Kashmir is an area enclosed by snowy mountain peaks. When I last visited the area in the 90s, crossing the Karakoram Pass on the old Silk Route from China westward, I crossed the Pamirs and entered the province of Gilgit in Pakistan. If you look at an Indian map nowadays, it will indicate that the area is Indian property. In fact the region is claimed by 3 powerful nations with the Kashmiri population acting as a pawn in a far bigger game.
I am the only Westerner on the plane, a white woman with light blonde hair. A Blondy. Suspiciously I watch the other passengers and they reciprocate. Instinctively the women have filled the rear of the plane, though separation of the sexes on public transport is by no means practiced in India. In Pakistan it is part of everyday life. Segregation by gender is strictly observed in the Islamic State adjacent to the Hindu Kush. But, here there are hardly any Hindus. Perhaps a handful, no more.
I am entering Muslim territory. Bright saris, golden nose rings over red lipped mouths and glittering, jangling bracelets are in the minority. The Indian women wear their hair uncovered, greased and oiled in long plaits. They are very decorative, doll-like, beautiful. The Indian men’s foreheads have been marked by red Puja dots that stretch upward from the Third Eye in the direction of the hair line.
Their contrast to the majority of the passengers, who believe in the Prophet Muhammed, is sharp. Simple country people, their heads demurely covered by plain muslin cloth or small, flowered print, fill the benches with their children clinging to their frock tails. Their faces are angular, stark, and long. Their plain head coverings are tied up behind their ears, which are further accentuated by the heavy, dangling golden earrings. This is apparently their only jewellery.
A couple of Sikhs, strong as oxen, hiding their long hair beneath khaki turbans, clutch the hand bars firmly. They are counted as reliable people and are generally respected everywhere. Amristar, their holy city, the town of the Golden Temple, is not far.
Steadily we fly over the outskirts of a capital that does not want to end. Slowly, agricultural areas, offering the eye neat geometrical patterns, dissolve into ever drier stretches of land eroded by wind and lack of water. Dried-out river beds vein the dusty skin of the land. The plane continues north. Eventually hill slopes become mountains with ridges covered in snow that drips down crannies, filling turquoise lakes gathered like tears between the wrinkles.
Suddenly the Himalayan Mountain Range of Ladahk pops out between the puffs of clouds. The folds and tumbling sails of white clouds have given way, offering spectacular glimpses at the towering mountains tucked behind them like children’s noses peeking forth from curtain slits. Snow-capped peaks have emerged. Am I dreaming? White mountains have broken through the surf and spume of lofty clouds. Like dolphin fins they cut the surface of the sea. One, higher than the others, springs up, outdoing the others in majesty, notes of a song reaching forever higher, sweeter. They form an impressive range of jagged peaks. They defy the senses- wild. Each one is around 7000 m high.
One in particular holds my gaze. Shaped almost like a pyramid with four even sides it plays hide and seek behind the clouds with me. My breath turns the window misty as I stare open-mouthed. Beyond it lies a part of Kashmir which is counted as Tibet and controlled by China.
Looking below now I see that the texture of the land has changed. Finally we are above the valley of Kashmir. The green of the fields here is more intense than elsewhere. The pastures are flowing and curved. Canary yellow patches flicker amid the patchwork of green fields. Winding rivers fertilize a country awakening from its winter sleep. The motor stops and we come in for the landing. Slowly, the aircraft drops and we arrive in Srinagar, the capital of the Indian province of Kashmir and Jammu. The town of Jammu lies 305 kilometres to the south of Srinagar.
If I travelled three days eastward I could reach Leh, 5000 m above the level of the sea, on the outskirts of Himalaya, a town of Tibetans, Yaks, Buddhist pilgrims and tourists in mid-summer. The road from Srinigar is, however, closed till the 1st of May. I have come too early in the season. For the time being the pass is buried deep beneath the cold snows, but I do not know this yet and am confident that I will get through.
In all, I see only a handful of other Westerners from afar and perhaps two handfuls of Indian tourists. The flight passengers jump up as soon as the wheels of the plane touch the ground, ignoring the tremendous speed with which the aircraft is taxiing down the runway of the Sheik-Ul-Alan airport, 15 kilometres from the centre of town. A tall Kashmiri urges me to stay on his house boat. His dark eyes shift back and forth while the small, golden creoles, looping through the lobes of his ears, catch the bright light of the early afternoon sun. I agree with much reserve and, after filling various forms at the exit, we mount a mini van and ride down the roads coated with grey dust and past the tiny shops towards Srinagar.
At each street corner, military booths armed with automatic rifles watch over each and every movement of the civilian population. Srinagar lies 1730 m above sea level and spreads from the western end of Dal Lake around the River Jhelum. The city has almost 1 000 000 inhabitants and Dal Gate, from where the Boulevard runs alongside the lake, may be described as its nucleus, laden with row upon row of house boats awaiting the warmer season.
