The World School

Imaan was in a world school… one of those so called international schools that were sprouting up every where, and giving Indian students the globally competitive edge, or making world citizens of them, I forget which. Any way, the classes were all air conditioned, and the teachers wore long skirts, and spoke impeccable English, some of them even managed a credible accent.

Imaan was in class 5; they called it something else though in school, the term was borrowed from an American private school, and believed to be more acceptable, naturally I will not bother mentioning it.

One of the truly ‘global’ aspects of the school was that it subscribed to several foreign newspapers… and every class had a ‘journal’ period in which choice bits of information were read out from these. These mostly consisted of the front page news, and on prescribed days, editorials.

During one such journal period, Miss Florence, Imaan’s class teacher was reading an article on contemporary American culture… when she read the title no one in class put up his hand to ask what ‘contemporary’ meant.

So she began, and the boys and girls followed. Her voice was nice.

She got through the first two paragraphs without a snag, and then slowed down a little.

See, Imaan was one of her favourite students. His homework was always complete, and his parents always attended PT meetings.

 The paragraph she was reading dealt with the impact of terrorism on American culture, from the cold war to present day, she choked a little, tried to skip the words entirely, then coughed them out… Islamic terrorism, and quickly carried on to the next section, hoping no one would see how red her face had got.

She glanced over the paper at Imaan. He was busy staring at the poster of a teddy bear behind her on the wall… she had not been caught, feeling less guilty she slowed down again, and finished the article with her usual poise.

Later that afternoon when all the children were going home, she called Imaan aside, ‘I hope you don’t mind what that article said, they don’t realize that all of them are not terrorists.”

Imaan made no reply.

That evening after the namaz, he asked his father, “Dad, what does terrorist mean?”

“Terrorist?” Mr. Khan was surprised, “Where did you come across that word?”

“Ma’am said it today.”

“Oh! Well it means people who do bad things, hurt people, who never did anything bad at all… just to show something to other people who are much stronger than them… sort of like bullying, only much worse, and stupider.” What else could he tell Imaan about terrorism? A lot, but why would he?

“Dad do you know any terrorists?”

“No of course not, they are the worst kind of people. I wish they were no terrorists.”

Imaan was happy with the answer, something else struck him… “Dad, whats Islamic?”

Mr. Khan laughed, and his smile lit up his whole face… “Son that means us, we are Islamic people, well not really, we are Muslims, but Islamic means anything related with the religion Islam and Prophet Mohammad…”

“That’s our religion, isn’t it?”

“Yes son.”

Imaan had dinner that evening, and went straight to bed. In their bed room his parents read for a while, then turned of the lights. Mr. Khan rolled over, and put his arms around his wife. She smiled…

Imaan did not realize what Islamic terrorism meant… how could he realize the connection between the five prayers he said with his father every day, and the Koran he was learning from a special tutor, and… the guns… and bombs that were being bought, manufactured, and set off in some dark corner of the world.

Ijaaz was desperate. He’d been hiding for over a fortnight now… there was no sign of the promised help… from man or God… where were they? He had food for maybe another two days, and hardly any ammunition.

The forests of the Kashmir valley had been his home for the last two years, and he’d learnt them down to every last pebble on the shores of the countless little brooks. He knew when they were disturbed and could tell what had disturbed them.

His rough woollen tunic tied at the waist had snagged on a branch and torn, so that he had to hold on the left flank, or it flapped, and let in the cold air. His hair was matted, and he had grown a stubble that made him look like one of the pictures that police officers have up behind their desks with wanted printed on the top. He was scared… very scared.

That evening he hid in a cave, it used to be a bear cave, but water had seeped in from some spring in its walls, the wet floor made it unsuited to bears and they had deserted it.

The spring formed a rill that he could not drink from, it was so shallow. He found the actual source of the water, and managed to cup his palms and catch a few sips. It was dark outside already… to dark to see anything. Inside the cave, Ijaaz could not tell if he was holding his hands in front of his face or straight out on his sides.

