When it comes to Kashmir, the most precious thing to a male individual (especially a boy in his 20s) is his ID card; for obvious reasons that are not unknown to any of us.
As I joined college for my bachelors and got a student ID card, I waited for my vacations, so that I could go back to Kashmir and work on the ground. The first summer vacation was “cool” in Kashmir; there were no massive strikes and no strict lockdowns. It was 13th July and the Valley looked normal, the shutters were down, and streets were blocked by barbed wires.
I dressed up, hung my DSLR on my shoulders and went outside, to gather stories. I had trained my mind to get ready for any beating (because of course I was without a ‘Press’ identity card).
After taking some shots of deserted Lal Chowk and the bridge that has witnessed a massacre in 90s – Gow-Kadal – I made my way to the old city of Kashmir. As I reached the Bohri Kadal area, a CRPF personnel stopped me and asked me for my identity (I find it satirical, proving identity at my own place). Anyway, I took out my college card and with full confidence showed it to the CRPF guy and said “Institute of Mass communication Jammu, journalist hu sir“. He got confused and said “Karte kya ho”, to which I replied “Paetrekaar hu”; he then let me go.
After this, I knew confidence played a key role when stopped by security forces. I started my scooter and made my way to the grand mosque of Srinagar, Jamia Masjid, located at Nowhatta, Srinagar.
I parked my scooter outside and went inside with heavy steps, the security personnel present there were taking rest, some of them were busy with their phones. The moment I entered and pointed my camera towards them, I invited their attention. At that very moment my heart was beating faster, like a Tachycardia heartbeat.
The first encounter site
Year 2018, November 28, I was working as an intern at a local newspaper here in Kashmir and yes, I still had no identity card nor did I have any authority letter. A gunfight had broken out between militants and security forces in Chattergam area of Central Kashmir’s Budgam district. I was eager to visit the encounter site, so I did what I used to do. Hang my DSLR and train my mind to get beaten up. When I reached the encounter site the gunfight was over, the army had left but the police and CRPF were present and were busy returning the stones of young boys with tear gas and flash-bangs. What was there for me to capture? A huge chunk of people were moving towards the encounter site and wailing together for the loss of homes and an old man who had spread his scarf to raise money for the residents of these houses.
Back to the place where youths were engaged in a stone fight, I was covering the protest by positioning on the police’s side. And as I was late to the spot, I was the only journalist present there, so the inspector looked at me and said “who are you”? I was nervous but I didn’t let them see it and said, “I’m a journalist working as an intern” thumping my college ID card on his face, again with ‘full confidence’; he didn’t say anything else.
My confidence put to test
And then came the date, when Kashmir was given a new political shape. Communication blackout, curfew, night curfew and additional deployment of forces were made.
On the outskirts of Srinagar the Anchaar area of Soura had made it to news. Protests were taken out by men, women and children. Every Friday journalists would gear up and sneak into the area. I would sit on the footpath near the press enclave and hope that someone would take me along. I did this for a month and when every journalist would pick their mates and colleagues with them, I was left there because no one knew me and I myself didn’t ask anyone to take me along.
And then one Friday I decided to go myself and I did what I used to do. I hung my DSLR and trained my mind to get beating; and left for Anchaar.
The situation in Anchaar was different. In other protests I would be positioned on the side of state forces while covering the incident but during that time, they didn’t allow journalists to enter the premises and we had to sneak in through the back side of SKIMS hospital into the area.
I parked my scooter in the hospital parking lot and made my way to the place that was surrounded by a lake from three sides and its only entry point was guarded by the forces.
It was a totally different scenario, streets were filled with men, women, kids, and aged people. Everyone held their fists high and raised slogans. Anchar residents had dug trenches and put up barricades to stop the forces entering the premises.
Journalists (both local and foreign) were welcomed by the residents and were given drinks to get hydrated, but at the same time the people of Anchaar were vigilant about who the real journalists were and who were working for the government. So they first checked the press identity cards of all the journalists. (Laughs) “waeyn kya kare be“, I said to myself. I took a deep breath and pushed all my confidence to my face and started to click pictures. On my side were three more journalists whose IDs were checked by the residents and when they reached near me, I exchanged glances with them and passed a smile. They moved forward without asking me for my identity, here again my confidence was the key. If you are an intern and you haven’t been provided an authority letter or an ID card, don’t use it as an excuse for being afraid of going on the field and reporting from ground zero, your will and determination would make way for you, always.
September, 2019
I visited my cousin’s home in Nowshera area of Downtown, Srinagar. After the Fajr prayer, I took my cousin along and went out for a photo-walk around the old city because what better combination is there than the concertina wires, routine patrol during the morning hours in the old city?
We walked around the area and reached the famous Jamia Masjid in Nowhatta area, the olive green helmets outnumbered the pigeons (who had spread their wings in the sky and some of them feeding themselves near the gate of the Grand Mosque).
The deserted morning with the heavy deployment of troops puts one in a dilemma of ‘Shall I continue, or retreat’; and same happened with me, but I decided to go with the former. As I kept walking and taking shots, a heavy voice from behind made me stop. A security personnel who might have been more than 6 feet 5 inch asked for my identity card (laughs again), I took out my wallet and grabbed my student card out – “Haseeb Ibn Hameed, Institute of Mass Communication of Jammu”, holding it in front of his face, I read it aloud for him. He let me go but if the location of my college was in Kashmir, I am not sure what the consequences would have been.
It’s like this in Kashmir, whatever profession one chooses, he/she has to be ready for the consequences of living and working in this desolated valley, sometimes you make it out normally, sometimes you take some bruises with you.
For a journalist it is important to have confidence, patience, passion, and decision making ability during desperate times, and most importantly to not get overwhelmed by the situation around.
Working in Kashmir is achingly beautiful and the adrenaline is always rushing inside a journalist here.
I have never worked to get an ID card nor to earn money, both things will come at their proper time. “Baambrun chunne kheyn; kyazke, wande tscalli, sheen gali, beyi ee bahaar.”