Erin Baldasarri | The Gun Generation | EXPOSURE / VII Kashmir Workshop

EXPOSURE-VII workshop in Kashmir | Photo Gallery

Erin Baldassari

It is past Srinagar’s undeclared curfew, and the sidewalk is lined with motorcycles. A crowd of teens and university students jostle for a position in line to buy tickets to Zabarvan Park’s open-air theater, one of the few nightly attractions in Srinagar after dark. Packs of young men with cell phones and cigarettes make eyes at similarly segregated broods of young women. The amphitheater reverberates with the energy of first experiences, of friends just beginning to flirt with the notion of independence. One year ago, none of this existed.

Kashmiris born just before and after the insurgency of 1989 are now graduating from high school and university, choosing careers, leaving homes, and getting married. But unlike most young people elsewhere, they have witnessed nearly two decades of conflict and now bear its legacy.

Nimer Qayad, 22, an MBA student at Kashmir University marveled, “How different it must be to go out at one in the night and roam around with your friends. Right now, we cannot conceive of that.”

Daily routines are interrupted by security check-points, searches, and habitual interrogation. On the way back from the theater, at a quarter past 9:00 p.m., cars are stopped by Indian paramilitary forces. For Nimer and his peers, the Gun Generation, this has been all they have known of life in Kashmir.

Local media and politicians are optimistic that a return to normalcy is eminent, but many young people remain doubtful that the claimed progress will be enough to pull Kashmir out of conflict and into a state of peaceful economic growth. The question young people face is not merely whether to remain in Kashmir or to abandon their homeland—they must also decide whether to accept the status quo or fight for change, with guns or by more peaceful means.

Walking in downtown Srinagar on August 15th, the streets are unusually peaceful. At mid-morning, the typically congested sidewalks are clear. A silence smothers the city like a heavy cloth, and the city responds like a dead weight.

On August 15th, India celebrates its Independence Day. The only movement in Kashmir is the movement of official government vehicles and of the soldiers who line the streets, guarding each corner of the city.

Due to heightened security, most Kashmiris chose to wait out the day inside their houses rather than submit themselves to the barrage of check-points enforced by the Indian Paramilitary.

“It is a black day, not an independence day,” says Nimer at Kashmir University. The phrase is repeated like an echo in newspaper opinion pieces, on the radio, in markets, on the street.

Along the way to Bakshi Stadium where Chief Minister Ghulam Nabi Azad will address the constituency behind a bullet-proof glass shield, stores are boarded closed, windows are shuttered, sidewalks are empty.

At Bakshi Stadium, the Chief Minister finishes his speech. Lackluster applause filters in from the audience, who according to local newspaper sources, are comprised mostly of government officials, with several hundred villagers driven to the stadium, courtesy of government buses, to fill the benches.

“On Independence Day, it is a farce,” says Mutasid Ahmed, 24, an insurance agent for Industrial

Credit Investment Corporation of India (ICICI). “This is the day we are supposed to celebrate our independence which is supposed to be a birthright. We cannot go out before 2:00 p.m. in the afternoon, there are check points everywhere, we are searched, we are suspected as terrorists, there is no independence for us, there is no freedom.”

Though the ceremony in Bakshi Stadium is broadcast live on several of media stations, there are few Kashmiris who watch the program. Faith in the government, especially among young people, is practically nonexistent.
“There is no truth in politics. No one is honest,” says Hilal Ahmed, 24, an insurance agent for Bajaj Allianz. “I don’t believe in politicians.”

Nor does Shakeel, who would give only his first name, 23, a marketing agent for a hardware store. He applied to be a policeman, but was refused when he couldn’t pay the bribe. “The government does not help us. It’s all corrupt,” he says. “It’s all about money. I applied to the police, but without money he wouldn’t get any job for me.”

