Mothers on Air
Aug 28, 2017 · 15 min read

Voices of Mothers from Kashmir, India-3

This is the story of Zabia, who ignored the signs of change in her son. She knew something was wrong and thought she could fix it — she got him married. She presumed that the presence of a young woman in his life would keep him home. She did not realize that the brain washing that was taking place every day and the narrative that was being sold to her young son, was far more convincing than the love of a mother, wife, or daughter. Zabia lost her husband soon after her son became a militant. Her daughter- in –law went into a depression unable to take care of her child. Zabia shares with us her sufferings and what it is to lose a son and a husband.

Transliteration is as follows:

Disclaimer: You are listening to the programme: Initiating Peace-Mothers’ Voices

SMART is not responsible for any difference of opinion and arguments arising out of the opinions, thoughts or ideas expressed in this programme. Some names have been changed to protect the identity of people.

This programme is a compilation of the personal experiences of mothers. This is an effort to strengthen their desire for peace. Mothers in conflict areas get the most affected, families are broken and dispersed and many homes becomes desolate. Even avenues to raise one’s voice are very limited. SMART has provided a platform for mothers’ voices to reach out, so that they can share their feeling of oppression.

Programme- Initiating Peace- Mothers’ voice’s is a humble effort. In this programme, stories of mothers in India and Pakistan have been included. Distinct from the politics of both countries, the programme is presented from the viewpoint of a mother. This is the 30 episode of the series.

Anchor

Zabia is 70 years old. We reached herhouse in villageChadura, in Naamthai where she lives. Wrinkled face, dark circles under her eyes and a bent back. Her face bears dark shadows of the past, but her voice is firm. It was the beginning of winter and the sky was somewhat overcast. She waved us in, from the ante room near the staircase.

Her daughter-in-law led us to a small room through a narrow passage. The room had an exquisite carpet. To the left, stacked against the wall were a heap of mattresses and quilts. A few cushions were propped against the wall on a floor rug.

Perhaps our researcher had intimated them about our arrival. Asoon as we sat down, she offered us tea and put a bowl full of walnuts in front of us. She also gave us a blanket to tuck our feet into. Looking at her face, we felt a little awkward. Are we reopening her wounds?

How many times had she told her story? How much had she cried?

Had time healed her wounds a little over the years?

26 year old memories seem fresh even today…

Zabia-Artist Byte:

We were happy. A thriving family with four daughters and two sons. Walnut and apple orchards and a little agricultural land were our source of income. The boys used to be busy with their father on the orchards and fields and I would be busy with home and hearth. My son was married and we had a lovely daughter-in -law. Yes, it was springtime when my daughter-in-law gave birth to a daughter, our lovely doll like granddaughter, we called Gudiya. I used to be preoccupied with her all day long-giving her a massage, bathing her and singing lullabies to her at night. The baby was also attached to me and would go to her mother only at feeding time. My husband would often tease me that I was so into thebaby, it’s like I have even forgotten him! I would just smile and get back to playing with the baby. That year, Eid came in summer and my daughter in law went to visit her parents. My heart became sad. Without Gudiya, the house seemed forlorn. We were all missing her. Even the sweet seviyan of Eid tasted bland without her! That evening, my son got busy with some friends and came home very late, I asked him to fetch my daughter in law back, but he put me off. I began noticing a change in my son. He would leave the house without informing us and return very late. When we asked him, he would just spin some tale. Then one day, after a lot of persuasion by his father, he brought his wife and daughter home. As soon as they arrived, Gudiya just clung to me as though we were seeing each other after years!

But the household was not like before. A lot had changed. The atmosphere seemed tense. The son would return late, his wife would be waiting for him at dinner. She would be annoyed at his late coming, demand to know why he was late, but the son was evasive. On a daily basis, we could hear fights and arguments from their room and she would cry and say he was neglecting the baby. He would storm out of the room angrily. Her sobbing would keep us awake at night. She became very sad. Sometimes they wouldn’t talk and there would be just silence between them. Even my husband would wonder what was wrong with the boy, where he roamed around at night, who he met and what he did. He said that his heart was not in farming, and he seemed unmindful that he had a wife and child. So I suggested that we talk to the son, before it was too late.

