Juxtaposition

This is an interesting picture.
Ah juxtaposition.

Prostester upon protester, and a giant advertisement.

Hanes: Comfort you can feel. Royal Concept.

The words do not match.
What comfort? This is a picture from the center of Kashmir with the feel of dissatisfaction, not comfort.
Royal concept. Is that what freedom is?

There are a lot of images coming out of Kashmir these days. Some of them very disturbing. Others heart rending.

And there are some angry people there who might be confused about the object of their anger. The rocks being thrown come closer to home than I would wish.

A part of my heart will always belong to you, Kashmir, but can we please stay focused on what it is you really want?

Unrest

I have been considering the word "unrest".

It all started because I read this article about the government leaders in Delhi scheduled to meet regarding the situation in Kashmir. It mentions the "three-month-long unrest".

So, in contrast I took the word "rest" and equated it to "sleep"--because that's the kind of rest I like best--and then thought: Kashmir hasn't slept in three months.

What if I hadn't slept in three months?
I would be hurting.
I would be frustrated.
I would not be thinking clearly.
I would be angry.
I would be stretched far beyond my limits.

It was supposed to be a holiday this weekend. It's Eid. The end of Ramadan fasting. There should be lots of eating and celebrating and visiting friends and relatives.
Instead everything is shut down, and the protests continue.
And violence.
If you burn the electricity office--I think to myself--then you can't pay bills, etc., your power will be shut off, and then where will you be?
What kind of Eid celebration is that?

Listen up, World: Kashmir is begging you to pay attention.

Stone throwing

The protesting in Kashmir continues and the rest of the world hears very little about it. But for them, it is ALL there is to talk about.

The article this picture comes from says that women have come out to join the protesting and that their sentiments are: why shouldn't I throw stones?
Why?
Because those rocks come from the walls that built your city? Literally and figuratively.

But I understand that an unheard voice needs to find a way to be heard. And Kashmir has been unheard for years.
That makes people angry. That makes people yell and throw stones.
I watch video like that below, with footage put to the song Stones in My Hand, and I do not know what the answer is.

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.

New grafitti and fixing phone lines

Today was the first day in, hmm....six weeks? that we had c0-op for school. It was the first day I'd been through the bazaar, otherwise when I've been out we've taken the long way around.
There are some new messages painted on the walls.

Phone lines and internet have also not been working as they should. Finally, the repair men are out to try and do something about that. This is the guy who fixes the phone lines.

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.

Nanis are protesting

A nani (nah-nee) is a grandma. This one seems very excited about something. I don't actually know what she's saying, though. It could be that she's telling everyone to go home and stop protesting. That would be nice--I hope they would listen to her. But probably not.

Today they are taking a break from the strikes. People are permitted to go out, shop, just get out of the house for a while. I wonder if this taste of "normalcy" is enough to quell the desire to renew protesting Friday.

Unrest continues

I can't get back to my house. After my trip to Thailand, I'm stuck in the capital city until things become more calm.

The city is under a 24 hour curfew. If I were to arrive at the airport, I'd be stuck there for who-knows-how-long. If I were to get to my house, there'd be no way to go out and get food or other supplies. Or to go out to teach, though it's near by.

I'm better off where I am for now, though I'm kind of done with living out of a suitcase.

More protesting

The protesting that ended last month has started up again; this time more intensely. The issues are causing divisions along Hindu and Muslim lines. A very volatile situation.
In many cases, the police are unable to quell the escalating demonstrations, and sometimes they are even throwing rocks back at the protesters.

There must be more to protest

Yesterday was a "quiet" day for protesting. The news is that the government is conceding to the wishes of the people, so while the roads and businesses were still all closed, no one was throwing stones in my neighborhood anymore.
There was still a demonstration of women marchers that went by. The story is that a local street sweeper was beaten because he wouldn't clean an area that wasn't his responsibility when he was told to. The man sustained head injuries and died a couple days later. The women were protesting because the wealthy, educated man who beat him was not arrested.
What were they saying as they marched by? "Allah hu akhbar", God is great.
He is.
Greater than all the turmoil and suffering left in the world to protest.

Angry people

Today there is a lot of noise and yelling. Several processions have gone by the house chanting, "Allah hu akhbar!", "We remember!" and "Freedom!" I have been staying in my house.
This video isn't very good, it's shot through the screen, but it will at least give you an idea of how the anger sounds.

Schoolboy mob

We were on our way home from our school co-op when our car was surrounded by fifty to sixty boys. Most were around the age of 11 or 12, though some were younger and there were a few older boys (maybe 17) leading them. The boys I teach and I were in the car with their father.

With no hesitation, one of the older boys from the street ran up on the hood of the car and onto the roof, a younger boy followed him. As we drove backwards to get out of their midst, I was worried someone outside the car would get hurt. But no one did. Thankfully.

There is so much unrest here right now and even the children are involved in the rioting. The problem is that no one is telling them about the consequences of their actions--how much is too far, such as running on the roof of a moving vehicle.

It looks like things here will get worse before they get better.