19 January Was Night Of Terror For Kashmiri Pandits; Is Ghar Wapsi Now A Pipe Dream?

“My happiness lies in Kashmir-wapsi along with all other KP families. But I see myself as a helpless migrant, having no idea whether and when I shall be able to return to my roots, despite having waited so long”, writes a Kashmiri Pandit

January used to remind me of Republic Day, long back in the eighties. The parade, the military power on display and the pride of India that used to be telecast live on Doordarshan those days. It, no longer, is so.

Ever since 1990, January only means memories of exodus for me. It reminds me of the pain with which we had to forcibly leave the Kashmir valley. This year on 19 January, it will be our 26th year in forced exile, not for my family alone, but for all Kashmiri Pandits (KPs).

On that dreadful night of 19 January, 1990, KPs were taken aback by the happenings. Throughout the valley, slogans were being shouted which challenged the KPs in particular and India in general.

“Hum kya chahte? Azadi” ……. was the one of them.

“Raliv, Galiv, ya Tchalev” (Convert, Die or Go) ….. was another.

The administration was sleeping. The rogue elements were on a rampage and the terrorists were out in the streets openly. This was in an era when the faster communication modes of today’s world were non-existent. SMS, internet and related modes of communication were yet to be born in our country then. Even a landline telephone connection was a novelty – one, two or a few more was all a normal locality had.

Yet, the sloganeering and brazenness had spread like fire in the whole valley. This has baffled me all along. In hindsight, it leaves me in no doubt that all of it had been meticulously planned in advance; but sadly, at that moment on that day, KPs had no clue.

That night, every KP had locked his family inside his house, switched off the lights and not a whisper went out. No one slept on that chilly night, not for the chill but for the fear of losing one’s life or getting converted. Every parent wanted his children unharmed, every man wanted the women and girls in his household safe and untouched and every head of the family prayed and prayed to God for the safety of his family. The households having young girls had to literally hide their daughters and sisters in almirahs, trunks and attics. And this was not limited to a locality or to a particular area. KPs in every nook and corner of the valley had to undergo this trauma.

19 January 1990 is a date which I, or for that matter any KP, will never forget. The happenings of that night ultimately triggered the mass exodus of KPs the very next morning and it continued for months thereafter. Those who tried to defy or delay fleeing the valley had to face the threats. And many of them got brutally and barbarically killed by the terrorists ultimately.

The night of 19 January 1990 was a night of hell in so-called paradise of Kashmir for my family. Ever since then, we have not recovered from the shock and the agony. And so is true for every other KP family. Many KPs are still languishing in tents and camps in Jammu and Delhi.

Our inner peace is gone. Our mindset has changed and deep in us, the wounds of homelessness continue to bleed. They will never heal in this lifetime of ours.

Today the memories of that Dal lake, Nishat garden and Gulmarg neither freshen me up nor arouse a feeling of excitement. I have no desire left to see them again in my lifetime. The temporary jollity of these scenic places is too superficial for me to relieve the pain deep inside. Happiness is not just having two meals a day. Happiness means to be among your own – family members, relatives, friends and neighbours; sharing with them; speaking in your mother tongue and living a life for your dreams. We have been robbed of all — our homeland, our language and our dreams. Our community has got scattered all over the country and with inter-community marriages, KP community is slowly getting extinct.

My happiness lies in Kashmir-wapsi along with all other KP families. But I see myself as a helpless migrant, having no idea whether and when I shall be able to return to my roots, despite having waited so long. The political flip-flops on the Kashmir issue over the years are only adding to my pessimism.

Twenty-six years counts as generational shift. Our new generation is the most unfortunate that they have not been able to connect with their roots in all these years. Will they ever get to live in their homeland? Will they ever get to do Kashmir-wapsi, after we are no more? If it ever happens in future, our souls will surely rest in peace that day.