Sequestered

After the government cancelled the curfew passes issued to media persons in Kashmir, many of them were stuck in their offices. No newspapers could be published for four days. Four of our staff were trapped in the office for two days. Yasir Muhammed narrates the story.

Uneasy calm prevailed in our office. There were four of us, all working amid silence. It was the evening of July 6 – the bloodiest day in the recent spate of violence and protests. Four people, including a 23-year-old woman, had been killed in the preceding 24 hours. I and my photojournalist colleague were in the newsroom. He was in pain, as earlier in the day his arm was broken in the police action at Tengpora Batamaloo, where he was covering the funeral procession of two persons, one killed by police bullets and other allegedly beaten to death.

While a bandage kept his arm glued to his chest, he kept me sending the pictures with the other, for uploading these on our website. The pictures were moving, we didn’t talk until a ringing phone broke the silence. “Army has been called in,” somebody informed our boss who was sitting in his office next to the newsroom. It was 11:30 pm, we switched on the TV and the news was confirmed.

For many reasons the news didn’t surprise us, besides for working in the media we used to get curfew passes and could move around even when public movement was restricted or disallowed. I returned to my work and made up my mind to leave as soon as we would receive curfew passes through Information Department.

Next day media men came out of their offices in Press Colony and were chatting among themselves, waiting for the curfew passes. There was heavy deployment of police and paramilitaries. Some senior journalists, who had called the Information Department, had been told that passes will arrive soon. We kept waiting, curfew passes didn’t come, instead police came and chased us away.

Suddenly all our concern shifted to our families. It felt like being far away from home, which, by the way, is a five-minute drive. Being the only male member in my family I should have been home. But I could not. My lensman colleague kept worrying about his 45-day-old baby and ailing parents. And what was more frustrating was the continuous ringing of our boss’s phone. His two little daughters were asking him to come home. Soon!

Army staged a flag march and they reached Regal Chowk, I clicked its pictures from the office window. Our organisation became the first to upload the pictures of flag march on the web.

From disseminators of the news we became the seekers. Cell phone was the only solace and we kept calling almost everyone. It was frustrating, we couldn’t know what was happening in the adjacent offices. We couldn’t even open our office windows to let out the cigarette smoke filling the room. We spent the time, chatting and puffing till one more trouble knocked at our door. This time it was hunger.

By the dawn of Wednesday, we were running out of food and cigarettes. Police deployed in the press colony made sure that no media person moved out.

It was around 5:00 pm when a photographer working with a local daily informed us that food items can be bought from Abi Guzar by moving through the courtyard of the state garages department situated behind the colony. Overwhelming hunger did not leave any room for apprehensions or logic and within no time I and one of my colleagues scaled the wall of the garages wall to buy something to eat.

At the shop, I asked for everything my eyes caught sight of, rice, pulses, noodles, cigarettes… The judicious  shopkeeper, instead rationed the commodities ensuring that everybody gets at least some provisions  and no media person stays hungry.
Around 6:00 pm all of us went into the kitchen. The incident removed any shreds of left over hierarchy. My injured colleague was washing rice, boss peeling the onions and I, the Layout editor was looking for recipe on internet, and cooking.

Something seemed terribly wrong. In the times when our priority should have been gathering and disseminating news, we were struggling with empty bellies and helplessness. It was funny but pathetic. Media offices were lending pressure cookers to each other, sharing recipes on phone. After three unsuccessful attempts at cooking rice, we got something to eat.

Wednesday passed like a year- full of ambiguity and insecurity. What was more disturbing was army telling media men at press enclave that journalists working with national agencies were allowed to cover the flag march from Badami Bagh to Pampore while the ones working for the local media were ordered to stay indoors.

Time passed in watching television. We couldn’t upload any more photos as police threatened to take action in case photographers took any pictures. In the evening, when a national television channel reported that police had raided a newspaper office in Press Colony we tried to move out. The police shooed us back. Later in the evening we again tried to move out but were chased back by the police.

Thursday proved to be another long day. Without any food it seemed to be much longer. The day passed off mulling our fault of being a Kashmiri media man. In the evening we unanimously decided to leave for our homes. We almost wiped the name of media from our minds and left office.  It was 8:30 pm when we stepped out of the office. Restrictions seemed to have been eased for the night.

Boss left with another colleague while we – I and my injured colleague – left on a motorcycle. We were stopped at many places, fortunately the men in uniform neither asked for identity cards nor curfew passes instead the documents of motorcycle which fortunately we were carrying along.

The five-minute ride to my home took me more than an hour due to heavy restrictions. As I reached home, my family members were teasing me for the “special treatment” media people received from the authorities. They were laughing, I was too exhausted to laugh back. I straightaway went to bed.

Seven days later when I received the curfew pass, it seemed to be just a piece of paper. It reminded me of the powerful lot, their abusive language and the restrictions which barred us from visiting adjacent media offices. I don’t feel like using it anymore (if they do not cancel it before that).