In the north western part of Kashmir, very close to the line of actual control, lies the quaint little town of Uri. The town more famous for the skirmishes which take place between the Indian and Pakistani forces has a small population, most of whom eking out their livelihood by trading or farming on the difficult and hostile terrain during the summer months. The amazing thing about the people in the town was there fierce pride in their land, refusing to be cowed down by the dangers of war. For years they had survived, often disregarding the man made boundaries, venturing across the border to be with their brethren, in what is called as the Pakistan occupied Kashmir. This town had seen many bloody battles since the great divide in 1947 but strangely for years had been untouched by the dreaded terrorist organizations or the so called atrocities perpetuated by the armies of the two countries. The feeling of security when there was no war in progress continued over the years, as the sparse population went about their chores. All this stopped on the night of February, the fifteenth 2005.
Old timers who were a witness to the blood bath swore that even the bloody battles which the two countries fought did not lead to such bizarre and gory scenes. At around 2.30 am, when even the street dogs are silent, there a series of explosions. People used to the shelling from across the line, rushed out startled into the streets.
A tragedy had struck. The main market place the busiest part of the town, where the traders and shopkeepers were resting for the night was a river of blood. This was no war. The targets were innocent people. Bodies were strewn all over the place. A limb here, a hand there, blood oozing from gaping wounds, feeble voices asking for help to ease their pain. Innocent children, helpless, crying for their mothers who lay motionless next to them, never to respond to call of their children again.
Surveying this gruesome site, almost with satisfaction, a wry smile adorning his cherubic face was young Yasser Abdul Mohammed. Yasser was 22 years old, a strapping lad with curly hair, a long aristocratic nose, typical of the proud people of that land, had something striking about him. It was those pale blue eyes which carried a piercing gaze when he was looking at you, almost like Uri Geller’s eyes when he bends a metal rod using those extra sensory perceptions he had.
Yasser, named after the great Palestinian leader, Yasser Arafat, walked away from the site, almost indifferent to the happenings around, wiping off the traces of blood form his hands and legs, blood of his slain brethren who lay around him. Yasser walked down the winding streets of Uri and reached the corner of a bylane where he lived in a garage. The only garage in the town, where the owner not possessing a car, thought it fit to earn some money by renting it out to this quiet tenant who surprisingly paid him good money for this ramshackle place.
The insides of the garage were a contrast. The place was tastefully furnished, a large beige couch for comfortably relaxing, a plasma color television set which would make a young lad in distant New Delhi envy, a large wardrobe which stored stylishly cut clothes from the choicest fashion stores. On the pleasantly coloured walls were posters of Bollywood throbs such as Shahrukh Khan and the inevitable Aishwaria Rai, Tendulkar and Sania Mirza. What on a superficial inspection looked like a typical bachelor’s den, was indeed a storehouse of some the most powerful equipment sufficient to shake an entire community. In the corner, located next to a wardrobe was an equipment which looked like a computer and a radio. In fact it was a very powerful transmitter with a video connection, hooking up Yasser to the network of the most powerful and dreaded organization of the world., Warriors of Freedom a world wide network of terrorists controlled factions in Palestine, Bosnia, Columbia, Afganisthan, Kashmir and South east Asia. The Kashmir faction, Jansher al Toiba, euphemistically called themselves “Peacemakers” was the organization which Yasser was aligned to.
Yasser switched on the machine and as it crackled to life, his mentor Omar came on line. Yasser relaxed on the couch his job accomplished said “with the grace of Allah, our mission is accomplished” in an almost emotionless voice. “The Hindustani administrators are clueless and in a state of panic. We can expect the Indian government to come down to talk to us on the release of our beloved brothers being held in the Tihar jail.” The old man, Omar, all of 70 plus years smiled “May Allah grant us the peace which all of us desire, a victory for the people of Azad Kashmir. Yasser, my boy you have done well, the organization recognizes and salutes you, let peace be your beacon, kudafis” and the screen went dead.
It was 530 am now, Yasser had time on his hands, he had to wait for the next set of commands, to move elsewhere and perform as directed, for his cause for the cause of the mother land he dearly loved. Yasser was tired and as he lay on the couch relaxed after the efforts of the night, his mind went back to another day, many moons ago, when he was a boy of four, doted by his Ammi and Abba, the darling of the family.
“Yasser, my love I have made those special sweets, some Phiruni for you” , he could clearly remember his mother saying. “Go get me the box to pack some for Abba, dear, thank Allah for all we have” he could still hear his beloved Ammi saying. And then disaster struck. In one single moment Yasser’s life changed.
An earthquake had struck. It was 8.2 on the Richter scale, a large one by any standards, with its epicenter 100 miles form Uri, across the border, near the Pakistani city of Islamabad. There was panic all around. There was destruction and death. The opportunists had a chance to loot. The poor and the needy were the most affected. As the town itself affected by the quake crumbled so did Yasser’s life. His Ammi, just a few seconds back was packing the Phiruni, lay still on the ground, a huge gash across the forehead. Elsewhere unknown to Yasser, his Abba took the force of a mighty boulder as the building at which he worked came down in those fateful seconds.
The doted son was now an Orphan. Yasser went about crying “ Ammi wake up, Abba will come any time, here is the box you wanted for the phirunis” she was still. The innocent young child, not understanding the meaning of death, thinking his mother was angry with the pranks he played wailed “ Oh Ammi, I am sorry, I love you please talk to me, the malpovas are getting cold” , but to no avail. It was all a blur for Yasser after that. People from the neighbourhood took him away, the news of Abba’s demise as well, the mass burials which he could not comprehend and then the presence of the relief workers all over the place.
