Paul Yandall: Talks leave Kashmir disunited

COMMENT

Squeezed in at the bottom of a briefs column in the Himalayan Mail, as though desperate to squirm off the page, a single line tallies the cost of conflict in Kashmir. Death Count. Killings in Kashmir, 2004: 139.

By the time you read these words you can add another 60, for such is the scoreboard of strife in this divided land.

India and Pakistan talking peace is like shovelling salt on a gaping wound, for neither country is prepared to give Kashmiris what they want most: independence.

"What for India? What for Pakistan?" asked one bazaar trader when asked his preference. "What I want, what my father wants, what my grandfather wants, is our own Kashmir."

It's a dream that fills the length and breadth of the Kashmir Valley. It is also a dream that will be impossible to realise if India and Pakistan finally make peace.

On the boulevards and alleyways of Srinagar - the picturesque summer capital of Indian-controlled Jammu and Kashmir state - the recent peace talks in Islamabad were nothing more than a charade.

Raising the subject with most Kashmiris provokes a flurry of animated replies. There is no hiding the contempt.

"You must understand, there are elections [in India this year]," said a businessman named Mubarak. "This is propaganda for votes. If they want peace, how are we not invited? Nothing will change here."

It is a bleak assessment - and not entirely fair - but 15 years of fighting has taken its toll. Weary scepticism seeps through Srinagar like a dense fog.

The city is cradled beside the tranquil waters of Dal Lake, 50km south of the disputed Line of Control that divides the state. The setting in magnificent: to the west, the snowcapped mountains of the Pir Panjal Range bludgeon their way south. To the east are the breathtaking peaks of the Great Himalaya Range.

Surprisingly, for a city plagued by a prolonged and deadly struggle, Srinagar's streets are full of life. Despite the mid-winter bite, poncho-wearing traders hawk their wares with vigour, and the bazaars and shops are brimming with goods.

There are few shortages and even fewer signs of the poverty - beggars, people sleeping on the street - common in other parts of India.

Power supplies are intermittent, but that is because "India keeps stealing our electricity" complains one shopowner during yet another blackout.

Still, if Kashmiris had their way, Srinagar would be the capital of a united, independent homeland. Instead it is a city under siege.

Armed Indian soldiers are everywhere. More than 200,000 patrol the city of a million Muslims. Barbed wire, bunkers, checkpoints with machineguns and armoured convoys have turned the lakeside paradise into a giant garrison.

A phenomenal 300,000 more soldiers, police and paramilitaries are in the region trying to strain the militants from the state's eight million Kashmiris.

Ironically, it is the Indian presence that is credited with keeping the local economy alive. The soldiers buy almost everything locally and you can often spot off-duty groups on shopping sprees.

But it is also their overwhelming presence, and the power they represent, that Kashmiris find most offensive. They are an obvious target of under-the-breath insults from locals.

"You know, I hate to hate but they come, boss us around, telling us to get off our own roads," said Nayiz, a 20-year-old student, as a noisy, heavily armed convoy shoved its way through peak-hour traffic. "Man, I can't stand them."

With their dark skin, fine features, Hindi language and Hindu religion, it is easy to view them as an occupying foreign force.

For Nayiz, they are a visible reminder that the powerbrokers in New Delhi have little in common with Kashmiris. Indeed, the physical and cultural differences are startling.

Today's Kashmiris are a swarthy, Middle Eastern looking people who speak their own language. They are descendants of settlers who were converted to Islam about 800 years ago.

But the valley's fertile and verdant land conspired against its inhabitants. Muslim, Hindu, Afghan and Sikh rulers fought over the region for centuries before the British gained control in 1846 and a maharaja was appointed to govern the greater region of Jammu and Kashmir.

The clumsy, British-engineered partition of the subcontinent into its Hindu and Muslim parts in 1947 started a new cycle of violence. The maharaja of Kashmir was allowed to choose whether to join India or Pakistan.

Muslim Kashmir was culturally closer to Pakistan, but economically dependent on India. Hindu Maharaja Hari Singh held out for independence.

In the end, a raid by Pakistani tribesmen and soldiers forced his hand. He turned to India for help and the first of three wars between the two neighbours began.

The United Nations called for a plebiscite to be held so the people of Kashmir could choose which country to join.

The first war lasted nearly two years, and by its end Kashmir had been divided along the Line of Control. India held the southern half of the old kingdom and refused to allow the plebiscite while Pakistan "illegally" occupied the north.

To this day, no plebiscite has been held.

Pakistan insists there can be no peace without it and is confident Kashmiris will fulfil their destiny by joining the state.

For its part, Indian pledges of autonomy have come to little. India has no intention of giving up Kashmir. The state acts as a strategic buffer with Pakistan, Afghanistan and China.

But more importantly, New Delhi cannot be seen to be giving in to separatist demands. The subcontinent is racked by breakaway movements and Kashmir is the front line.

By 1989, the Kashmiri uprising had begun. Since then, India says more than 40,000 people have been killed. Kashmiris believe the number is closer to 100,000.

Both the security forces and the militant groups are accused of murder andhuman rights abuses. Some militant groups - which are made up of Kashmiris, Pakistanis, Afghans and Muslim jihad fighters - show no hesitation in killing colleagues they believe have slipped into moderation. This month, three local politicians known for their moderate views have been assassinated.

Kashmiris know that such violence weakens their cause. The lack of a strong political leadership that can unify the separatist groups - and there are scores of them, each engaged in its own form of identity politics cum militancy - means the struggle itself is divided.

But despite the wish of some militants, progress of sorts is being made.

A historic meeting took place between the Indian Government and a Kashmiri umbrella group for separatist factions, the All Parties Hurriyat Conference. There are hopes further talks will lead to concrete changes in the way India manages the state.

For many Kashmiris, changes cannot come soon enough. Before the insurgency, the region hosted a million tourists a year. That has dwindled to a few thousand (although it is beginning to creep up again).

Dal Lake and its famed houseboats are truly a wonder. But houseboat owners, like all of the tourist operators in the region, have fallen on hard times. "Before the trouble we were always full, people came from all over the world," said one houseboat owner, Bashir. "Now, it is not so good. Who wants to come to a place where all they see are soldiers?"

He is realistic enough to know that business would be better under peaceful Indian rule. Indians consider Kashmir a place of almost mythical beauty and would flood the area if they believed it safe.

But he is quick to insist that an independent Kashmir would do nicely.

"You know, look at these troubles. How much will you pay for a dream? I don't know the answer."

For young Kashmiris like Nayiz the student, the dream is almost lost. He and his friends have grown up in the shadow of the conflict and have few feelings other than hate and mistrust for both India and Pakistan.

He has no doubt that the fighting will go on. If peace breaks out the separatists will open the front against Pakistan. If that happens, it will be a war India and Pakistan will surely win.

"What more will be left for us then? I just want to get out. To get out now and make my life somewhere else. Somewhere maybe like New Zealand, it is peaceful, no?"

* Paul Yandall is a former Herald reporter.