It is here that life on land and life on water meet. Beyond the boats the floating gardens begin. They stretch out, taking up a good third of the lake’s total area and producing much of the food consumed by the population. Everywhere, narrow boats- called Shikaras- slice through the water’s surface. They are the natural means of transportation here, where all is liquid. The locals use the simple ones that slip through the waterways inches above the cold wet.
For the visitors, fancy boats have been built that are steadier, cushioned, decorated with plastic flowers and equipped with radio static sound. In one of the latter, we arrive at the house boat, a 40 m-long construction carved exquisitely from wood and fashioned in the style of the late British Raj, whose officials introduced this means of accommodation. On the porch, the house boy places the table in the sun for us, and the first of the Shikara merhcants, selling photo equipment, furred gloves, and sweets comes paddling softly toward the landing, ready to honey-talk me into a monetary transaction.
Hoping to complete my first impressions of the day I hop onto a Shikara and we set off toward the centre of the Lake Dal, also called Sona Lank or Lukut Dal, the lake of Lotuses. White-bearded mountains preside over the eastern end of the lake. The water’s surface reflects their grave bulk and the width of the blue sky above. Again and again the floating merchants try their luck but with a firm farewell they are set on their way again.
Below the surface, the algae billows out in ghostly sweeps. Shrouds of greenish, feathery vegetation pollute the lake from underneath. This is hardly surprising, for each boat and home on the lake dumps its waste directly here. I would not even dip my hand inside, and am amused to learn that tourists actually swim in the lake during the summer. Surely they must be intoxicated by booze or the infamous Kashmiri hashish when they do that.
Slowly the sun sets behind the range of snowcapped mountains in the west, lighting up the eastern range, lending them flowing red capes for one last time. Lights flicker on along the Boulevard. House boats switch on strings of festive bulbs here and there and the coals of a water pipe on a Shikara are mirrored on the lake’s smooth table top.
People stroll on the planks by the water and shop in the tangle of alleys around Dal Gate. The market roads there are a disorderly assembly of crooked streets with lopsided houses that lean heavily on each other. The brickwork occasionally has stones missing, like teeth in a decaying mouth. Shops, tucked into the buildings like shelves, are inhabited by keepers who sit cross-legged, their wares, mutton thighs and beauty products, dangling merrily around them.
The greetings exchanged on the streets are quietly cheerful. The lake radiates a pre-season calm and, at night, the chilly air lends the lights of the 1 200 anchored house boats a cool aura. Only the chanting from the mosques summons up the pent-up tensions, channelling them.
The chanting is the last thing I hear at night as it drifts across the water of the lake. Echoing off the surface of the water the religious chants make their way up towards to the stars. Softly, they lull me to sleep, cuddled beneath layers of blankets with a hot water bottle by my side. As the night draws to an end and morning nears the chanting resounds again on the lake. I am awakened by the melody I fell asleep to.
Darkness is carefully wrung from the sky and the black lake’s surface echoes with the repetition of “Allahu Akbar...” A one-oared Shikara throws ripples through the water as it glides towards the floating vegetable market, where the farmers typically sell their products at the break of day. “… La ilaha illa Allah.”
We drift past rickety houses on tiny patches of land encircled by water. Sheep graze there. Ducks fly up from tufts of grass sprouting in the lake. When we reach the vegetable market the light is still feeble. A congregation of long-tipped boats nose each other gently, laden with greens, piles of carrots and bundles of white lotus. By now the weeds and algae of the lake are visible once again, stretching their fingers upward toward the first morning light. Suddenly the sky opens up and between the crowns of the mountain tops the sun’s rays blink through.
We row to a small shed serving as a general store and I purchase tandoori bread for breakfast. It is pizza-like, small and round and looks as hard as stone but is surprisingly tasty with a bit of butter or with a cup of salty, kashmiri milk tea.
Though everybody tells me that the pass toward Leh is closed, I hop onto a local bus trying to reach at least Sonmarg, a town on the snow border. But, for some reason I will end up going in the wrong direction and enjoy myself anyway. For the moment I am, however, struck by the architecture of Kashmir. Multi-slanted, wooden roofs top the half-timbered brick structures. Fine carvings enhance the many closed balconies, niches and window boxes glued to the sides of the houses. Though they are, for the most part, on the verge of crumbling, the charm of the place captures me directly.
The mosques are capped by at least three roofs that become smaller and smaller towards the centre, reminding one of Chinese pagodas and Buddhist shrines. Clearly Kashmir is deeply influenced by the teachings of Siddhartha Gautama and the Tibetan Mahayana Buddhism philosophy. And, like Tibet, they hunger for their freedom from foreign occupation. But, like Tibet, they will never know independence.