Hilal Ahmed, 22, who works for a travel agent to recruit passengers for buses to Jammu, was forced to move with his family when his house was demolished for an urban renewal project six months ago. He was resettled to Palapore, a township of houses built from boards of woods, aluminum and tarp. His one room, 10’x14’ accommodation houses eight people, soon to be nine after his sister gives birth to her first child. Basic amenities are lacking, says Hilal, but attempts to contact local government officials have been mostly frustrating, resulting in dead ends.

“We all switch off going to the department to complain and share our grievances but in order to reach the department, it is 30 rupees in transportation and we have been going seven to ten times a month and have wasted a lot of money this way. It has been five months of speaking our grievances and still after five months they have not solved the problem of providing basic water or electricity or sanitation,” explains Hilal. “Even if some officer comes, he is not really interested in our situation. Nobody in the government really cares about us.”
Across town, Aijaz Ahmed Bhat, 25, sips imported beer in the Dal Bar of five-star Grand Palace Hotel. He is the owner of a travel agency and son-in-law to the Inspector General of Police.

“Politics is about money and business and fame. I like all of these things,” says Aijaz. “If I need to do business, I go to my father-in-law and I get it done easier. It is not difficult to get around, not for people like me, people in my category.”

Aijaz travels with a personal security officer (PSO) while in the city. The presence of a PSO in his car is a status symbol above all else, ensuring that he will not be harassed by the Indian paramilitary forces, will be treated with respect by shop owners, and will be given a separate lane in traffic by the traffic police.

In the Dal Bar, Aijaz smokes American cigarettes and talks politics. Bars like the Dal and expensive country resorts are the breeding grounds for deals born between government officials, bureaucrats and business men.

Aijaz admits that Kashmir’s government benefits from the prolonged conflict, “A lot of aid, foreign aid, is sent to help victims of the violence or of A culture of corruption prohibits small business growth, and with fewer resources at their disposal, the lower middle and impoverished are especially vulnerable. Of the 450 rupees Hilal of Palapore makes per day, at least 150 go to local police officers for the ability to preserve his position in the bus yard. He brings 300 rupees home each day, or the equivalent of USD 7.5, unless he is stopped by local police or security forces.

“Now the paramilitary, the CRP, have learned from the police how to take bribes,” says Hilal. “Even the smallest trouble will cost all of the family’s savings.”

Yet Hilal still considers himself fortunate. For many months, he was unemployed, surviving on 50 rupees a day, or USD 1.25.

A Kashmiri singer, 19, who uses only her first name, Rashida, described unemployment as the main problem confronting Kashmir’s future, “The young people here, they work hard and they study hard and when they graduate there is no work for them to do.”

At the Sunday market, Sajad Hussein, 19, works for a currier service during the week and spends his day-off selling used jeans. His work as a currier pays enough to support himself and his family, provided both his brother and father work seven days a week as well.

Feebly held faith in the government coupled with high unemployment, a legacy of corruption, broken promises, and limited economic mobility have ingrained a deep frustration in the psyche of many young Kashmiris.

“(Armed conflict) has become the business of these people,” says Nasir Ahmed, 23, an MBA student, in the gardens of Kashmir University. Nasir and several other students recently founded a campus organization to ensure students’ rights for the betterment of “student fraternity, academic excellence and environmental issues.”

Though cafes are the main social outlet for young people, Nimer explains, “We are reluctant to express ourselves politically in these places because who knows, there might be an informant there, so we talk mostly about our personal lives.”

Though the organization is a-political, it is a huge step in Kashmir since student organizations were banned by militants in the beginning of the conflict. “We are afraid if we make (the organization) political, then people will be afraid to participate.” And, while still in its infancy, it is one of the only outlets available to discuss the students’ concerns openly with other students.
“They say the situation has normalized, but it has not. It is not independent for any Kashmiri,” Nimer says while looking to his peers in the gardens of Kashmir University. “People are frustrated…If nothing changes, for how long will they be able to suppress the people before the people reach a level of oppression they can no longer bear?”

