The Times of India Review, July 4, 1999
IT WILL SOON BE MINUS 50 DEGREES IN KARGIL
And its 23,000 displaced residents have nothing with which to fight the implacable enemy of the weather. No food, no animals, no warm clothes.
RASHME SEHGAL travels to Kashmir to report first-hand on the unwitting victims of war.
A HUDDLE OF 30 dishevelled children sits on the cold floor of an
improvised classroom overlooking the snow-capped mountains whose
slopes dip sharply into the turbulent Sindh river. They have not
textbooks, no pencils. But their teacher Ghulam Mohiuddin, from
the village of Matayan in the Kargil district, holds classes
every morning. The children repeat their multiplication tables in
an attempt to pretend things are normal.
Mohiuddin, 52, looks on sternly. He does not hesitate to thump a
child if he gets too frisky. "It would have been better if the
local administration had provided these children with text books
so that they do not lose a crucial year. But since they have not
visited us even once to find out whether we are dead or alive or
even bothered to give us essentials like rice and kerosene or
money with which to buy them, expecting them to fork out school
books is asking for the moon," he says with only a hint of sarcasm.
The village of Matayan has 400 inhabitants. On the night of May
13, the Pakistani army started shelling their settlement. The
terrified villagers, the majority of whom are Muslims, trekked
down the Zoji La pass, making their way down to the safety of the
village of Kulan, located at 8000 feet.
"We left our homes in panic. We brought nothing, not even our
warm clothes. We left behind our cooking utensils, our foodgrain
and our animals, certain that the state government and the Ladakh
Autonomous Hill Development Council would help us till we could
return home," says 50-year-old Noori.
"But we have become beggars in our own country," she laments. "We
would have starved were it not for the kindness of the local
villagers. They have fed us and allowed us to live in their
homes. We are grateful for us to live in their homes. We are
grateful for that." The people from her village nod in quiet
agreement. They have yet to come to terms with such bureaucratic
callousness.
"Most of the villagers who have migrated from Matayan are
suffering from malnutrition, gastroenteritis and scabies," says
Dr Shabir, a medical officer with the Jammu and Kashmir state
government working at a nearby dispensary. "Were it not for the
locals, things would have been worse."
If Matayan is the first village that you encounter crossing the
Zoji La pass, Pandrass, at 10,000 feet, is the second. The
villagers from there, now living in the village of Gagan Gir,
have an equally harrowing tale of state neglect.
The shelling of Pandrass began on May 6. The villagers hoped it
would end quickly, and so initially refused to leave. The Indian
army, unwilling to take chances with their safety, provided them
with transportation up to Neelgrat, from where it was a three-day
march down to Gagan Gir. The journey was a nightmare. The nights
were bitingly cold and this group of 200 doughty villagers --
many with their children -- were forced to sleep in the open.
Still they were better off than their brethren from Matayan. The
J&K Power Development Board had a number of offices lying vacant
in Gagan Gir and they were given permission to stay here. But
Faiz Ahmed Kari, district project officer in Kargil, who was
forced to leave his home and move here with his family, complains
of the lack of other support.
"For 60 years, we have looked after the borders. In winter, the
temperature here drops to minus 50 degrees Celsius. No one can
survive this harsh terrain except us, the local people. We live
in mud houses that are completely sealed off for seven long
winter months. We live with our cattle on the same floor for the
warmth of their bodies. We stock up food like 'sattu' (roasted
barley flour) and survive on salt tea with yak milk.
"Now we have come away, leaving our homes empty. Our animals are
at the mercy of half-wild dogs. Surely the government owes us
something. A few government functionaries have visited us but
have extended no aid whatsoever. Shabir Shah is the only leader
who has been to our camp and has given Rs 500 in cash to each
family. Surely the government should realise that we need special
assistance," Kari adds.
Drass is now a ghost town, a wasteland of skeletal buildings many
blasted beyond recognition. Some have huge cracks in them, others
are split in two. But it is Kargil that has borne the brunt of
Pakistani artillery bombardment. Almost unchanged since medieval
times, except for the satellite dishes and the TV transmitter,
the villagers continue to follow the barter system to this day.
But wherever one goes, there is a smouldering anger at how a
diligent and stoic people, unafraid of coping with extreme
weather and negligible natural resources, have been given the
short shrift by the state government.
Some compare their plight with that of the Kashmiri pandits in
Jammu. Abdul Wahid, an agricultural officer in Kargil points out,
"When the Kashmiri pandits left the valley, look at the hue and
cry created in the press. Today every Kashmiri pandit family
forced to leave the family is receiving Rs 2,500 per month from
the government. In comparison, the only aid we have received is
five kilos of rice per family and four kilos of kerosene. How far
will that get us? The authorities know that since the banks in
Drass and Kargil shut down in early May, many of us could not
withdraw money before being moved out."
Farooq Abdullah, the chief minister of J&K, has informed the
Centre that 23,000 in the Kargil sector have been displaced. He
has requested the Centre to provide additional funds for their
rehabilitation. Chief Secretary, J&K, Ashok Jaitley, admits that
the state's refugee problem is enormous.
"During the last decade, we supported the Kashmiri migrants. Now
23,000 people have been displaced in Kargil and 25,000 from
Jammu. They need basic amenities and financial assistance. The
state government has made provision for each individual to
receive seven kilogrammes of rice, two kgs of wheat plus Rs 300
cash assistance per person per month subject to a ceiling of Rs
1,800 per family. They will also be given 10 kg of kerosene per
family. This is costing the state almost Rs 30 million per month.
We need central assistance to provide such aid," he says.
Many of the villagers simply want to be allowed to go back to
their homes to bring back essentials. "Surely the army should
grant us permission to get some stock to help us survive," is a
common refrain.
The Kargilis face an uncertain future. The farmers fear the loss
of their animals. The children fear the loss of a year of their
education. And together, they fear the winter that will set in,
come September. Drass is the second coldest inhabited place in
the world. Matayan and Pandrass are no less uninviting. They have
learnt to fight the adversity of nature, but the indifference of
the local government? That hurts. (ENDS)
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