Memory is a collective ocean

With the morning cold gradually fading, my wife Gyurmed and I wait impatiently in front of the US Immigration Office in California. Conversations and occasional laughter become louder as more excited applicants and their families arrive. Children are running around, unaware of the importance of this day for their parents. "Cuidado hijo!" a Mexican woman yells at her son, when he runs too close to the road. The old Indian couple behind Gyurmed move to sit on a roadside bench while their daughter holds their place in line. Every passing moment brings me tantalisingly closer to my destination. Today I, Temur Baghdur, will become a citizen of the United States of America..I run a business in Los Angeles. But my roots are in Baltistan, a remote corner of Kashmir where stark, jagged Himalayan mountains tower over cold green glacial rivers. Part of Ladakh province until 1948, today Baltistan is under Pakistani occupation. Seven years ago, I was forced into exile after being tortured for sedition..I owe my ideological upbringing to my father, Haji Ata Baghdur. Our house was the rendezvous point for my father's friends, who would debate national issues while smoking chu-chilam and drinking gurgur cha. As a boy, I used to lean against the closed door and eavesdrop on their hushed conversations. From these visits, I came to know that Uncle Hincho's elder brother, Ka Tughral, was stranded across the frontier in Leh. After forty years of separation, Uncle Hincho now wanted to meet Ka Tughral before it was too late. For thousands of aging people like Uncle Hincho, that hope was fast waning, as the Pakistan government categorically refused to open the Ladakh-Baltistan border, even on a humanitarian basis..Uncle Skarma talked about his days as a youth at Aligarh Muslim University. The famous Ghalib tea stall, in front of the Jama Masjid, was a gathering place for all of the young scholars. There they sipped milk tea and challenged each other with poetic verse. And then there were Uncle Hamza and Uncle Gholmad, reminiscing about their trading trips to Simla and Purang. They spoke of travelling with dzo caravans for several arduous months over snowy mountains to trade turquoise, dzi beads and pashmina wool for salt, bricks of tea and silver. All these memories kept my father's heart young and full of hope at seeing his land regain its former glory by reuniting with Ladakh. The conversations provided fuel for my passion for Baltistan as well, and for its destiny as a nation.. Often, these get-togethers became lively, when Ata would sing classical rgyal-xlu songs as his friends clapped along. On such occasions, Uncle Gholmad strummed the stringed gyusmang, while Uncle Madu played merry tunes with the ngyis-xling flute. Then, Uncle Skarma would narrate the epic of the Balti hero Gesar of Ling, which enthrals me to this day. Uncle Skarma recounted his adventures often, never missing a detail, and I always followed every turn in the stories, entranced. When Ata talked about our rich civilisation, I would become lost in a whirl of history. Eyes ablaze, I interrupted him often, to get every detail. His patriotism was a burning ember, which created a roaring flame in my heart.. Trang Mizde Growing up, I wanted to be a doctor. But while my parents praised my high ambitions, they could not afford the tuition for medical school. When I finished my initial studies, my father sold a portion of our farmland in Shigar and paid for a nursing course. A year later, I graduated and found work at Shigar Hospital. The fact that many preferred me over other nurses to tend to their ailing relatives made my mother, Amo Fatima, very proud. However, my modest salary failed to meet our financial needs, and we continued to struggle day to day.. It was not only my family that laboured under financial distress. Everywhere around us, signs of societal deterioration grew. Street beggars swarmed Skardu, a sight unseen previously. Drug use had become rampant among the jobless youth. Meanwhile, visiting relatives from abroad bragged about the rights and facilities that they enjoyed. Hearing their stories, I grew envious. On television, when I saw neatly dressed American children playing on well-manicured school grounds, my heart leapt at the idea of a similar life for my future children.. Baltistan remained far behind the standards even of Pakistan, and its social stagnation appalled me. We were not considered citizens, and thereby were deprived even of basic rights such as suffrage and access to the judicial system. Schools were forbidden from teaching about the native language and culture. Our land was used as a garrison by the military. Alarmingly high illiteracy, rampant unemployment, closure of historical trade routes with India and endemic sectarian carnage brought economic hardships, while the society as a whole suffered wilful neglect with every passing regime.. While many accepted this state of affairs, other voices were rising in moral outrage. The sense of injustice was greatest among the educated youth. In small gatherings, many urgently spoke of the need for organisation and action. The collective anger of both elders and youth