. Even as the political parties displayed eagerness to empathize ahead of the polls, the residents were firm on their stance of boycotting the elections unless their singular demand is met: no more deaths; ergo, no more firing range. The general elections that concluded on April 30, 2014 saw some of these villages register less than 5% votes.

Widows and children of victims killed due to accidental explosions in Tosa Maidan. None of them have any means of livelihood and survive on charity from the local mosque at Shunglipura.

Until a few years ago, with low levels of literacy (an estimated 5-10% is educated), near-absolute absence of documentation or any contact with the outside world except since the advent of mobile phones, the residents had internalized the constant barrage as a way of life. Every few years, candidates running for elections would breeze into their villages, make hollow promises at various decibels to end the shelling only to disappear along with ballot boxes.

“In 1984, then Chief Minister Farooq Abdullah had come and addressed the people at Khag tehsil,” recalls Akram. “He had told us that they (the army) will vacate Tosa Maidan and bring tourists here.” But the declaration, as the next three decades would stand witness, never panned out. For the locals, his reassurance about the meadow’s potential as a tourist spot rankles with unfulfilled hopes.

“Unlike Gulmarg, Tosa Maidan is a real natural beauty,” says Akram. “Budhiya ko chudiya pehnai toGulmarg bani nayi naveli dulhan. From the inside, it is still a budhiya, no?”

The village of Shunglipura, at the official figure of 43, stands head and shoulders above its neighbours in the number of lives lost over the last three decades. With animal husbandry as their primary occupation, locals try to save up as much as they can over summer, so that it would last through the frost. As a result, several pairs of curious eyes and feet with nothing better to do accompany a visitor during off-season.

In one of the several brick houses caked with mud and cement in equal parts, Raja Begum sits with four of her children one afternoon. Her story is similar in skeleton to almost every other, the only difference being victim’s name, year of the incident and whether the body is found in part or whole. “He went withmaal (native tongue for livestock) and didn’t come back,” she says.

In spite of jumping through countless hoops at the government offices over the years, cases of a family receiving ex-gratia compensation are hard to be found. Those FIRs registered, if people go the distance, act only as a record of deaths. Every month, Begum gets money from the local mosque to sustain her family. She hasn’t joined in any of the protest cavalcades where men raised slogans from their village to the capital. When asked for her reasons, she smiles and stays mute. Over time, I would get my lesson in cultural intelligence: women are not supposed to step outside their houses, let alone their villages.

The neighbouring village of Sitaharan has seen four deaths and an equal number injured due to accidents. While the incidents are few and far in between, their immediate concern has always been the deafening noise that engulfs them for months on end. Of all the artillery, it is the dreaded Bofors guns that are the cause of their misery of students and adults alike. As Ghulam Ali Sheikh, the sarpanch of the village chuckles, “Sometimes, we wonder if Bofors was an omen for us or Rajiv Gandhi.”

Although the alleged perpetrators continue the drill year after year, locals’ ire is directed at the incumbent government. On April 15 earlier this year, finance minister of the state government Abdul Rahim Rather declared that there will be no further extension of lease. But the official resolution of the Front demands a written assurance granted to the effect. The sentiment is that political will is malleable, as endorsed by the precedents set. It’s the reason why the villages worst affected haven’t allowed any candidate to as much as enter the village for election campaigning.

Sipping tea at a stall in Shunglipura, a local told me, “If they give out the lease again, all of us – men, women and children – will go on the roads and start vandalizing things. They will shoot us dead. But if this continues, we are all going to die one day.”

Omkar Khandekar is a writer and journalist based in Mumbai. He has written for the Open magazine, The Caravan and Free Press Journal. You may read his works at www.candid-lounge.blogspot.com


 



 

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