Summer disease

The political unrest in Kashmir is like an infectious disease that flares up every summer.
I read this article in the Times of India and I thought about how it seems better for winter and cold weather to remain in Kashmir, for as soon as warmer weather comes, so does the protesting.
2008 was a bad summer. June and August, especially, were full of unrest. Curfews and strikes and angry people with rocks in their hands wherever you went. But when I watch this video, it seems to me that the young men with rocks are bolder than they used to be.
When violence escalates the way it has, there is rarely a right or wrong side anymore.
These are not "innocent" youths pictured here.
I think it must be a lonely job to work for the CRPF.
I think it must be awful to have lost a son to a bullet fired into a protesting crowd.
Living in Delhi means I have to go looking for news about what happens in Kashmir. People here go on as if nothing is happening. I do the same.
But I do remember the enforced stay-at-home days, the tires burning in the roads, the school boys who attack cars.
I may not live there anymore, but peace in the Valley of Kashmir is still something I long to see.

Visiting

Since there were no strict curfews or strikes today, I visited some friends. They offered me some chai and then asked me to take some pictures in the garden. They had a lot of different poses for me capture.

The kids have had weeks of no school because of the unrest. This was the first day for many of them to go back. Now the teachers are piling on the homework to make up for all the missed time. Poor kids.

This one just turned five last month (or "completed his fifth year", as they say here), and he was doing his homework: writing the numbers 1 to 100 in his notebook. Very neatly, too. He had three other books of penmanship in English and Urdu to do before tomorrow also.

They let us out

Today they finally lifted the curfew for the whole day, and there was enough time and freedom of movement for stores to be opened and shelves to be stocked.

People and traffic were finally on the roads again.
It was also the first day of Ramadan. So people were anxious to have something nice to eat for Iftyar, when they broke the fast. The streets and stores were crowded.

But the restaurant we waited in was not crowded. It was empty since everyone was fasting. The two pizza-baking men didn't have much to do.

Look! Is that Best Buy? Oh no. Their best buys are something to do with "beauty to bow from tips to toe". ?

One of the check points we passed through. But this is a usual one, not one of those recently added.

The Spanish tourists

My plane was pretty empty today, so I noticed the only tourists to arrive on the flight. Before leaving the airport with the taxi driver, I looked back at them surrounded by men trying to convince them to come to their houseboat, visit their carpet shop, stay in their hotel, come in their taxi--all the tourist-starved businesses--and I felt concerned for them. Somehow they'd missed reading a newspaper and had no idea what they were walking into.

It was more than the usual scenario of tourists fending off unwanted hawkers; they had no idea the city was under curfew. So I went back and told them what I knew. They were from Spain and wanted to know where they should stay, or if they should believe any of the men standing around them. So I gave them some information for where they could stay, and how they should get through the city to the lake area. I was walking away when I went back again and gave them my phone number--they seemed in way over their heads.

At 9:13pm, they called me. They wanted to leave. But they didn't know how they could get a taxi back to the airport and no one at their hotel seemed able to find one either. The hotel they were staying at, I realized, was very near to some of the afternoon commotion; they'd probably heard shooting and tear gas shells being let off. Not to mention all the check posts they'd have gone through to get to the hotel. They were scared.

They didn't want to listen to the advice to wait until Tuesday before trying to leave, so a friend of mine helped arrange a taxi for 6am. Early enough to beat the protesters to the streets.

Hoping they make it back out safely. Hoping they're not too terrified to come back someday and see the beauty they missed out on getting to see this time around. Hoping that beauty is allowed to be enjoyed once again someday soon.

Getting home

After all my traveling, I am back now. My trip from the airport to the house was eventful.
I was assured by the airport authorities and the taxi driver that my airplane boarding pass would serve as "curfew pass" to get through the strict city-wide curfew that was being enforced by police and military. We were stopped around eight times before the driver refused to take me any further. He was too agitated.
At most of the checkpoints, he would very respectfully greet the military officer, they would look at my boarding pass and his taxi papers, and then wave us on. At one stop, they wanted to try out their English and ask me how long I've lived here. But what rattled the driver was the last check point we passed and the young officer who seemed to be on a power trip. "You know it's a curfew today," he said, "Are you a curfew breaker? Do you want to get beat?"
It was only just after we'd driven out of sight of those men that the driver decided that was far enough and he stopped the car. Nearby there was a path to my house, actually. Rather God-ordained. I'd never been down that path, but I could see through the trees that it would end up right near the neighbor's house. There were some women standing nearby saying they'd find somebody to take me through to the other side. So the driver took my boarding pass to help him on his way home, and I took my suitcase over the rough, chicken-and-goat path (they'd left behind their markings).
The path came out just at the end of my lane, and my tour guide wheeled my suitcase the rest of the way to my door.
Arrived at last.