The Army faces two challenges in Kashmir: keep its men motivated and win the local population’s trust
By Nikita Doval
Imposing poplars flank the busy Srinagar-Baramulla road, which on paper is a highway but in reality is a single road with double-lane traffic that is a nightmare. Blue sky, densely forested mountains, smoke belching diesel trucks: it could be any other tourist-ridden summer retreat except that this is Kashmir where all it takes is a moment for the ordinary to become alien.
A speck of olive green on the horizon approaches, gradually taking the shape of an Army convoy. The leading 2.5-tonne vehicle is draped in camouflage gear. A soldier’s torso in bulletproof gear with his face covered in a surgical green mask juts out of the hatch, balancing a light machine gun. It is a formidable procession.
While the rest of the country may have several admiring adjectives for the Indian Army, in Kashmir, Here, the Army vehicles never travel solo, the convoy quorum is three, the regular strength around 15. This is just one of the small legacies of the troubled two decades that both the Army and Kashmir have seen.
Today civilian traffic moves alongside the convoys. Earlier, however, the roads were cleared every time the Army stepped out. “There would be a soldier on the perch of the opening vehicle brandishing a stick, warning everyone to get out of the way,” recalls an old-timer. Locals had to stop walking, their hands out of their phirans during winters, to show that they had no weapons. And there was a heavy price to pay if you overtook the convoy.
“In the 90s, we moved our convoys in an aggressive manner. We were routinely attacked, it was a tense atmosphere,” says Lt-Gen. Syed Ata Hasnain, 15 Corps commander-in-charge in Kashmir. Improvised explosive devices and bullet shots were a regular hazard, requiring road opening parties (ROPs)—armed troops and disabling technology—to ensure that the path was clear.
Even today, ROPs are sent out but not with the same intensity or frequency as before. Earlier, each vehicle in a convoy would be visibly heavily armed. Today, the arms are not brandished openly, except in the opening vehicle. “We are trying to tone even that down,” says Hasnain.
Throughout our drive to Uri, we encounter military presence, but there is an ease in their stance. Soldiers sipping tea at roadside stalls with locals wasn’t a sight possible even a few years ago. This February, a recruitment rally in Ganderbal saw almost 30,000 aspirants, leading even the BBC to remark that in doing so ‘they disregarded the struggle for independence’. Contrast this with the situation 15 years ago when “only seven to eight locals turned up for a recruitment rally,” says a Colonel.
Kashmir erupted in violent protests with the Amarnath land row agitation in 2008. The discontent reached its peak last year with the stone pelting incidents. So far, 2011 has been peaceful with the valley registering a record number of tourists. Airlines have announced new flights and now a literary festival boasting of heavy-weight presence like Aamir Khan has been planned. Caught in the middle of all this is the Indian Army whose actions could make or break this fragile peace.
When Kashmir exploded in the national consciousness in 1989, no one could have predicted what lay in store over the next two decades. “We were not trained to tackle urban insurgency. We had to learn on the job,” says Maj.-Gen. V.S. Dadhwal, general officer commanding (GOC), Dagger Division.
From fighting terrorism to facing open hostility from the locals to charges of human rights violations, it has been a tumultuous 20 years for the Army in Kashmir. The force has lost more than 25,000 men on this battleground and came dangerously close to losing its credibility, too. Today, the stress-ridden atmosphere of the 90s, when soldiers carried weapons even to dinner—for who knew when a fidayeen might come calling—is a distant nightmare. But the Army is still pitched in a two-pronged battle, struggling to keep its men motivated and trying to win the hearts of the Kashmiris.
We are in a room with 10 soldiers at the Kaman Aman Setu post. Surrounded by Pakistan-occupied Kashmir, this post, till the 2003 ceasefire, was fired at at all times. “It is much more peaceful now,’’ says a havaldar, who is a Kargil veteran. He recalls spending sleepless nights listening to bullets whizzing past and the ambushes in which friends were killed. Two or three ambushes a day were common then. It has now come down to just one or two in a week.
The soldiers’ duties include patrolling, dealing with civilians who pass through the post every Thursday (when the Srinagar-Muzaffarabad bus plies), and manning the post. Weather, however, is a tough adversary. “Small details like not touching metal railings on winter mornings have to be drilled into the men,” says an officer.
Traversing the varied landscape is another big concern. “There are all kinds of terrain here, mountain ranges, swamps and jungles,” says Maj.-Gen. Ravi Thodge, GOC of Rashtriya Rifles assigned to north Kashmir. “The altitude ranges from 12,000 to 17,000ft. In winters, everything gets snowed under and during the rains, the roads get washed away,” says Maj.-Gen. S.K. Chakravorty, GOC of the Vajr Division, highlighting the challenges that the soldiers face.
We are on our way to Pharkiyan Gali, the headquarters of posts on the Line of Control. The road runs through many ‘black’ (Army code word for areas sympathetic to militants) villages. The semblance of everyday ordinariness contrasts with the occasional Go Back India graffiti, and photographs of Pakistani cricketers on shop windows.
Our first view of Pharkiyan, situated at 10,000ft, is the helipad where troops are doing yoga. “We have indoor games, DTH connection and satellite phones to call home,” says rifleman Kuldeep Singh, about the amenities available to the troops. One of the most important aspects of being posted here is familiarity with the terrain. “You can have the best technology to map movement but the routes are still traditional. For that you need extensive ground knowledge,” says Chakravorty.
At the snowed-in posts, where temperatures drop to -25 degrees, troops are stationed for only six months at a stretch. Once a soldier returns from the posting, his feedback is recorded.