Progress, like Zabarvan’s open air theater, like Nimer’s student organization, like a budding tourism industry, is slow. The presence of security check-points and armed paramilitary soldiers makes movement around the city, especially after dark, not only difficult, but often humiliating.

“When you go through a security check, you feel like you don’t want to show your identity card accidents, but mostly, the money never reaches the victims.
A culture of corruption prohibits small business growth, and with fewer resources at their disposal, the lower middle and impoverished are especially vulnerable. Of the 450 rupees Hilal of Palapore makes per day, at least 150 go to local police officers for the ability to preserve his position in the bus yard. He brings 300 rupees home each day, or the equivalent of USD 7.5, unless he is stopped by local police or security forces.

“Now the paramilitary, the CRP, have learned from the police how to take bribes,” says Hilal. “Even the smallest trouble will cost all of the family’s savings.”

Yet Hilal still considers himself fortunate. For many months, he was unemployed, surviving on 50 rupees a day, or USD 1.25.

A Kashmiri singer, 19, who uses only her first name, Rashida, described unemployment as the main problem confronting Kashmir’s future, “The young people here, they work hard and they study hard and when they graduate there is no work for them to do.”

At the Sunday market, Sajad Hussein, 19, works for a currier service during the week and spends his day-off selling used jeans. His work as a currier pays enough to support himself and his family, provided both his brother and father work seven days a week as well.

Feebly held faith in the government coupled with high unemployment, a legacy of corruption, broken promises, and limited economic mobility have ingrained a deep frustration in the psyche of many young Kashmiris.

“(Armed conflict) has become the business of these people,” says Nasir Ahmed, 23, an MBA student, in the gardens of Kashmir University. Nasir and several other students recently founded a campus organization to ensure students’ rights for the betterment of “student fraternity, academic excellence and environmental issues.”

Though cafes are the main social outlet for young people, Nimer explains, “We are reluctant to express ourselves politically in these places because who knows, there might be an informant there, so we talk mostly about our personal lives.”

Though the organization is a-political, it is a huge step in Kashmir since student organizations were banned by militants in the beginning of the conflict. “We are afraid if we make (the organization) political, then people will be afraid to participate.” And, while still in its infancy, it is one of the only outlets available to discuss the students’ concerns openly with other students.
“They say the situation has normalized, but it has not. It is not independent for any Kashmiri,” Nimer says while looking to his peers in the gardens of Kashmir University. “People are frustrated…If nothing changes, for how long will they be able to suppress the people before the people reach a level of oppression they can no longer bear?”

Progress, like Zabarvan’s open air theater, like Nimer’s student organization, like a budding tourism industry, is slow. The presence of security check-points and armed paramilitary soldiers makes movement around the city, especially after dark, not only difficult, but often humiliating.

“When you go through a security check, you feel like you don’t want to show your identity card because you feel like, why should I have to show my identity card when I am Kashmiri, this is my home and who are the military personnel?” Tanzeel Rehman, 19, a media student, grows agitated. “They are all Indian, not from here. But still, you can do nothing because they have the power, they have the control and they have the gun.”

In many respects, the azadi, or independence movement, which drove the sociopolitical uprising of 1990, remains unchanged. Sociology Professor Dabla recounts the impetus for the armed separatist insurgency as one driven by the desire for political autonomy from India. The failure to do so has led to other problems, “The general society began to turn its back on the movement when those who took up the gun were not fighting for azadi but had criminal interests, and for this reason, it eroded support from the people.”

In the meantime, the Gun Generation, the young people now graduating from high school and college, bore witness to over a decade and a half of violence.
The true legacy of war lies not in the skeletal remains of bombed buildings still begging for repair, but in the psyche of those who, when hostilities had reached its height, were too young to fully understand or be aware of the consequences of armed conflict. “All of these things were so usual though, that I consider it part of my life, the stone throwing, the check points, the crossfire,” says Rashida.

