Qazi Shibli
Nadeem Wani, an eighteen-year-old boy locked inside his solitary confinement, was looking for a pen and a paper, which were, however, illicit articles as per the jail manual. But he was a gifted artist; he took a soap-bar and sketched his girlfriend’s face on the wall of his cell.
Nadeem was among the thousands of boys detained as the Government of India cracked down in Kashmir prior to and after the revocation of the conflict-torn region’s partial autonomy. And I was one of them.
On July 28, the last year, I was arrested on the charge of committing journalism. Three of my captors informed me of my offense publishing a factual story on the movement and deployment of additional government forces and a related tweet.
Twenty of us — all unacquainted with each other — were lodged into a ghetto kind of squalor, teaming solitary confinements, the forbidding high walls under camera surveillance, in the apprehension of us indulging in contemptuous disposition.
From the police station in my hometown — Anantnag, south Kashmir, where I was initially questioned since 28 July 2019 to my lodgment in the district jail of Bareilly, Uttar Pradesh on 9 August — we were kept in the dark about our future.
From the Indian Air Force base to the jail, more than twenty police vehicles escorted us — rather cornered us creating panic and fear. From the security cover, it appeared that we were being taken to gallows.
“Are we going to be hanged?” a fellow detainee asked me. “Have we been declared as national terrorists?”
Among us was a cancer patient, a juvenile, a 60-year-old man, a man who would get married two days later, a talented singer, and an artist — Nadeem. We were divided into four groups and kept in different blocks; five in each block.
No availability of drinking water for the first four days provoked one thought — “We are going to have a dreadful time here.” Soon, in the absence of amenities, the act of killing time seemed a task unachievable. From hunger strikes, to-be provided books, to the desire of holding a pen — the silence inside my cell stirred my soul. And so did the noise outside it. The far and distant voices invoked a draining curiosity in me more than anything.
I wanted to know the origin of those voices. The walls did not allow a sight beyond a few meters. The reek from the connected lavatory, the roofless ceiling, and the never-ending encounters with bugs, which we often found crawling on our blankets and sometimes food, evoked a sense of mayhem. Sleep was impossible on the filthy floor and the stench. We thought we were going to be killed at any moment. I could hear my fellow inmates screaming, especially during the night.
The first month in the cell was full of torment. For a long time, I felt like I was in the state of a dream — past and present seemed utterly disconnected. Everyone around me was in distress; a 60-year-old man, who had been in and out of jail for long, had married late. Now, one would often find him in a mourning state — thinking of his young children.
The most exasperating part of the detention period, though, was a 33-year-old cancer patient — Parvez. Often in pain, he would alarm about the “excruciating pain”, asking for doctors to help him. During those heavy days, and the long, long nights, it was painful to witness a traumatic cry. A thin hand stretched out beseechingly with a bitter cry: “help me, help me!” And to know that no one was coming to help him out.
One day, a look at his face reminded me of a revolutionary Pakistani poet- Faiz Ahmed Faiz; thank goodness for that. All four of my block mates joined in, beating the jail bars and clapping their hands when they heard me recite, “Hum dekhenge, Wo Din Ke Jiska Waada Hai.” (We shall witness, the day that has been promised, it is certain we too will witness). I loved reading Munshi Prem Chand, and that was what I would often read to my fellow inmates.
Although the first hunger strike had ensured that I got books, Noam Chomsky could never walk into my cell. “Fundamentalist material not allowed,” the jail authorities told me.
Meanwhile, the craving to hold a pen grew stronger. Any policeman that ever came to me was carrying a pen in his pocket. I couldn’t resist but plead for it. I begged them to let me hold a pen once. All I wanted to do was to write my name and return it. They denied.
On the other side, as I had expected, my family back home was kept in the dark too. This led them to dart between police stations and run from one office to the other. No one told them of my whereabouts. It was not before the 57th day of my detention that my brother and sister could come to see me — a week after my lodgment was confirmed from an unofficial source. This was the first time in those weeks I saw a familiar face, it felt surreal.
The iron bars of my cell were white. So were the walls. And the floor. And the ceiling too. All I saw was color white. My yearning to see other colors, and the love for them, grew immensely.
When my family brought me new clothes, I finally had something in my cell that was not white. With that, I could finally stop washing and rewashing my t-shirt that I had been wearing since my detention in July.
By then, my t-shirt had torn; at least 119 holes. I counted.
When I got tired of reading, I would rather sing. Many policemen, who initially hesitated to talk to us — courtesy: social indoctrination and the media’s portrayal of Kashmir — started requesting me to sing for them. They would enjoy it too. “Aap bhi hamare gaane gaate ho! Aap hamari tarah ho.” (You too sing our songs; you are like us). Music bridged the gap between Kashmiri inmates and authorities, dispelling the myths about Kashmiris, the largest being: ‘most Kashmiris are terrorists and the rest are their sympathizers.’
When I was released, many of them escorted me and told me they would love to visit Kashmir. And I shall be their host. I wasn’t physically tortured. The solitary confinement, however, was no less racking. Now, I’m out. But the nightmares haven’t stopped; sensing noise, light, and so many colors at a time.
Entering the jail for the first time — six hundred miles away into exile from my hometown — in the heart of Hindutva heartland made me recognize there was a fissure, and hence, the exigency for journalists in India to be cautious about the content they publish in a polarized society.
The rift is widening every passing moment as the government continues to tighten its noose around the grey line. In the meantime, India is beset with a paroxysm of violence, torture, murders, as every opponent’s voice is brutalized and silenced.
My detention for a period of more than nine months was a smaller thread of a larger picture of escalating attacks against journalists throughout India, the increasing scrutiny, and censorship against media houses.