My own efforts at talking to him came to naught when he simply snubbed me saying I did not know anything and should just stick to my household chores. He said I shouldn’t ask too many questions as I would understand nothing.

Try as I might, I can never forget that dark, sinister night. There was intermittent lightning and thunder and then sleet. I sat by the fireside, waiting for my son. The clock showed 12 midnight. There was a knock at the door and I got up to unlatch the door. There he was, my son, drenched from head to toe, shivering. Tears welled up in my eyes and I tried to draw him into an embrace, but he ignored me and started going in. I asked him, where he goes, who he meets and what he does, but he had only one answer-‘you won’t understand anything, mother’. So I said, okay, make me understand. You are all grown up now, wiser than your mother’. He announced that he had decided to fight to protect Islam. The infidels had caused it much harm. He would put his life on the line for the benefit of religion. I could not understand much of what he was saying. I felt he was tired and blabbering. But it was true. It was indeed these matters that he was debating late into the night and making plans with men of religion, non-country men.

Anchor

Date: 7 August, 1947. Monsoon arrived late that year. Amidst oppressive humidity and heat, India got Independence from British Rule. But it came at a huge cost. The country got split into two- India and Pakistan. The Eastern-Northern and Western belt of thecountry came to be Pakistan, where there was a greater Muslim population and Central Hindu majority area, India. There were nearly 500 princely states at the time, who had to choose any one country to align with. Geographic proximity and religion of majority population were being considered as the basis. But none of the kingdoms had the right to remain independent. The borders of Kashmir touched both India and Pakistan. The ruler Hari Singh was a Hindu and the majority of the population Muslim. The king was unable to decide whether he should be part of India or Pakistan. Somewhere, a dream of independent land was playing in his mind, an independent Kashmir. With support from Pakistan, the tribal warriors attached Kashmir. They advance towards Srinagar and started looting and killing non-Muslims. The king fled Srinagar and came to Jammu to save his own life. Eventually, in October 1947, the last king of Kashmir, Raja Hari Singh, signed the merger document with India. Indian Army pushed Pakistani fighters out of Srinagar. They cleared them out of Kashmir valley, but could not rid the entire kingdom of them. In 1948, once again the issues heated up. In spring, the Indian and Pakistani armies confronted each other. A ceasefire was affected through the intervention of United Nations. The kingdom got split into two- two-thirds came to India and one-third to Pakistan. But it is worth nothing that during the partition throughout the land there were massive riots between Hindus and Muslims. Lakhs of women and children were killed. Large scale migrations took place. Hindus and Sikhs from Pakistan came to India and Muslims from India went to Pakistan. But there were no religion induced riots in Kashmir. The valley maintained peace. The Hindu minority was around 3 lakhs. But by 1985 people began to divide along religious lines.

Zabia-Artist Byte:

I don’t know what was going on in people’s minds! The people my elder son used to meet began coming home. They would speak chaste Urdu, wear salwar-kameez, talk about killing and dying and talk about jihad. I would ask my husband about Jihad, but he did not know much either. We had just about heard the term. My son would offers Namaaz five times day, bring religious books and keep reading them. He advised his wife to wear the Hijab and would get annoyed if she did not follow this. He also ordered his sisters to be in purdah. He would coax me also to be in purdah. I couldn’t figure out how a person with a sufi temperament had changed so much. We were simple village folk, who had to work in their fields. We couldn’t possibly go everywhere in a purdah. It was not like we were royalty, with many servants- we had to do all the chores ourselves, like fetching water from the canal, washing clothes, tend to children and animals and so much else!

I used to have arguments with him regarding this, but he would just wield his own stick and was not willing to listen at all. My husband would intervene, mediate and say- he is young and hot-blooded, don’t confront him so much. If he takes any drastic steps, we will have only regrets for the rest of our life. His daughter is very small now. Slowly his family will grow and he will become more responsible, sort himself out and learn to stem his anger. But who can defy fate. One day, what I was always afraid of, befell us.