Near the spring he managed to find a spot of dry rock… not flat, but a better bed than he had become used to.

He thought back to before… his home, it was poor, but perhaps it was better? He could not say.

He remembered the many arguments he’d had with his friend, Sohail… Sohail was discontent… he did not like the fact that Kashmir was governed by foreigners sitting in Delhi, what right had they to decide how Kashmir lived, under whose rules… for whom?

He said Kashmir should be independent… and like Indian freedom fighters it was time for Kashmiri freedom fighters to fight for Kashmir…

Ijaaz had wanted to know, what was wrong with Kashmir… Sohail did not know… but his uncle did, he told Ijaaz to meet him…

Ijaaz had gone with Sohail to the uncle…

He was a slightly difficult man, Sohail told Ijaaz, he did not trust people easily, he’d have to get an appointment… somehow it was done… they were sitting in front of Sohail’s uncle on one of his rare visits to the city… he came to ‘open the eyes of the youth.’It was worth the risk he said, if even one followed him back. The two of them did not know the risk, or where they would follow him back to…

“Come in child,” Uncle said to Ijaaz… “So have you come to see the truth?”

“I don’t know…”

“No one does, not until the call comes… it can be scary… but when you realize that’s it’s your destiny calling, you’ll be so happy that nothing, not even death will be able to dampen your courage, because you’ll know its God’s will?”

“Gods will?”

“To do right is to do Gods will.” Uncle got up, and walked to the hearth; he poured out two cups of tea, and handed them to the children…

“Have you seen our country?” he asked…

“No uncle, I haven not left Srinagar yet.”

“It is in Srinagar that your country lives… son when you see the rest of it, you’ll realize for a fact what a terrible thing is happening. The truth is a heavy burden, and those of us who bear it, must, and will do something about it… this is our country, but it is being taken away from us… unholy corruption is creeping in… they are changing… too much is changing, too soon… we are becoming sinners, Kafirs… because we do not stand up to the challenge… we do not answer… but now we have decided enough is enough… I hear the screams of mothers, fathers, and sisters crying as they watch their boys killed… no slaughtered like so much cattle…”

The boys did not know what to say.

They did not know what he said… Uncle took their cups… and noticed the shock on their faces… he softened and smiled… “Youth, how I envy youth, and the womb of not knowing… ah! if only I could be like you… but that bliss does not compare to the glory that will be yours, if you choose… glory… glory of being Gods warriors, jihadis… do you know what a Jihadi is? He is a warrior ordained by God to protect the right path… to defend our lives… can you take that responsibility…” he was talking softly, easily… only on the last few syllables did his voice take on the intensity of oration…

The boys were awed… but he could not tell by what… he sat, watching them for a while…

“So what,” asked Ijaaz “is so wrong with Kashmir…?”

“I cant tell you that… you’ll have to see for yourself… so visit the houses of people who’ve lost everything, everything to this country- India, that we have no connection with, nor want any… one man, one pretender, one so called ruler, who is he to decide our fate… we will make it with out own hands… that is the offer you have, create your country… the Kashmir of our dreams. Peace, prosperity… hope, respect… that is what I offer you.”

The next week, on Monday after noon, Sohail and his uncle came to Ijaaz’s house. His parents received them, and sent for Ijaaz, who was in the barn…

“Son, Sohail and I are leaving to fulfill the promise we made to Kashmir, the second we drank of her milk, will you come with me?”

Ijaaz did not know what he was talking about.

“Remember, you asked me what was wrong with Kashmir, let me show you… come with me, you’ll see. And you’ll learn what you can do to save her.”

Ijaas did not come to a decision… they left. His parents asked him what was happening… he said, Sohail and his uncle were going somewhere, and they wanted him to go with them… he wanted to go.

His parents trusted Sohail’s family, and told him to decide for himself. He did not tell them everything, and had to take the decision, with its true gravity himself…

That evening after everyone was asleep; he sat on his door step, watching the moon. Sohail stepped out of the shadows…

“You have to come with me,” he said.

