Muzamil Jaleel

Unending Tryst With Death and Destruction

Reporting in Kashmir is anything if not adventurous. There is so much action that there is hardly a lean day for a lively reporter. It is said that the Valley is a news pasture and one can graze anywhere and come up with ideas for unique stories. Of course, continuous interaction with death and destruction provides the necessary thrill and, honestly said, is the staple fare of the media.

It was August 23, 1992. My first day in journalism. I was assigned to visit a city police station in Srinagar and collect information regarding some dead bodies lying there. I accompanied a few local photographers to the police station. Six bodies. The photographers clicked as I stared at the bullet-riddled bodies. It was very depressing to see so many corpses and that, too, in such terrible condition: blood soaked clothes, entrails exposed, faces unrecognisable. That evening, I could not eat my dinner. The picture of bodies lying in a pool of blood haunted me and even the colour of the water reminded me of blood. I couldn't sleep for days, corpses haunted my dreams.

But I was too innocent then to realise that this was just a prelude to an unending tryst with death, destruction and bloodshed. I'm half asleep, sipping my morning tea. The phone rings. It's my contact in the police control room. My mind is racing even as I'm beginning to scribble notes on a piece of paper. How many? Where? When? I call my photographer, come NOW! We're out of the house, on my bike, I'm riding like a mad man. We arrive to find wailing women, unshaved men sitting in huddles. The bodies lie scattered, like rag dolls discarded by careless children. I feel a lump growing in my throat, my legs feel heavy. I feel incredibly tired all of a sudden and want to throw my notebook and sit silently with those who mourn today. The photographer gets to work. I hear his shutter speed clicking. The noise invades my private thoughts and I am forced to remember. I have a story to do. I get going. I examine the bodies closely. Then I start asking questions, who? what time? witnesses?

Gradually I got used to not only witnessing such incidents but also writing about them. Violence here, violence there, violence everywhere, and for years, there is nothing else to write or think about in the Valley. If I avoid writing about the gory details of death, I would end up writing about orphans or widows. When violence rules the day, there is nothing else but tears to jerk out of the reader's soul.

Nothing describes better the scribes penchant for destruction like the image of vultures patiently awaiting death to befall the victim. If Nieztsche once in a fit of rage, compared the breed of journalists to crows alighting from a wire one by one to swoop down on a helpless victim. The killing fields of Kashmir conjure to the mind the most gluttonous birds of prey. In the evening, you cannot think of leaving the office without scanning through the police bulletin on the day's toll and other tidbits of violence. 'Situation Report', as we call it, is our daily bread and butter and the editor is most anxious about its fate.

My Tragedy as a Reporter

The definition of `News' that we had been taught in the classrooms has also changed. "Killing of a human being makes news because human life is precious.'' But the standard definition holds relevance only in part. In 1995, I remember a lead story we did, "No one killed in Valley today''. A lament on the part of the journalists echoed through the headline. Human life was not precious, but had considerable news value when lost, the more lives lost the better. Now, only massacres would make it to the front pages.

I had now become a regular witness to this unending dance of death and would get most satisfaction in penning them. As this had turned to be a routine for me, my reactions to such incidents were also changing. Now killings meant stories and by lines. And, the most disturbing aspect of it is that we reporters here always wait for such tragedies to happen, though unconsciously. Bijbehara, Sopore, Wandhama or Chapnari - all made front page stories and we always desire to be on page one.

A time came when I lost one of my close friends in the violence and felt ashamed as I couldn't react to his death normally. I couldn't cry despite wanting to. Tears had dried up in my eyes. The tragic death of my school friend could not move me as if it was one among the routine 20 deaths that day I saw in the police bulletin. I was unable to mourn the death of such a close friend. What has happened to me? Have I lost normal human feelings to the adventures of reporting day-to-day violence in Kashmir. Yes, I am now immune to death. I have developed the inability to mourn, I feel numbed. And I watch with horror my own excitement as I launch into a new story: 10 killed, 14 wounded - that is my tragedy as a reporter in the killing fields of Kashmir.