eventually helped launch Trang Mizde, the Party of the Righteous Community. The party was founded on the 60th anniversary of Baltistan's partition from Ladakh. My passion and conviction for social justice promptly compelled me to join, and I volunteered my house as the headquarters of the Shigar chapter. This inevitably added to the anxieties of Amo Fatima, who wanted me to marry and settle down. On the other hand, Ata was pleased that I had become active in local political circles.. Jittery with fear and exhilaration, we held meetings with community members late into the nights. On occasion, we invited political strategists to teach party members about the UN Charter for Minority Rights. Even as we were learning how to organise and expand the party, our biggest challenge remained sifting fact from fiction, and unravelling historical myths generated over the years in the state media and schoolbooks. We started a weekly magazine called Phayuli Spera, or Talk of the Fatherland. We exposed the fact that Islamabad imprisoned and tortured Gilgiti freedom fighters who had protested the 1948 annexation. We also informed our readers that UN resolutions actually demand that the Pakistan Army withdraw from Gilgit and Baltistan.. At Trang Mizde's first public rally, Rangtsen Khor (Independence Square) was decorated with party flags and banners. A loudspeaker broadcasted zhung-xlu, our national songs, and party workers distributed pamphlets and tapes of our manifesto. Everyone wore badges with the party emblem – the yungdrung, or swastika, the sign of prosperity. Party members dressed in Balti ankle-length jackets, gonchas and embroidered boots, lhams.. Prominent political activists from Muzaffarabad and Gilgit were invited. Sode Ali Rmakpon, an activist from Gangche District, stressed the locals' right to represent Baltistan during talks over Kashmir, and condemned the regime for instating proxy representation. He demanded equal rights for all the ethnic groups of Jammu & Kashmir, and self-rule for Baltistan. Shaking the party manifesto in the air, he said, "With the continuing turmoil in Pakistan, we must seek the support of international institutions to win the battle for our rights!" Wang Nasir Yabgo, Baltistan's first economist, underlined the need for literacy and sustainable infrastructure development, to balance traditional and modern needs. Another local intellectual, Dr Fizza Tenzin, stressed the need to focus on gender equality within the party, and to mobilise educated women. At the end of the day, five chapters of Trang Mizde were formed, each comprising of teachers, lawyers, students, journalists and artists.. We established informal dialogue with all the stakeholders of J & K, and opened communications with the international media. But the authorities feared our growing popularity, and created numerous hurdles for us. The state-run media censored our messages, and we faced baton charges and arrest by the police at public gatherings. As tensions built, political rivals and pro-government groups took advantage of the situation, and instigated intelligence agents to attack my house and to threaten to kill me.. The authorities continued a campaign of harassment, but we refused to keep silent. Three months later, however, an incident took place that completely changed my world, as well as the scope of our struggle. On Pakistan's Independence Day, we staged a hunger strike in front of Ali Xan Anchan College to protest Pakistan's refusal to open the Baltistan-Ladakh road. Many groups joined forces with us, including the Jammu & Kashmir Lawyers Forum, the Ladakh Baltistan National Congress and the Gilgit Baltistan Democratic League. I had just settled down to join the strike when the sound of police sirens rang across the valley.. Etched with anxiety and fear "Where is Temur?" a commanding shout gripped our attention. Suddenly, fifty policemen pounced on 12 of us and tossed us in a jeep. Blindfolded, they took us to what later turned out to be a torture cell run by the ISI, the Pakistani intelligence services. While accusing Hassan Shesrab, a Balti teacher from the Nepal Bon Institute, of anti-state activities, they ripped out his toenails. I could hear his screams echoing throughout the cell. Rustam Stakpa was interrogated while being repeatedly dunked into freezing water. The weight of heavy concrete blocks caused fractures in the feet of Lobsang Mehdi, an activist from the Ladakh Baltistan National Congress. They forced us to stand on ice slabs until hypothermia and frostbite ensued. Torture and repeated blows to the head caused me to lose much of my hearing.. Sometimes, my mind had to leave my body to survive. On those occasions, I took refuge in the poems of Jafar Gergan. "Memory is a collective ocean that time cannot erase," read one, . As wisdom filters through the sands of the glorious past It carries the answers for me, too. Guilt consumes me and I seek reprieve I am an exile in search of what I lost Count me among those who cannot dismiss the past . But happy are those without remorse I envy their retreat so deep into their worlds that little else matters A miracle may shake them from the daze in which they lay