Behold, I Shine

 [Q: How do you review a book which taught you so much?

A: You don’t even try.]

“It is often assumed that the women of Kashmir have not suffered the brunt of direct violence as much as the men there have done. But is that really true? Or is the scale of their suffering underestimated because it is difficult to access women’s stories? Also, what of the indirect violence that has been inflicted on them- shouldn’t that be accounted for?”

Freny Manecksha’s “Behold, I Shine” attempts to document the voices and narratives of the women and children of Kashmir. She examines the ongoing conflict in Kashmir through the gender-sensitive lens, and through stories attempts to answer questions like- has militarization hardened existing patriarchal structures, how do notions of security interact with the patriarchal belief that the rights of a girl child are less than those of the boy, how do young women cope with the overwhelming restrictions in the Valley, how women who are victims of sexual violence also need to deal with the reactions of society, are women in Kashmir supressing their fight for gender rights because of the larger fight for azadi. With sensitivity and grace, Manecksha examines each of these issues, and more.

There is an overwhelming number of “half widows” in Kashmir- women who’s husbands have “disappeared”, and they do not know if he is still alive or dead. Not only is the “half widow” left in an emotional limbo of not knowing what happened, she is forced to fend for her family financially. More importantly, she is often required to negotiate the spaces between her natal and marital family, neither of which wants to acknowledge her agency. Her quest for justice can only continue after overcoming all those other factors that seek to derail it, and the quest itself opens her up to further vulnerability.

The book examines how a woman’s body is converted into a battlefield. Of how victims of sexual abuse have to deal not only with the violence of the act, but the violence of a society that continues to shame her, the victim. Manecksha talks of how by articulating the question of why a woman who was raped is not accorded the same status as a martyr, people are forcing society to acknowledge that rape is a political weapon, and thereby delinked from shame and loss of honour.

The book describes how mothers of sons who have disappeared use their conventional and highly personal identity as a mother to draw attention to the deeply political issue. Manecksha describes how some women have used their personal loss to transform themselves into activists drawing attention to a larger cause.

However, it is not only those who have suffered direct losses who are impacted. Manecksha talks of how minimization has reduced access to public spaces. These shared public spaces were spaces where women could meet other women and have everyday conversations. How does losing them impact women? The chapter on how Sufi shrines become a safe place for women has a particularly poignant statement- “Shrines are radical spaces where women can experience spirituality, chat with a friend and even have something to eat afterwards”. These are words that will resonate with many, not just from the Valley.

Manecksha discusses how “care”, “control” and “concern” often overlap. Women, particularly, are subject to restrictions, including restrictions on behaviour and clothing. What do women in a conflict zone like Kashmir think about gender rights- does the fight for azadi mean that gender issues should take a backseat?

Though the book begins with a brief introduction to the “Kashmir problem”, what it does not do is to go into the details of the struggle or the reasons behind the rise of militancy. Instead, the book focusses on the women who bear the double burdens of patriarchy and being caught in the crossfire of militarization.

The book is a must read for anyone who wants to understand the gendered aspects of the conflict in Kashmir. Manecksha has done a brilliant job in weaving together the diverse narratives of women from Kashmir to bring out the picture of the double burden that women carry. ‘Behold, I Shine’ is a tribute to their unwavering spirit, which is summed up in one Facebook post-

“Some want to put the hijab on me and save me. Some want to take the hijab off me and save me. Just give me a break, man! I can save myself.”

Shailaputri, the Daughter of the Mountain

She is the manifestation of Mother Earth. She is the Hills
and Vales. The Water and the Air. She is the Force. She
is Forever.

Shailaputri, © 2018

I devour the newspaper, searching furiously for some mention of the situation in Kashmir. Nothing. It is like the world has forgotten my beloved home. I have no idea what is happening there, but the lack of news suggests a normalcy we have never known. Am I hallucinating? Does Kashmir really exist, or is it something I imagined?

Kashmir certainly exists. At least in my memories.

I remember the summer holidays at my grandparent’s house in Pahalgaun. All of us cousins together. Running through the orchard, picking up the fallen fruit. Sometimes, shaking the trees, so the fruit fell, because we were not allowed to pluck fruit from the trees. As a special treat, we were sometimes loaded into my grandfather’s jeep and taken to the saffron fields. How I loved those purple flowers; those delicately ugly flowers!
Those were the days of fun and laughter. Carefree days when we would run through the meadow. We would gather wild flowers. We would take off our shoes, and dip our feet in the icy cold water of the stream. We dared each other to cross the stream, but the current was too strong, and none of us was brave enough. We were Nature. We were the Hills, the Air, the Stream.
One day, Zara announced she would cross the stream. We got scared, and tried to stop her. But she was determined to try. Taking one careful step after another, she made it across to the other shore. She must have got overconfident on the way back ,she slipped and fell into the water. Luckily the water was shallow, and she was able to get up. But her pheren was drenched. We wrapped our arms around her, but her teeth were chattering before we managed to get her home. We told our grandmother she slipped into the water, but that was the last day any of us were allowed near the stream.

How well I remembered Kashmir. How well I remembered Zara.

Brave Zara. Always the boldest of us. After marriage, she settled down in Kashmir. Her husband was a trader and was often away on tours. They say her son fell into bad company. I do not know; he was always very polite to me. One day, he went to school and never returned. Picked up by the Army, they said, on charges of being an informer. Apparently, he escaped, but we will never know. He never contacted his family. Poor Zara; she was never the same again. Even today, she waits for her son to return. She mourns her daughter who committed suicide soon after, but it is her son she waits for. Waiting. Endless waiting.

I have been trying to call Zara, but the calls don’t get through. I have no way of finding out how Zara is, and the rest of my cousins in the Valley. My daughter’s friend is a journalist. I wanted to ask her to try and get news of Zara. But how many people will she try to contact?i will just have to keep trying to contact them. If something happened, I suppose I would come to know; the Valley cannot be completely cut off. Or can it?

I pick up the newspaper again. No news of Kashmir. It is like we have suddenly dropped out of the map, like we never existed. There are people there. My people. If things are normal, why are we not allowed to speak to them? Just yesterday, my niece purchased medicines for her mother, and had them sent through someone. Have you spoken to your mother, I asked her. She hasn’t, but she knew the stock has to be replenished so she did.

My daughter tells me not to worry. That things must be fine. But I can see from her face that she knows how lucky she is that I am with her. She doesn’t have to worry about me the way her cousins are worrying about their parents.

“We must do something”, I tell my daughter. “We can’t just sit here and wait for people to completely forget about Kashmir.”
“But what can we do?”, she asks. “Nobody cares. Just nobody cares.” Her voice broke, she nearly dissolved into tears.
“You care, and I care. That is enough. As long as even one person cares, Kashmir cannot be wiped out of memory.”
I will not allow Kashmir to be forgotten. Navratri is coming up. I will go to the celebrations in turn, and stand at the entrance with a tape over my mouth, holding a banner that says “Kashmir” in my hand. Old people are invisible. But old people doing unexpected things stand out. People will notice me. They will understand. They will do something.

I look out of the window and stare North. On clear days, I like to think I can see the beloved mountains that I call Home. On days like today, I can’t see a thing. But my Home is there. I have work to do. Someday, I will return, and Zara and I will cross that stream again.

I am Shailaputri, the Daughter of the Mountain, the first manifestation of Nav Durga. I am every woman who refuses to accept an injustice.