“I want to, but I can’t leave amma and abba just like this?”

“You can’t think of only your parents, what of your country, your people?”

“I don’t know?”

“You don’t know? Of course you don’t… you always want proof… fine, then just come with us… if you don’t believe what uncle shows you, then fine, come back… nothing will change…”

Out of curiosity, and the drive of youth, wise men call its folly, he let himself believe he could delay his final choice… the next morning he set out with them… still trying to fool himself that he was just looking.

Four weeks later, he arrived at training camp, convinced. Uncle had taken him through villages where hungry children ran by their horses, begging for food, while others, so weak that they could not move, pleaded with their eyes. He showed them houses burnt down; destroying life, human life, killing things people had given life to… for no reason at all. Ijaaz wanted to stop and help those people, share his food… but uncle said no. theirs was a different path, they were soldiers… (Ijaaz, had stopped pretending he had a choice…). They had to be strong… these people would bless them for not sharing their food now, because it would strengthen the arms that would fight for their release, and lift them from slavery to freedom.

Ijaaz wanted to help those people… his soul cried out to do something… and uncle promised him, he would have the chance to make the greatest sacrifice of all for his country. Ijaaz wanted to, he was ready…

They rode on.

Had he heard of Dadabhai Nairoji, he’d perhaps have suggested a press, but instead was trained to use a gun.

Two years later, things had gone completely wrong. He’d been sent to find an informer, in a village. Someone was being untrue to the faith. He was young and new, and so he’d not raise suspicion… he went forward.

He’d found the man easily enough. His blood boiled, he wanted to kill the traitor, the second he left the meeting with the army… his finger could hardly contain itself on the trigger, he was thirsty for that man’s blood. He followed him home… and waited for darkness. He crept to the house… silently, like a panther… his black combat outfit as black as the rest of the night. His movements stealthy like the Leopard… his prey did not know till it was too late.

He stood at the door, with his back to the door post… all he had to do was kick in the door and step in… and press the trigger… or… he could just set the whole shack on fire, he thought, his eyes resting on a tin of kerosene oil.

“No it will create to much Tamasha…” he waited… trying to listen to the directions of the voiced inside.

“Here angel.” Some one said, “You’ll be just fine… abba is here now, he’ll take care of you. I’ve got your medicine… soon you’ll be fine.”

A tiny voice coughed… and again… then it did not stop… the coughs seemed to be draining the very life out of the child… then in the respite between coughs, to catch her breath… Ijaaz heard another sound. The father was crying… crying…

He could almost see him holding his child tight, fearing the worst… crying to God, crying to anyone… these were the people he was to help… yet the child’s medicine came from someone else. From the enemy?

“I’m so cold, abba.”

“I’ll put more wood on the fire.” The father stepped outside, picked up a few pieces of roughly hacked wood, and took them back… he did not notice the shadow crouched near his door.

The shadow slunk away…

“I could not find him,” Ijaaz told his commander.

The next week the whole village was torched.

But, the army was too close… they had attacked the camp that night… and the men ran… with orders to meet up at another secret location, each one travelling alone.

Ijaaz had been on the track for a fortnight… and needed help… the help God gave to the right…

He was fighting for good, against terrorism… for his country and his people. He’d been born Muslim, he did not fight because he was… he fought because the land he loved was in trouble, eaten by cancer… he could see it everywhere… even in his soul.

He felt the guilt for the deaths of the villagers. They had been killed because… he’d tried to save two lives… and even those two lives should have been taken to spare the lives of his comrades and him… so that they could kill other men… these men too would kill… 

He did not understand… he was fighting for what was right… but something was wrong, beyond the scope of his understanding… he was now just drift wood being carried on a wave too powerful for him… and he needed to be fast, death was at his heels.

The cave was his last bed, the next morning he died… an Islamic terrorist… that did not know how the prayer he said five times, everyday, and the struggle for justice he was fighting was connected with the guns… and bombs… that were bought, manufactured and set off in some dark corner of the world.