engulfed . And miserable are those who suffer helplessly A fire burns within their chest but not strong enough to ignite passion Only the soul is consumed by sorrow leaving them dead inside . Ah! The decaying society and the fading culture Traditions lost and dying before our eyes Ever I remain in search of my identity . During my time in prison, many party workers wrote encouraging letters, which gave me strength to carry on. I did not receive many visitors. Ata successfully managed to keep Amo Fatima from visiting; we knew that she would be unable to see me in such a state. Instead, Ata came alone, his cheery tones ringing a false note against the cold walls of the prison. One day, he shared photos and old handwritten letters with me. In a black-and-white photo taken in Simla, he wore a checked shirt with matching gonchas. In another picture, he stood outside an imambarga congregation hall, holding hands with Uncle Kalbi. They looked happy and content in a way that I had not seen in a very long time. Today, Balti faces are constantly etched with anxiety and fear.. After six months, the authorities released us. While many considered me a hero, for some I had become a black sheep. Indeed, an intense blame-the-victim attitude met us in many places. I lost my job at the hospital. The authorities confiscated Shesrab's passport before he could leave for Nepal. Without a judicial system, we could not appeal our case in court. Publication of the Phayuli Spera was banned. Instead, party members convened at street-corner meetings to distribute fliers describing the torture, our innocence and the failure of the authorities to charge us.. A few weeks later, workers gathered at my house to prepare placards and party flags to use to protest the continued presence of militants in Gilgit and Baltistan. At the meeting, some members said we should abandon the movement, as people were too frightened to confront the regime. The room was taut with tension, as many realised the high stakes. They feared the direct involvement of ISI officials in local affairs, and predicted more detentions and torture. Frustrated, Kalon Brakmayur Ali said, "I do not know if our people are apathetic about political rights or whether they want them but fear suppression. They seem to desperately hide their unhappiness, opting for moral hibernation and turning off their consciousness even as human-rights violations continue. In the end, we are all poisoned by water from the same well of oppression, illiteracy and poverty." Jafar Gergan, disappointed with the lack of unity, noted, "Sometimes pain moves our people to raise their voices with us, but they quickly revert to cautious pessimism. With no real sense of political direction, we await a messiah to liberate us from misery.". Seeing me disheartened, one day my father took me for tea in the chakhang. There, he said, "I feel things will not improve in Pakistan. We live empty lives bereft of belief in our capabilities. Many fail to acknowledge this, only living each day as it comes. Spiritual poverty is worse than death. Yes, nobody starves but all feel psychologically crushed. Therefore, son, you must leave and continue the struggle from abroad." Changez, a friend of mine who had settled in the America, likewise told me, "In the USA, you will be able to internationalise Baltistan's plight." Despite these righteous exhortations, in making the decision to leave my fatherland I was filled with trepidation. With help from Changez, I was able to get a humanitarian visa, and I prepared to leave all that I knew and loved for an unknown land.. Acclimation In the coming days, Amo Fatima spent all of her time on her prayer mat, praying feverishly for my safety and early return. Odzer, my sister, stuffed my luggage with dried apricots, mulberries and zderchung biscuits. Ata bade me farewell with a particularly heavy heart. To help me feel comfortable in my new country, upon my arrival in Los Angeles, Changez introduced me to Balti and Ladakhi families. With delight, they accepted gifts of ose-pharing fruits and kurkum, dried saffron. In turn, they cooked delicious marzan and srub-thsodma for me. During my first few weeks in the US, I visited art galleries and museums, or roamed the streets looking at the high-rise buildings. I was filled with awe at the luxury I saw as well as the diversity of people I met.. The cultural shock was overwhelming, but the company of friends helped me to settle down. As I looked for work, Changez suggested that I continue in the medical field. So, while working at a restaurant at night, I enrolled in a pharmacy school. There I met Gyurmed, whose parents had immigrated from Gangche when she was still a child. Gyurmed was educated, well poised and took pride in her roots the same way I did. We had heated discussions on national issues, and helped each other fan the flames of hope. While she tutored me in English, I helped her perfect the subtle inflections of Balti. She joined Trang Mizde as a member of the central executive committee from the US. God eventually sealed our compatibility into an everlasting relationship by uniting us as husband and wife. After finishing college, we opened our own