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Kashmirs’ Lost Sons

A 13 year old boy, a mere kid, from the Capital of Tamil Nadu was shot at by some army troopers when he offended them by trespassing the walls that bore some fruits the other side. All he wanted was to relish some fruits and yes, A Big Mistake. Bullets were showered on the boy and his friends, resulting in the cold blooded murder of 13 year old Dilshan.

I saw Dilshan’s mother, crying out curses for the accused and in my mind, clicked so many pictures of Kashmiri women who lost their loved ones for this land. I was dumbfound by my memories. Kashmir, a place were a thousand Dilshan’s slept in their graves awaiting justice. And yet again for no fault of theirs. Silently their mothers shun tears over and again, they have contributed so much to this land.

Massacres, hartals, curfews and so much, they say it started in 1931 when 22 people fell for the bullets of Maharaja Hari singh’s police at the Central Jail. They were protesting against the autocratic rule and seeking freedom. And that’s what we do till date. Strange! How our story never changed.

Be it Tufail Mattoo from 2010 or Abdul Qadeer from 1931, there are a thousand more, those buying medicine for their ailing mothers, those returning from tuition, those out to buy candies, those playing cricket, those sneaking from the window everyone received their share of bullets and tons of tears for their families.

I remember how a Kashmiri Reporter mentioned having lost 26 off his 30 classmates. More than 95 percent of his friends were dead already. Can we imagine more than 50 percent of our friends punished for no faults, just because they wished for a free Kashmir. They dreamed of a free land, fought for it and died for it.

We have suffered since decades and we will continue to. We die every now and then, our conscience does, we are involved in crime, corruption, scandals, everything and so are the hopeless leaders of our land. All those cold blooded murders are still fresh in our minds. The shouts and wails freeze our minds. The slogans have touched the souls of every Kashmiri. ‘Azadi’ is the slogan I shouted in my childhood. This is what I learnt, what Martyrs taught me.

They did all they could  but what they left behind was a mother with tears streaming down, a father looking hopeless, a sister hiding her fear in smile and a brother, ready to die for a limping motherland.