Locked in between light-eyed ladies with protruding ears I am thoroughly bumped about for 10 rupees, the ride from village to village. There seem to be two conflicting tendencies dividing the people, if one judges their sympathies by their attire. Some women wear the Hindu style, the colourful suit and shirts while others are covered from head to toe in plain, long-sleeved orthodox Muslim robes. But the political fractions are more diverse than that, I will soon discover. Three languages are spoken here: Kashmiri, Urdu and Hindi. It is a complicated case yet one point comes across clearly: each and every one wants autonomy for their region. Everyone wants the Troopers to go home.
Nine out of ten people questioned resent the Indian presence in their land. But the options are limited. Nuclear-armed India and Pakistan both claim Kashmir in full but rule it in part and have fought two of their three wars over the Himalayan region. In 1989, a further revolt broke out in Kashmir, killing tens of thousands of people. Finally, in 2004, the two Asian nations commenced dialogue and the violence declined.
Only half a year ago, on the 17th of November 2008, a seven-phase assembly poll had been launched which expected to draw 65,000,000 voters at 8,000 polling stations throughout the region. But, after the Mumbai attacks which where also, strangely enough, in November and which resulted in 166 deaths, New Delhi called a halt to these plans.
Pakistan continues to deny that any state agencies were involved whereas India accuses its neighbour of arming, training and sending militants to its part of Kashmir and Jammu.
As I ride on local buses and question the people, a young boy is killed once again by Indian troopers in a small village. At the same time a court suspends 4 paramilitary troopers, including an assistant commandant, pending investigations into the shooting of a south Kashmir villager from the day before.
However, the biggest slash of violence hits the region precisely on the day I leave. In the course of the five-day battle that ensues, 8 soldiers and 17 Islamic fighters are killed in the Shamsbari forest near the Line of Control, a ceasefire line that divides Kashmir between India and Pakistan. The militants were “well-trained, heavily armed and indoctrinated,” according to Mr. Singh from the Indian army, who adds that maps and communication equipment that indicated Pakistani involvement had been found.
The Islamic group Laskhar-e-Taiba (LT), which is also held responsible for the Mumbai bombings and has fought on the frontlines of a violent separatist insurgency for the past 20 years, has already directly claimed responsibility for the encounter. A spokesman said the group will continue to sacrifice for the freedom of Kashmir and that India should understand that the freedom struggle in the region continues. Lulled by the mild weather into crossing from Pakistan into Kashmir's Kupwara District, in the west of the Province, the freedom fighters were said to have been well trained and to possess sophisticated equipment, such as AK 47 rifles, pistols, and global-positioning systems.
Some of the people I speak to hold the U.S. indirectly responsible for the disputes, arguing that they are the ones secretly supporting the feuding parties with arms and logistics. Others are ready to believe that the new American president Obama will resolve the dispute and finally bring peace to them. The speculations about intrigues and illusions of harmony stand side-by-side.
I chat with two women teachers from the Tiny Stars School who wear long, black gowns. One of them has only her eyes, encircled by black kohl eye-liner, exposed. She tries to explain that, though her choice of dress is entirely her own, she is also required to present herself as she does. Another man I meet on the bus wants to found a school for the under-privileged and name it “The Little Dreamers”.
Somebody else I meet is dressed in Western gear but turns out to be the most fundamentalist person I will meet on the entire trip. Though he wears his longish hair stylishly drawn back with a girlish band he resents all Western influence and explains that it is his right to marry 7 women, while slyly omitting that he may officially only wed 4 wives at a time.
The next day the mist evaporates above Lake Dal in the sun’s first rays of light. The Shikaras glide through the dissolving night. Suddenly the snowy mountains guarding the valley stand ablaze in a ray of sun breaking forth. I visit the Hindu Shrine of Shankaracharya high above the city of Srinagar. Only from here is one able to truly appreciate the total magnitude of the glittering, green beauty of the lake’s floating gardens. The snow-capped mountains on either side of the valley, which cut the country off from the rest of the world, are beautiful. Once again I must leave my camera behind since taking pictures here is not permitted.
Wherever I look the presence of the Indian troops is a thorn in the eye. 50 000 military soldiers control every checkpoint in the country. They are entitled to examine each paper, bag and face that passes them, with machine guns in their hands. It is not hard to understand that the heart hardens with each day that the Kashmiri is forced to see the Indians exert their alien rule.
On the other hand the physical presence of the surrounding mountains represents the lofty dreams harboured by every Kashmiri: an unopposed existence. The polarities are as extreme as the lofty heights of the encircling mountains and the toxic wastes beckoning from the depths of the lake. An independent state would be unrealistic. The natural choice is unity with Muslim Pakistan, where the same languages are spoken.
Cold and hunger mark the life of the simple people but their dreams are as high as the peaks they see each day when they look up. It is the dream of independence which keeps them warm at night, not the congdis, the ash filled clay pots in tiny wicker baskets that they carry under their woolen ponchos. The people I meet shine with hope. Their dreams are colourful and bright, colourful and bright like the fragile kites the children of Srinagar fly when rays of sunlight heat the atmosphere.
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