pharmacy in Los Angeles and named it Rangyul Smankhang, the Pharmacy of Our Homeland.. While it was exhilarating to start a new life, I could not help but remember Ata's words as we parted at the bus station. With sombre eyes, he had said, "I do not have enough strength to start over again. But, my son, you must not let the voice of truth die. It is not a sin to aspire to a life of dignity. I want you to understand what we owe to our land; to look clearly at the wounds that history has inflicted upon it. It is no longer sufficient to cover our ears and eyes." With these exhortations ringing in my ears, after long hours at the pharmacy I would stay up late writing to a network of party members. One day, a package arrived from Professor Rinchen Nargis. It contained a videotape showing 3000 supporters marching from Kharmang District to the Line of Control to demand the opening of the Ladakh road. At the border, they laid flower bouquets and waved white flags, affirming their vision of peace. The event was reassuring that the movement had indeed grown with the passage of time.. In the letter, Professor Nargis wrote of watching kang-polo, a traditional Balti sport, at Gesar Stadium with some college students. It was reminiscent of a time when we both had watched children practicing daphang, the national sport of archery. With a deep smile on her face, she had said, "These students hold the key to the emancipation of Baltistan. They have an important role to play on history's stage. As the carefree glow of youth wears away, the reality of their plight will settle in." After a pause, she continued: "They must not give up just because history has committed an outrage against them. They must learn about their rights and fight for their fatherland.". My father's vision Steadily, I worked towards my dream. We registered Trang Mizde with the UN Minority Commission, and won the support of key international donors. I organised a trip to the US for several of our party members, and their meeting with various think tanks strengthened our stance on the Kashmir issue. On one occasion, Dr Fizza Tenzin was the guest speaker at a university. With colourful silk khataks draped over her shoulders, she gracefully walked to the dais in front of hundreds of Kashmiris and said, "When Baltistan was annexed, people had high hopes for equality and freedom. But from the beginning, that hope was crushed by a repressive regime. The illusion that merging with Pakistan would glorify our lives and create wonders has faded like fog. Now, we must stop marching behind those who would lead us astray.". The UN Minority Commission invited one of our members, Advocate Kumail Ahmed Jangjungpa, to testify about the religious persecution of the Balti people. After narrating the details of the Shia massacres of 1988, 1992 and 2005, he said, "Before the Partition of India, Shias and Sunnis co-existed peacefully. Even the non-Muslim Dogra government of Baltistan venerated Muharram proceedings." Jangjungpa presented a picture of Baltistan that seems unreal today. Many like him believe that life in pre-Partition India was preferable to what exists today. In presenting such views, Jangjungpa demanded political engagement from the new generation and a break from Pakistan.. During the US stay, Trang Mizde members attended the Muharram procession in Los Angeles, along with thousands of other Muslims. Notable Indian scholars such as Maulana Mirza Athar and Maulana Kalbe Sadiq addressed the congregation. At a time when Pakistan was rife with sectarian skirmishes, it was heartening to see peace and freedom of religion in a non-Muslim country. The interaction by the delegates with people of diverse cultures broadened our spiritual horizon, while visits to think tanks enhanced political vision. Through conferences we updated hundreds of journalists and political activists about Baltistan. They expressed shock that an Islamic country was responsible for heinous religious oppression of fellow Muslims. In this way, I believe we successfully internationalised the cause that my father had envisioned years ago.. Engrossed in these thoughts, I heard my name being called for the immigration interview. A native of a disputed region with no country to call home, I reassured the immigration officer of the importance that US citizenship held for me. Later, my fellow new Americans and I together took an oath of allegiance, and the city's mayor congratulated each one of us individually. Today, the right I was denied for 36 years by Pakistan was finally bestowed on me by another country entirely.. All these years, with every breath I took, I longed for Baltistan. Now, as an American citizen, I wanted to share the exposure to freedom and democracy with my fellow Baltis. As Bertolt Brecht says, "Were a wind to arise I could put up a sail; were there no sail I would make one of canvas and sticks." Thus far, I have refused to be terrorised into silence or to accept permanent insignificance as my fate. My life is meaningless if I stop following my conscience. Names, dates and details of events in this story are entirely fictional.. ~ M Hussanan was born in Baltistan, and currently resides in the US.