4 a.m. Dawn. The time I wake up every day. It was a usual morning, until I heard arms fire and bombs. I waited for a while to understand the state of the valley; it dint take me any longer to sense war with the sound of heavy guns, four consecutive bomb blasts which trapped one of our posts at mountaintop.

Standing in my lobby that morning, I saw a changed picture of my valley. A layer of smoke had added a new flavour. The best I could do was to wait, but my mind was flickering as our village could have been captured too. Just then, I remembered the previous morning, and realised how different was it.

A day before, after fajr ki namaz I took a walk around the valley; from the bank of the river that comes from east, to the beautiful mountains covered with crops and herbs, to the dense wood forests, to the valley covered with green lands, to my home. Mornings are my favourite, as they take me to the beauty of the nature and into the lap of my family. Breakfast is the only meal when all of us are together, on one table.

The table occupying 10, was full of dishes; kulche with cholay which is favourite to all of us, tea, fresh fruits and firni. My wife cooks the best red rice firni. It’s her own recipe that we all cherish. Red rice has high market value but as we crop it ourselves, it’s as common as daily meal for us.

The best warm breakfast and a light conversation with my family was my source of energy for the whole day. Being a 65 year old, I never felt really old when I see my two sons their wives & 3 grandchildren and of course, my lovely life. After the meal, I headed for our rice fields in the mountain with my elder son. Near the evening, we were back in the valley.

Before going home we visited the weekly market near sarhad. I sat there chatting with some mates till late. The market is the most colourful treat of the valley. With shops selling fresh vegetable and herbs completely organic, with mates sitting over hookah near tea stall, with soldiers visiting us on duty, with young girls husking rice in one corner, with stalls offering hot kulche and much more; it appeared to be the most happening, yet organised fair.  After dinner, I slept early that night as usual.

When I recall my days, my life and my family; I see a satisfying picture before my eyes. But when I see my work, my valley and my people; I feel I could have done much better with my life. At a young age, I was interested in my state’s tourism and had even worked as a tourist volunteer. I had great love for the beauty of my valley and wished the other countries to experience and praise this beauty too.

So many times that I tried to actualise my idea of welcoming foreign tourists, at least from east in the valley with my fellows; I got failed every time. With time, I accepted the situation for our region, being a state of war, was never ready to take people from the other side. And this is the only thing that I knew I would regret when I die.

I stood there in my lobby for long, hearing those undesirable sounds of guns and blast and thinking about my whole life as the fear of death followed. I heard my wife calling me from behind. She asked me to get inside as we could be targeted. Although they dint come near our headquarters but armed people could never be trusted during a war.

I walked inside fast as the heavy arms gun were heard. I followed my wife as she walked back to our living room from the lobby crossing the drawing room, to reach the basement.

 This house was built by my abbu when I was fifteen. A perfect three-storied home, crafted with the finest wood of our forest. There lived the six of us- abbu, ammi, chaccha, chacchi, me and Riaz, chaccha’s son. I built the third storey later when my grandchildren were born. The basement was built when the wars became frequent near our valley. It was built my abbu when I was in my late twenties; it helped us survive during war. Nearly all the pakka houses constructed these thick walled basements during that time.

We were all sitting in the basement for hours as the firing and blast continued near the sarhad. The sounds became louder. We tried to assume what made them come this near to us, crossing several kilometres of sarhad. Thirty years had passed since they came this far last time. It had been thirty years that our family had loosened a bond. 

My wife was continuously praying for goodwill, bahus were pampering my grandsons as they were frightened by the sounds, my sons were talking about the possibilities that could occur next when I went to flashbacks of what had happened thirty years past.

Before these thirty years, we had a different relation with the east. Yes! Sarhad stood there even then, but people from the other side were allowed to visit this side, with security. They crossed to our side mainly to visit peer dargah, to visit markets and to meet there closed ones who were once their neighbours; not the neighbouring country but neighbouring house. Even with the line that was dividing us, we shared reunion often this way. These visits from east had inspired my idea of foreign tourism coming to our side.

This was the time chaccha had taken a leap to the east when he got a job in a pharmaceutical industry. Abbu never opposed his decision to move to the other side as chaccha was passionate about his career and this often visits from east gave us chances to reunite. But one war changed our fate for once and for all. One war and we were forbidden to see our family. One war took away Abbu’s peace as he died in regrets of not meeting his brother and the same war killed my hope to be brothers, with the other side.

10 a.m. Morning. Our life resumed as the sounds stopped and they returned to their side. Later, on the news, we heard that they were soldiers from east who were taking the call on militants of our side. The next few days went in fear of wars, hatred, blames on both ends.

But for me, it was a hope. I was hoping for a positive change after this war. From that day till date, my prayers recited the same:

Bless us with love. May this war end the hatred between the two pieces of land, may this war break the silence between both sides, and may they rejoice the bond they shared once when they were following your path. I apologise for being selfish my Lord, as I am hoping this war would erase the line of control and let me meet my childhood friend, my brother on the other side: Riaz.

Youth. That day, when my senses woke up into a new morning, I saw a gloomy picture of myself in the mirror. My eyes had swelled from crying the whole night. I had a real bad sleep, flipping here and there, thinking and rethinking the same thought; thinking of the possibilities that could occur if I too did something valuable for my town like he did.

I kept the unwelcomed thoughts aside and quickly dressed up, as I heard continuous hymns of people. I stepped out of my home and encountered a crowd, a real crowd. The road was full of people walking with mourns and tears, with the same anger that I was feeling right then. I joined them and headed towards the square to salute his efforts, to raise a voice against his killing and mainly to take a step that had kept my mind shrinking from the time he was gone.