Growing up under the insurgency was characterized by gunshots, loud knocks on the door at night threatening the separation of a family member, a brother missing, a cousin left for dead, a sudden blast during school time, shrapnel tearing through the peace of childhood.

According to psychiatrist Dr. Arshid Hussein who has been working with the effects of trauma since the conflict’s inception, “Mental health has been the real casualty of war.”

Facing a number of barriers to seeking help for mental health, many young people suffer silently. Psychological distress surfaces through physical pain in the arms, legs, or chest, and in the rise in benign tumors found in the uterus causing hormonal imbalances in women. Among men, memory dysfunction and difficulties concentrating are frequent reminders of the trauma still present in their lives.

For Kashmiris, the ability to reach help is impeded not only by the lack of facilities available, but by the social stigma attached to seeking help.
Dr. Arshid estimates that a mere 3-4% of all those needing help will seek it, and of those who do, they will wait an average of 5.2 years before doing so. This is not to mention the economic barriers that prevent those who wish to seek help from affording it. No insurance covering mental health is available in Kashmir. The potential for treatment exists only for the upper middle and elite classes, leaving the vast majority of society without a hope for a proper cure. As a result, suicide and substance abuse levels have risen throughout decade, especially among the Gun Generation.

Shakeel Ahmed, 23, a retail salesman in Kashmiri handicrafts, takes drugs because he says “If I don’t take drugs, I will think about myself and it is too difficult to take so I need drugs to make me forget.”

Spasmo Proxyvon, a muscle tranquilizer, and other prescription drugs ease the frustration and boredom of life in Srinagar. “When we don’t have anything good to do, we do bad things; we take drugs. I know its bad but I don’t have anything else,” Shakeel says, speaking freely of his addiction.

the light and the fuel to burn brown sugar, a semi-synthetic form of heroin, similar to crack cocaine. As he burned the substance on a piece of aluminum, he repeated his story like a mantra, “My father was killed by militants. My mother remarried. My heart was broken. They beat me. My spirit is broken.”

The major effect of untreated mental health issues, says Dr. Arshid, is on the productivity of society. Confronting addiction, depression, suicide, young people struggle to find a suitable outlet for suppressed anxiety and stagnant frustration.

“We had hopes in recent years since there was a small improvement since 2002, but something has to be done to change the current situation or the frustration, the psychological problems, the crime and the violence will increase day by day,” warns Professor Dabla. “The situation is heading in such a way, it cannot be controlled much longer. I think we will see a resurgence of violence in Kashmir by the youth who have not seen the situation improve.”

On the lawn at Kashmir University, Namir grows more agitated as he speaks. “If the Indian Army doesn’t give us rights, if they continue to kill, continue to rape, and then they still call us the terrorists? How much more of this can we take?” he says, his voice growing louder as he continues. “I believe the new generation- we have to try to overcome the fear that is within us.”

Driving through a security check-point, Rashid Maqbool, 23, a reporter for Radio Germany (Deutsche Welle), is stopped by an Indian paramilitary soldier in a rickshaw before heading into downtown. The soldier questions the young man who is riding a rickshaw with a female companion. Pedestrians gather as Maqbool grows increasingly indignant with the soldier.

“The soldier asked to see my identity card, and then to know what relation the girl was to me. But I refused to tell him. I sayed, ‘What does it matter what relation she is to me? You want to check our ID cards, check them. You want to detain me? You want to shoot me? Do it.’ I don’t have to tell the soldier who she is,” Maqbool explained.

Eventually, they are allowed to pass and the crowd disperses. Maqbool continued, “Five years ago you would not have dreamed of questioning a paramilitary soldier like that- he would have beaten me, or shot me right there. Now we don’t feel like [the soldiers] should have unlimited rights. We want peace. But peace is not silence. Peace is not stillness.”