by Humaira Maqbool
This past Eid was quite different. It was a curfewed Eid—first time, since 1947. For someone who grew up amid crackdowns, encounters, killings, curfews, the experience was nothing new—but, indeed, outrageously atrocious it was!
At my home in Shopian, the delighted day would bring family together to celebrate the holy festival. It would make one feel oneness and unity. People sacrifice animals and distribute the mutton or beef to loved ones, relatives, neighbours and poor ones with intimate feeling.
For person like me—born in late 1990s or early years of twenty first century, it used to be a day full of celebration. But this year, it never was the same in the face of bloodshed. One wasn’t able to know the whereabouts of friends and relatives. A complete communication blockade even barred us from talk.
Instead of festive lights, sweets shops filled with the mouth-watering aroma or kids with coloured fancy dresses, there were concertina wires, stones, wooden logs, pro-Azaadi and anti-India slogans written all over the militarised valley.
Every road connecting to a Masjid or Eidgah was blocked. The authorities had announced that they won’t allow the gatherings of Eid prayers. This is the “highest form of Indian democracy”—where the lawmakers don’t even allow the people to fulfil their religious rituals.
Female folks remained confined to their houses—as men feared for their safety. Our men could only make it to local Masjids.
Mothers kept praying for their sons’ return. Sisters for their brothers. Wives for their husbands. And children for their fathers.
In Bandipora, a mother’s wait ended shortly when a bullet-ridden body of her twenty-year-old son came home. Men in uniform opened fire on youths who were on their way to a local Masjid.
It was heart-breaking news that tore my mind and soul apart. I started pressing my hands hard on the floor to bear the unbearable pain. And in a minute, I heard loud explosions of heavy shelling and gunshots.
Then, the knock of the door caught my attention. I hurriedly rushed outside to see my two brothers. For a moment, I stood petrified. I stared at blood-stained shirt of my brother. I brusquely realised that he had taken the injured to the hospital.
Within an hour, another teenager succumbed to his injuries in Shopian—yet another martyr. His family would have been waiting for him to have Eid lunch, but he never came. But his body did.
From north to south, we celebrated the Eid-ul-Azha with the funeral prayers of our martyrs. We sacrificed animals to remember Sunnat-e-Ibrahim and our youths for the cause of Kashmir. This is how India made us to celebrate Eid this year.
But there is something that they should know: We will die of starvation and interrogation, but we will never surrender. For our pride and honour, we stand and struggle each day.
The author is a postgraduate student of Mathematics at University of Kashmir. Views expressed in this article are author’s own.