Security officer. All these years, serving in the town as a government servant, I had faced a lot of protests, strikes and what not. But no difficulty can ever be comparable to the one of that morning; because fighting an armed enemy is way easier than controlling an armless mob. From the previous night, we were prepared that the next morning would be challenging for us.

As soon as I woke up, I prayed to God for strength to fight the situation that was to come next. I wore my uniform and stepped out for my workplace early. We were all ready with our arm guns, rifles and armour to control all the anger of the town. A day before, looking at the mob, a thought hit me badly. A directionless youth of this country, a militant who was killed in encounter, was receiving mourns of two lakh people, was rewarded with gun salute and was becoming history in the name of bravery for a huge number of people; things I was never going to get even after serving the town... all these years.

Militant. From the last three years, the time I pledged to fight for our people and our rights; I had an inspiration from an unconventional courage and a brilliant mind. Being our leader in such a young age, he had commanded and delivered actions that can never be thought without him. He had generated a flame in our hearts and minds that was burning high inside us from that day when we were biding him to God and would be burning for the rest of our lives to serve our purpose of living.

That morning was a sleepless, yet awakening one for most of the younger ones of our town. While we tribute our leader for his sacrifice, I saw people and more people all over my sight praying for our hero. I was sad that he left us that soon. It wasn’t his time to go. I promised him there at his coffin not to rescue his murders. At the same time, I was relieved to find people showing anger for the same. He had served his purpose then and there.

Civilain. Surviving in this town had always been tough. But that day captured all of us to a frame where many of us didn’t belong. I was born and brought up here with curfews, protests, attacks, strikes, shutdowns and killings. Everything till that day had maintained a distance from me. But that day, when I saw people coming out on roads, when I saw a fellow civilian setting a vehicle on fire, I knew that it was going to trap all of us.

My exams were rescheduled; I couldn’t move out of my house due to the protest. At the same time, I couldn’t sit at home and watch the show. It was my town, my neighbourhood and my freedom that was on stake, from the time I was born till date. I had to at least participate with the ones who were fighting.

Media. For the last few days, I felt the way dead people must be feeling; like how it would feel to release your body and be invisible. I was there, I knew everything, I had the rights to say, I could speak up, but there was no one to listen. That day, when he had been killed, I reached the spot with my team to cover the whole incident. I couldn’t see the killing, but I witnessed everything afterwards. From more than two lakh people mourning for a late twenty two years old militant, to the never ending protest between the armless civilian and the armed security.

By the time he was killed, mobile internet, telephone services, newspapers, media was pulled off air. More than twenty five days of our work was hampered. The curfew implemented in the entire district, got removed and was imposed again. The civilians protested against the killing by stone pelting, strikes and setting buildings & vehicles on fire. The police and armed forces defended by the pellet guns, teargases and rifles. The government bodies asked civilians to keep calm. With the death poll rising from two to eighty five and thousands of civilians getting injured every day, I stood there, in a total blackout.

Youth. The path of sacrifice had never been easy and I guessed that to be the reason of all my second thoughts. But days went by and the gloomed picture got stinks of hatred. Public safety act- they called it. Public, we, our town, had been victims of the inhumanity. One from the public was that aged man in my neighbourhood who lost his eyes due to buckshot. One from the public was that five year old girl who got wounded from pellet shot. And one from the public was him, who lost his life fighting for this public.

Public safety act- they called it. Then who was safe in that entire chaos? And what we even meant for them? Nothing. Not the public but the district that they were protecting or authorising, not the public but the beauty of our state was their interest, and with this, all my second thoughts were gone. I pledged to serve- the way he did. At last, I did clear the picture.

Security officer. But then I thought. It wasn’t my job to sit and think about public reactions, about the media allegations or the political accusations. My job was to kill any type of nuisance in the town. I was pretty much doing that on my part or at least was trying to do to the fullest without caring about my whole life, my family and my home.

I waved the emotions and remembered the pledge of my service. I pulled my gun on, took my armour and started controlling the mob. The nation needed an action. The town needed a reaction. So, all I did was to keep going. My work had to go on.

Militant. All I had to do was to keep his work going and punish the enemies. My courage boosted when our youth valued his sacrifice and joined us in huge number. We, together, had fought against the armed forces and we still were fighting. They would be defeated and would move out of our state to the place they belong, to their country.

Our God was blessing us with exposing other brains towards our thoughts. Our commander had now created a revolution- sacrificing his life in the path of freedom. And our people were protesting with us against the outsiders for our rights. There was no one to stop us now. We all united to serve our purpose. I could now sense freedom coming in the air of the town.

Civilain. I finally decided what to do and joined the mob. But! There, I stuck. I stood there paused. What I could see around me was war. I stood out to speak but no one was actually saying or listening. We were shouting. And when one of us set a police station on fire, the officers in uniforms were right after us. I ran. I ran fast for my life. All these years that had passed in militarization- I knew one thing that, the officers- they would never listen.

I ran long till I reached the bank of the river. I stopped, turned back to see the uniforms. I swallowed my own breathe and jumped into the river. I stayed there for long waiting for the security forces to clear by. After a while, I dared to swim upwards to the bank. I found no one. There was no one in uniform. I sighed in relief, and as I was walking towards the town, I noticed my reflection in river. But wait! It was not moving with me. It was floating. Yes! My body, it seemed dead.

Media. When I looked for conclusion, my pen dropped no ink. It’s hard to find who was wrong and where. Breaking the law and being a rebel to your country was wrong but inhumanity could never be an answer for that. There would always be a source that set fire; it would be as tiny as a matchstick or as big as bomb blast.

Why we needed to punish the civilian to safeguard them and why civilians had to fight security to end an ongoing war? Who gave us the right to act inhuman to regulate the law and order and why? Who decided our purpose of living? And who was the first, who thought violence would be a way to put things right?