Armed men lining city streets, reporters sent to jail; intestines spilled in sand or snow, apartment buildings, rubble. Last night I dreamt of fire and bombs, I woke at dawn, trembling– I asked you for the news from home– you said Kashmir is angry.Comments closed
-for Sabbah Haji When I heard the Kashmiri educator had been jailed for calling a general a ‘war criminal’, a serious question came to my mind: How often does anyone in any large country rise to the level of general without running afoul at least once of some part of Article 8 of the UN’s ‘Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court’? And forgetting generals, how 0ften does anyone become even a DCP in any police force anywhere without condoning or ignoring ‘torture or inhuman treatment’ (to say nothing of encounters, which might be classified as acts of ‘willful killing’)? Just as some countries are kingdoms dressed up as republics, this is an appeal, disguised as a poem.Comments closed
Do not call us terrorists for protesting bad laws, or jail us for laughing at gods or Amit Shah. Let us love those we love; don’t tell us how to pray; and when we do equal work, give us equal pay. In jail, grant us straws, if we tremble when we drink— warm blankets when it’s cold, and books so we can think. Do not molest us or beat us (in jail or in undisclosed locations before you take us to jail.) Do not torture us in any way: no broken bones or bruises, no solitary confinement; we need space and time to sleep, water and soap to wash. Tell our families where we are. Do not take us in the night to a field or flyover, and then shoot us before our trial. Do not shoot us in broad daylight and then call us terrorists.Comments closed
-one year after the abrogation A year ago, a plague was delivered upon a far-off northern region, and many of us in the capital understood this, but did nothing— because we were afraid and felt powerless, or because we told ourselves that twitter or the courts would cure it. Last night, I watched a storm flash in the southwest sky— the ebb and glow of distant light, just the hint of a cool, clean breeze— and I wished and prayed it would bring us relief from all of this season’s sickness and heat. But friends, none of my lonely wishes and prayers were enough to summon the storm’s healing air.Comments closed
We slept on my grandmother’s porch, how we got there, who can say? Dogs approached, snarling and circling; I cried out, and you held me close. Later, came sounds from the road, a grinding of gravel and boots; you said it was Amit Shah’s man: he stunk of whiskey and malice. He said he’d be back in the morning, whether or not I was pregnant— as he left, the wind changed direction and brought back the scent of still water.Comments closed
Somewhere today, a baby conceived on the eve of the abrogation will be born; just think of all the hatred, hunger, violence and courage we’ve seen in the past 38 long weeks— what stories will we tell this child when she’s old enough to hear them? Yes, her mother carried her through dark times, and she was born into darker times, still. But the late April breeze was cool that night, and though the May sun would be unforgiving, we promised to fan her, to love and to stand with her and her siblings, and cousins and classmates— and all of her friends and all of her neighbors— and all of the people in the land she called home, and all of the people beyond it.Comments closed
This morning, when I told you
that I’d dreamt
the theocracy had been declared—
and the internet was down
and it was no longer safe
to say ‘freedom’
in a song or slogan,
or even on the phone—
you just nodded
and said you’d woken,
sweating and shaking,
after dreaming of breaking
all your front teeth on a hard,
red apple from Kashmir.
Changing the rules without consent: the true aim of development?
Political gain or property grab, in the name of development?
Lock up the kids before they hurl stones in protest or anger.
Preventive detention: just a move in this game of development?
Jail the leaders, shutter the press: speech and sight are dangerous—
lead pellets rip through retinas and fan flames of ‘development’.
Markets are closed and, friends, I’ve heard, freedom is now an outlawed word;
do dreams deferred wilt or explode in the shame of development?
Healing old wounds takes time and care; tear gas obscures the things we share—
brothers and sisters, please beware of false claims of development.
You say, Hamraaz, you’re so naive; it’s more complex than you perceive!
But we won’t right wrongs by hanging them in warped frames of development.