By Shafkat Aziz
The life of a child is thought to be a kingly life. Without having any onus or without being touched by the air of gloominess, he plays blissfully where he longs.
His life acknowledges no law. Normally he opposes the norms of his society. When people wake up he sleeps. When people sleep he wakes up. Night and day are the same for him. Surprisingly, he giggles or laughs at the pain of others but his own he never endures. Alas! Where there is war all is fair. Where there is an atrocious regime even children are treated callously.
Their exhilarating moments give place to the glum moments. A thoughtful child contemplates it and makes efforts to oppose the oppressor either by pen or another means. Alas! My story of childhood reveals the same, numerous staggering and lamentable moments which i unbelievably experienced and endured. Recalling these aching moments I jot down the story. In 1990’s I was mere child, with zeal for wandering across the colorful and joyous world of mine. But frightening dark clouds and barbed wire of tyranny incinerated and buried by joyous moments. I and my friends like me played, wandered and studied and slept not on our own will but according to the will and time fixed by callous rulers. By the sun set we were disappointingly forced to enter our houses. By the fall of night we must have studied as much as we could, chatted, took dinner and switched off the lights. Our relatives had changed out of recognition as no one could dare visit the other. If anyone gathered courage to visit his relatives, he had to report in the nearby army camp to give his complete introduction and explicate the purpose of his visit, what not. I remember the time when I was in class 10th, in our vicinity might be everywhere; four or eight people from every village had to accompany forces in the morning hours to search for the mines along the roadsides. Instead of using the advanced technology, we were used as mind detectors. During nights we were forced to remain vigilant with clubs and some luminous objects to know about the activities and whereabouts of anti-Indian elements. The level of atrocity was so high that none could dare to complain what can empty handed Kashmiris do against anti Indians? How can we go against the armed men? Going against one group meant going against the both. This is a little fragment of my oppressed childhood. But the time has changed now. Bullets are even played with by children. Stone pelting has become a sort of sport for Kashmiris. Some joins the protests for killing the time some have the cause.
What so ever, but few tolerate atrocity with the fleeting course of time what will be the future of Kashmir but going against atrocious regime will be the game for Kashmiris. Life will be the bet which everyone will accept joyfully. Its taking are giving will be decided by the means the game will be played. May this not happen!
(The writer teaches at private English teacher in Handwara.)
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