Muzamil Jaleel

Unending Tryst With Death and Destruction

Reporting in Kashmir is anything if not adventurous. There is so much action that there is hardly a lean day for a lively reporter. It is said that the Valley is a news pasture and one can graze anywhere and come up with ideas for unique stories. Of course, continuous interaction with death and destruction provides the necessary thrill and, honestly said, is the staple fare of the media.

It was August 23, 1992. My first day in journalism. I was assigned to visit a city police station in Srinagar and collect information regarding some dead bodies lying there. I accompanied a few local photographers to the police station. Six bodies. The photographers clicked as I stared at the bullet-riddled bodies. It was very depressing to see so many corpses and that, too, in such terrible condition: blood soaked clothes, entrails exposed, faces unrecognisable. That evening, I could not eat my dinner. The picture of bodies lying in a pool of blood haunted me and even the colour of the water reminded me of blood. I couldn't sleep for days, corpses haunted my dreams.

But I was too innocent then to realise that this was just a prelude to an unending tryst with death, destruction and bloodshed. I'm half asleep, sipping my morning tea. The phone rings. It's my contact in the police control room. My mind is racing even as I'm beginning to scribble notes on a piece of paper. How many? Where? When? I call my photographer, come NOW! We're out of the house, on my bike, I'm riding like a mad man. We arrive to find wailing women, unshaved men sitting in huddles. The bodies lie scattered, like rag dolls discarded by careless children. I feel a lump growing in my throat, my legs feel heavy. I feel incredibly tired all of a sudden and want to throw my notebook and sit silently with those who mourn today. The photographer gets to work. I hear his shutter speed clicking. The noise invades my private thoughts and I am forced to remember. I have a story to do. I get going. I examine the bodies closely. Then I start asking questions, who? what time? witnesses?

Gradually I got used to not only witnessing such incidents but also writing about them. Violence here, violence there, violence everywhere, and for years, there is nothing else to write or think about in the Valley. If I avoid writing about the gory details of death, I would end up writing about orphans or widows. When violence rules the day, there is nothing else but tears to jerk out of the reader's soul.

Nothing describes better the scribes penchant for destruction like the image of vultures patiently awaiting death to befall the victim. If Nieztsche once in a fit of rage, compared the breed of journalists to crows alighting from a wire one by one to swoop down on a helpless victim. The killing fields of Kashmir conjure to the mind the most gluttonous birds of prey. In the evening, you cannot think of leaving the office without scanning through the police bulletin on the day's toll and other tidbits of violence. 'Situation Report', as we call it, is our daily bread and butter and the editor is most anxious about its fate.

My Tragedy as a Reporter

The definition of `News' that we had been taught in the classrooms has also changed. "Killing of a human being makes news because human life is precious.'' But the standard definition holds relevance only in part. In 1995, I remember a lead story we did, "No one killed in Valley today''. A lament on the part of the journalists echoed through the headline. Human life was not precious, but had considerable news value when lost, the more lives lost the better. Now, only massacres would make it to the front pages.

I had now become a regular witness to this unending dance of death and would get most satisfaction in penning them. As this had turned to be a routine for me, my reactions to such incidents were also changing. Now killings meant stories and by lines. And, the most disturbing aspect of it is that we reporters here always wait for such tragedies to happen, though unconsciously. Bijbehara, Sopore, Wandhama or Chapnari - all made front page stories and we always desire to be on page one.

A time came when I lost one of my close friends in the violence and felt ashamed as I couldn't react to his death normally. I couldn't cry despite wanting to. Tears had dried up in my eyes. The tragic death of my school friend could not move me as if it was one among the routine 20 deaths that day I saw in the police bulletin. I was unable to mourn the death of such a close friend. What has happened to me? Have I lost normal human feelings to the adventures of reporting day-to-day violence in Kashmir. Yes, I am now immune to death. I have developed the inability to mourn, I feel numbed. And I watch with horror my own excitement as I launch into a new story: 10 killed, 14 wounded - that is my tragedy as a reporter in the killing fields of Kashmir.