Srinagar, India // Every morning, residents of Habba Kadal wake up to the wrong end of a rifle. Since the sprawling Srinagar neighbourhood was identified as a flashpoint for Kashmiri militancy in the early 1990s, Indian security forces have kept an unflinching eye on it. With the state capital of Jammu and Kashmir in its most restive mood in more than a decade, and hundreds of thousands of separatists taking to the streets, such predominantly Muslim neighbourhoods as Habba Kadal are squarely in the military's crosshairs.
There are few places in the current conflict in Kashmir where the divide is so clearly defined. On one side, there is a small mosque, where families offer their daily prayers. Beyond, there is a nest of winding alleys, brimming with modest, multi-hued houses of stone and wood. On the other side stand scores of soldiers, day and night, while a gunner trains his long rifle on the neighbourhood from behind a steel mesh bubble. In the background, a Hindu temple serves as a command centre, dedicated exclusively to the neighbourhood.
Between each faction, a narrow street runs like a scar that refuses to heal. On Friday that old wound was reopened by a pair of 15-year-old boys. Residents peered out their windows to see police beating the neighbourhood teenagers. "People came out of their homes to protest," Mohamad Sultan recalled. "We had no weapons. Not even stones." The atmosphere calmed when both sides receded to their respective positions, but later in the day, more heavy vehicles pulled up and officers of the Central Reserve Police Force tumbled out.
"They fired straight ahead, down the streets," recalled Mustahq Pandte, a taxi driver who lived in the neighbourhood. In the ensuing chaos, dozens of fleeing residents lost their shoes. Many of them remained unclaimed for days, piled up on the side of a street. In all, 32 residents were injured in the mêlée - adding to a rising toll of more than 600 victims across the state in the past week, including about 30 dead.
A local TV channel aired its own footage of the incident - one that is likely to fan the flames of mutual distrust. On the tape, local policemen are seen urging Central Reserve officers to hold their fire. Then an armoured vehicle moves in and begins shooting into the crowd. Police officials were unavailable for comment, but a spokesman spoke briefly the next day. "Only two people have been reported to have sustained bullet injuries, both of whom are out of danger," he said. "The rest of the injured sustained injuries from the baton charge and tear gas shelling."
A police officer from the northeastern state of Bihar, standing at the scene with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, put it a little more bluntly. "If they misbehave," he said, "I will do my duty." Mr Pandte, the taxi driver, had to drive many of the injured to a hospital, running a dangerous gauntlet from the neighbourhood. "I had 10 people back there," he said. His van bears its own wounds, as police batons cracked the windscreen and shattered the rear windows. Even when police are not on the move, living at gunpoint has bred a palpable sense of insecurity. "They have a mind to kill us because we are Muslims," said Mr Sultan, who was born here. Adding to the frustration, residents feel they have done little to earn what amounts to neighbourhood arrest. Worse, they complain, the media are too timid to tread inside the Muslim-dominated neighbourhood. For decades, little ink has been spilt about their efforts to have the police detachment removed. Only, residents say, their blood. "Now they are adding more concrete and are expanding it," Mr Sultan grumbled, referring to increased fortifications of the militarised temple. "It is hell," he added. "I am sultan, but I am not king here. We are living under a cloud of occupation." Breaking that occupation, from the neighbourhood to the Kashmir Valley itself, Mr Sultan maintained, is at the heart of the recent separatist surge. "Our God is protecting us from everything," he said. "Inshallah, if we are left alone, we can do anything." Two days after the clash, it appeared the same scene was playing out in the same neighbourhood. Police vehicles pulled up in front of the bunker. Suddenly, the small patch of street was bristling with heavily armed Central Reserve officers clearing the streets. The inspector general of police, S M Sahai, was visiting the scene of the raid. The khaki-clad officer emerged from a Hindustan Ambassador, gave a stern glance at the small crowd across the street and exchanged a few words with senior officers. A gathering of local people seized the opportunity, crossing the street to call out to Mr Sahai through a line of police. They renewed demands to have the bunker removed, or, at least, the barbed wire pulled back from several points. They also wanted to draw Mr Sahai's attention to the shattered windows and damaged cars. "There was a reason for that," Mr Sahai replied. "You were not co-operating with security forces." The conversation ended abruptly as the inspector general returned to his waiting car, flanked by officers, and rumbled out of the neighbourhood. "He just gave his orders and went," said one resident, Omer Hussain Wada, expressing an all-too familiar frustration. @email:ccotroneo@thenational.ae