He distinctly remembered being take to a camp, hundreds of people like him, grim, sad faced and puzzled about their future sat around, waiting for food packets. Beyond that Yasser’s memory was that of the govt officials asking him questions, he only could tell his name and Ammis’. The government as one would expect, appointed committees, surveys were conducted, relief promised but most of these did not reach the needy. The plight of the affected was pathetic. Medicines for the injured were in short supply, getting a morsel of food from the packages brought by trucks was an effort. The lack of sanitation created epidemics. However, amidst these chaotic scenes, there were people who provided remarkable support. Several of them were NGO groups with allegiance to larger organizations. With the government moving on to its next big preoccupation, it was left to charitable institutions and relief workers volunteering to attend to the needy. One major issue which bothered the relief workers was the plight of a large number of young children. The concern was always “What is going to be their future? How do we get them to be taken care of safely. As usual there were a few interested parties from Sweden, Germany and the U.S. wanting to adopt a few of the children. This however was inadequate. The state Home Ministry officials nonplussed with the problem had inconclusive debates and meetings. At this stage, a break through arrived. A large non governmental organization with networks all over India came forward to take up the responsibility of resettling the children. Moving the children from the camps to a more amicably surroundings, they brought some order into their lives. With the help of the government, they gave new identities for the children in some cases even new names. For Yasser it was an age certificate and allocation of organization to which he would be sent to. And finally, help arrived for Yasser to start a new life. A life which all hoped would bury the past and lead to a bright future. He was taken along with a group of young children to a place where they were greeted by an old couple. As Yasser looked on with trepidation, ”This will be your home from now, my child,” the old man greeted with a kind smile. “My name is Hamid and you can call me Abba from now on” is all he said. Yasser liked the new Abba and the kind smile, as he started his new life.
Yasser, under the guidance of Hamid was one of the stars in the institute. An institute which took care of destitute children and gave them a chance to be someone in life, an opportunity which helped the children get the benefits of parenthood and education. Hamid used to tell the apple of his eye Yasser “Young man, as you grow older you should pay back to your motherland all that she has given you”. Yasser used to be puzzled at these statements at that time. Now he was precisely doing what was asked of him. Yasser grew with a group of boys, all of them strictly leading a regimented life. Their teachers were kind but firm. They had all the worldly education which any school boy would have but with a difference. They were taught to live for a cause. The underlying message for them was, ‘your life is for Kashmir, your motherland, free it from the tyranny of the oppressors. No sacrifice is big for the motherland’ was the thought systematically ingrained in their young minds as they grew up. Yasser grew up to be confident young man, well accomplished in the ways of the world. His special skill was – he was a master strategist in the art of terrorism and warfare.
It just happened one day. Yasser with his friends was rifling through his belongings, with a view to do what is commonly called spring cleaning. He came across a faded photograph, that of his beloved Ammi and Abba, bringing back the deluge of memories which he carefully cultivated to hide. Beneath the photograph was a hastily scribbled address. Something which one would find in a voters card. Not remembering what happened to his Ammi, Yasser decided to trace his roots and look for his parents. After several anxious, surveys, his heart throbbing with anticipation, Yasser located the building. An old decrepit place, no longer livable, the pavements broken, cobwebs on the ceilings and plasters peeling off from what was once the home of a lovable family. Alas there was no sign of his Ammi or Abba. As he prepared to leave the place, with a heavy heart, he encountered an old man, whom he vaguely remembered as Tikoo Chacha It was indeed Tikoo Chacha, who after realizing who Yasser was, overcome with emotions and said “Son, where were you all these days, God is really kind to have let me live to see this day. Tikoo chacha was a Kashmiri pandit in whose house the young Ammi used to play with her friends when she was a schoolgirl.
Your Ammi would have been proud to see a pleasant young man like you. She had ambitions for you to join the Indian Army or to be space scientist.” Yasser was stunned. His Ammi wanted him to be part of the proud Indian tradition, a man which independent India would be proud off. Thoughtfully he bid adieu to Tikoo Chacha and came home.
That night Yasser had a dream. He dreamt of his Ammi and Abba. His Ammi kept calling him to come back as he walked away from her to take his position among his colleagues. Yasser woke up startled and confused. Was Ammi telling him he was wrong. Was he disappointing his loving mother? Yasser kept getting these disconcerting dreams often. Mentally, it started to tell on him. His single minded devotion to the “cause” weakened a bit. He was no longer the emotionless lad which people around him thought him to be.
Yasser was seen lost in thought, not very enthusiastic in his approach to his job. He realized that his leaders were watching him too. Yasser, by know took to the Koran, realized his ways were wrong. And then it happened.
The Governor of Kashmir was visiting the area to participate in the Independence Day celebration. “This is our Chance” Omar had said, Lets hit the bulls eye. Surprisingly, Yasser volunteered. His colleagues were happy to see the change. The stage was set and the mock attacks were staged. Yasser was to be the key man. The suicide bomber, who if necessary, would sacrifice his life. The explosives were meticulously selected, the site identified and the getaways planned. The D day neared and Yasser was preparing to do a mock attack with all the key leaders including Omar in attendance. Explosives were strapped to Yasser, he had the trigger with him, just as if it was the event itself.
Yasser, in the meantime, pensive and a bit sad, was nervous and fidgety. His colleagues put it down to nervousness. When the Omar called for action to start, there was a pregnant silence. A minute later, Yasser triggered the explosives, creating a massive fireball, whose victims included all the terrorists leaders and of course destruction of the explosive dump itself.
The lone survivor, who happened to be near Yasser in his last few seconds, heard him say, “Ammi, hear I come your little son, fulfilling your ambitions and as he moved with a smile on his face looking for the embrace from his beloved Ammi, the explosions occurred.
One more son had sacrificed his life for the cause. For the cause of a free, fair and peaceful India.