Like every other night, he came in late. I could hear whispers from his room and then the couple began quarrelling. I said, “Shut up for god’s sake- your daughter will wake up, the neighbours will mock you. Angrily, my son replied- I am the root cause of all troubles, and am good for nothing. So I will leave for good, and the household can be at peace”. Turned out that this wasn’t an empty threat! The early morning azaan- prayer call woke me up and I noticed the front door open. I called out to my son, but got no response. A little later, my daughter-in-law came out and said that he wasn’t in the room. My heart skipped a beat, I wondered where he was as he never went out that early. All kinds of bad thoughts besieged me as I wondered if he has done anything terrible. I ran to the Masjid. But the Morning Prayer was over and there was no one there. In any case, that early, hardly anyone went to the masjid-most people prayed at home. My husband searched every nook and corner of the village, spoke with his friends, but no knew anything. It was like the earth swallowed him or the sky gobbled him up! That day nothing stirred in the kitchen. We had all lost our appetites. My daughter- in- law was beside herself in grief and guilt, wishing that she hadn’t fought with him the previous night and he hadn’t walked off. I consoled her saying that Allah was watching everything and will set everything right. He was bad tempered, flared up easily and when his anger subsided, he would return.” If you stop eating, who will take care of your child? The lord will fix everything,”I said.

Weeks passed but brought and no news of him. Even my husband began to stay worried. We spent sleepless nights. Any little sound at the door and we would think he was back. But it was as if this heartlessguy had just forgotten us. Everyone in the house was in a bad shape. Each one just ate at designated times and tried to keep busy. Life had become mechanical. Only my granddaughter kept the place alive. Her innocence would make us forget our grief for a few beautiful moments.

Anchor

There was an air of sorrow in Zabia’s family. The eldest son of the family had gone astray. Turning away from realities of life, he was lost somewhere. But there is joy after sorrow and light after darkness.

Zabia-Artist Byte:

That day, my husband returned early. There was a glow on his face. Biting into a piece of bread, he said-the lord has answered our prayers. Our son is alive. My eyes teared up. I learnt that he was on the other side of the border, and joined some religious organisation. I wondered why he went there and why he did not inform us. I was beginning to get angry with him, how hard hearted he had become-did he not want to even see his little daughter? Then I thought, wherever he is, at least he is alive. A colleague of his, who had come from across the border had told my husband everything. He was getting arms training there. An army to wage jihad was getting ready. My husband did not know when, if ever he would come back. Anyway we were happy he was alive and waited for his return.

Anchor:

The long wait was over. Finally Zabia’s eldest son came back from across the border, after receiving training to wage jihad.

Zabia-Artist Byte:

A man entered our house, draped in a blanket. Oh! This is a piece of my heart. My son. He had grown a beard. Gudiya started crying loudly as she did not recognise her father. He looked thinner than before and the way he spoke changed too in just a few days. He was speaking chaste Urdu. I am not sure of what, but he was afraid of something. He would keep checking the door and windows, ensuring they were closed. I thought who would come to our house to waste his time and what will he find here- we were poor after all. But it was not robbers he was afraid of. Perhaps someone was watching him. He seemed to be in a strange dilemma, very troubled and upset. He would not look his wife in the eye. I was anguished thinking, why do somethingthat led to regrets later. But I did not press the issue, thinking my son has returned, all will be well- but that was just a longing of a mother’s heart. Life had something else in store for us. Mother’s love even ignored the gun strapped to his body.

He went inside the room to meet his wife. I could hear soft conversation. Suddenly my daughter-in-law threw out a packet, which had money in it. She was shouting now. “We don’t want this money. We are better off poor. What will we do with the money? You come back. Leave all this. This will have bad consequences. What will I tell our daughter? How will I answer her questions when she grows up….”?

But all the talking was one sided. The other side was silent. My son only said- it’s too late now. I have to go. Take care of yourself. He did not have the courage to look the daughter in the eye. He came and went away stealthily like a thief.

Anchor

Life is a strange puzzle. Some roads are easy and lead us to our destination. Some roads are one-way. There are no comebacks on these paths of no return. Zabia’s eldest son was lost on one such path. The same night, he left home once again. Death was waiting round the corner for him. A little distance from the house, near an old mosque there was a skirmish with security forces. Both sides opened fire. He was killed in the skirmish, leaving his family members bereaved and sobbing for ever.

Zabia-Artist Byte:

There was dense fog that morning. Even the nearby mountain peaks were not visible. A jeep stopped at our door step, bearing terrible news for us. They took my husband in the jeep. He had to identify his son. Three boys were killed, our son among them. He came back from the mortuary. The house was filled with relatives who had come to mourn. I do not remember much, except that my granddaughter was crying in the evening. Maybe she was hungry? I heated up some milk for her. She was a fond remembrance of my son. I had to live for her. But my husband did not have a mother’s resilience. He was completely broken. He had lost his will to live. He stopped going to the fields. He would just lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. He would hardly say much. It was difficult to watch his grieving face. I would sit by him with my granddaughter, but it was like he was not aware of us. One day, Allah heard his prayers. Leaving us steeped in tears, he left us to join his son. We buried him next to his son.

My daughter –in-law also fell silent. Her heart was not in anything. It was like she had to live with a shame. One could say he was a martyr but she knew the truth. She carried regret in her heart that she was not able to stop her husband. Like there was something lacking in her love for him.

As a mother, did I not bring him up well? He did what he wanted to do- but I should have prevailed on him more forcefully, Maybe his life would have been saved and he would be here with us today.

Anchor

For what fault of hers did Zabia’s son punish her? She keeps thinking she should not have kept quiet seeing her son’s changing habits. If she had stopped him right in the beginning, things would not have come this far. Things would not have spun out of control, if she had maintained openness in the environment of the house, kept a dialogue going and spoken to his friends. Perhaps she could have tried to understand her son’s views. She made a mistake thinking he will come to his senses on his own

Seeing her daughter-in-law’s face-sad, lost and stifled, she came to a decision to get her daughter-in-law remarried. Islam came is a progressive religion where women were given many rights. Six hundred years after Christ, Arabia before Prophet Mohammad, was divided into tribes. Fights and warfare were common. Idol worship was rampant. Women were bought and sold in the market place. At such a time, Mohammad laid the foundation for Islam. A new religion that granted all rights to women.

Zabia-Artist Byte:

My daughter-in-law is so young, God forbid that such a punishment is meted out to anyone. She did not want to leave me and remarry. Besides, she had a daughter, who she was very worried about. She worried about how a step father’s conduct would be towards her daughter. But my granddaughter is my life. You may have heard of the story of the magician whose soul was trapped in a parrot? So the story goes that a magician had imprisoned a princess. One day, Prince charming came and rescued the princess, but he had to kill the parrot first. But my princess will not suffer. I have taken her from my daughter-in-law for keeps. She is the last remembrance of my son. My daughter-in-aw agreed. I got her married in my house. She has now gone away with her husband, leaving Gudiya with me. I am grateful to her. Today, my granddaughter is with me, a reason for my existence.

Anchor

Zabia has lost much in her life, her husband, young son and her daughter-in-law. But she has the will to live; she is bringing up her granddaughter, like a mother. We wanted to ask her about the ideal relationship between a mother and child.

Zabia-Artist Byte:

I have had no brush with formal education. When I was a child, there was no school in my village. The boys used to go to the Maulvi sahib and receive religious instruction. Girls got into household chores. But my grandmother knew many stories. Those days, we used eat our dinner by sunset and I used to be with my grandmother after that. She would tell me all kinds of stories. I still remember some of those morals. Good begets good and bad deeds have bad consequences. I also taught my son the same. But he still went out of control. But now I am more watchful of my other children. I keep my eyes open. Children don’t pay attention to their parents. Times are a –changing. Earlier it used to take a whole day to get to the city from the village. Now it just takes two hours. Life is different now. Children don’t listen to stories anymore Instead they watch television and cartoons on it. There is no talk of the stars and moon, but of politics.

But that doesn’t mean parent’s can shirk their responsibilities. It’s the age of the Internet, with many influences and pulls from different directions. But it is necessary for a mother to keep a stern eye on her child. Children are the weakness of parents, but they also gain strength from their children. That is why; it is their responsibility to show them the right path. To do this, one doesn’t need an education or degrees. Just a mother’s heart is enough.

End VO

How did you like this programme. Please send us your thoughts and feedback via email. Our email id is mothersonair@gmail.com

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