To combat stress among troops, the Army has trained junior commissioned officers and a regimental religious teacher for counselling. Officers and soldiers are trained to look out for altered behaviour patterns as they battle issues of aspiration, separation and isolation. Recently, a questionnaire with queries ranging from work pressure to alcohol consumption was circulated to assess the jawan’s mental health.
The Army has significantly improved its resources for the troops. Measures like ensuring enough beds in transit camps to special chartered flights to different parts of the country have been taken. The quality of ration issued has also improved. The Sixth Pay Commission has made the men happy with even field allowances registering a substantial increase.
Last year, the Army estimated the presence of almost 600 terrorists in Kashmir. This year, the number is pegged at 300 with only 50 per cent considered active. During the years when militancy was at its peak, 10 to 20 encounters would take place in a day. But in 2010, only 180 incidents were reported.
Naik Ganga Singh of 10 Garhwal Rifles, the unit that boasts of the maximum number of kills, says things have changed considerably. “Those were unpredictable days. A routine convoy movement could turn into a bloodbath, a regular search operation into a disaster,” he says.
Now, the Army reacts only to specific technical and human intelligence, making the target clear. If the infiltration is successful, then a well-established network of intelligence kicks into action. The network includes local informants keeping track of over-ground workers and their movements. “Intelligence is tracked for days with officers at the highest level kept in the loop,” says Chakravorty. This has led to a reduction in the number of fake encounter cases, insists the Army.
The Zaloora post, situated atop a hillock overlooking a bowl which has seven villages scattered around it, is our final destination. The area falls in the infamous triangle comprising Lolab, Sopore and Handwara, a popular stopover for infiltrators. This year, in Sopore alone, 13 terrorists were killed.
“Now, residents volunteer information about terrorists for fear of their homes being destroyed in the search operation,” says a captain. The men make announcements through the loudspeakers in the village mosque asking people to assemble. Search operations are invariably carried out in tandem with the Jammu and Kashmir Police.
“Tracking suspicious movement has become easier though mistaken identity still remains a big challenge at night,” says Dadhwal. “Although civilians have been instructed not to run if challenged by the Army at night, they still do so. After Kargil a lot of things changed. Surveillance and thermal devices and UAVs [unmanned aerial vehicle] were introduced. Today, we are much better off.”
Before being posted to the valley, the soldiers undergo mandatory training at the Corps Battle School in Srinagar where, apart from lessons on what to expect, they are trained to deal with the locals. “There is hawk-eyed scrutiny of the Army in Kashmir and that is why we prefer to be on the periphery even in cases like last year’s agitation,” says Dadhwal.
What do the soldiers think about the demand to withdraw troops from the valley? “Do you stop the treatment of a disease mid-way?” asks a lance naik. Says his commanding officer: “Infiltration is down here but they are still sitting across the LoC, waiting to come in.”
Goodwill hunting
The shadow of terror has receded in the once-infamous Old Baramulla, thanks to the Army’s initiative to reach out to the townsfolk. “Winning hearts has never been as important to the Army as it is now,” says Major Gen. V.S. Dadhwal, who till recently was the general officer commanding the Dagger Division posted here. Under him, a hospital project which had been abandoned because of paucity of funds was restarted.
H.A. Wadu, 25, a resident of Mattan, Pahalgam, says education would usher in change. The IAS aspirant is a fan of the Army’s Youth Employment and Guidance Node, which provides broadband connection and career counselling to civilians, and even does their paperwork for competitive exams. “My generation realises what all we have lost out on,” he says.
Listening to Wadu are four class XI boys of the local Army Goodwill School. They will take the National Defence Academy exams next year. “Humein education chahiye, ek normal life chahiye [we want education, want a normal life],” says one. The boys admit to once being hostile towards the forces. One, Khadim, sheepishly admits to being pro-Pakistan even four years ago.
The Goodwill schools organise tours across India for children, women and the elderly. It includes a meeting with the President. Once, they took a group to Mumbai to meet actor Shah Rukh Khan. Students sponsored by the Army train at a flying academy in Srinagar. Kashmir Premier League, an ambitious IPL-inspired venture involving several local cricket teams, is under way.
On our way back from Anantnag, we drive past two soldiers—one at ease, and the other talking on a phone. “During the peak of militancy, Anantnag was known as Chhota Pakistan,” says Adil, our young cab driver whose brother is serving in the Army. Now, it is peaceful enough for soldiers to be relaxed.
Signboards carrying the Army’s new slogan, ‘awam aur jawan, aman ka hai muqam’ (the common man and the soldier form the bedrock of peace), are everywhere. Campaigns like ‘Ji Janab’, which educate the troops in local mannerisms and ways of speaking, have been started. “Today an action of a jawan can have strategic implications,” says Gen. Syed Ata Hasnain.
Two months ago in Pahalgam, there was a run-in involving some tourists, a driver, local people and a Rashtriya Rifles jawan. As punishment, the jawan was posted out of the valley. Similarly, a rape accusation, which was later found to be false, saw the Army swing into damage control. When a boy was mistakenly shot at by forces out on an ambush at night, Gen. Hasnain himself met his parents at an awaami sunwayi (public hearing).
THE WEEK accompanies Gen. Hasnain to a public hearing at the Bandipore stadium. We meet Aqbal Safi Aiytmullah, a nattily-dressed 25-year-old former militant who surrendered in 2006. Does he regret giving up the gun? “Of course not,” he says. Aqbal wants to help the Army track down militants. “We know their training methods,” he says.
Mahali Chauhan, another erstwhile militant, has also eschewed violence. As the sarpanch of Malangaon, he has turned over a new leaf. “People want bijli, sadak aur paani [power, roads and water]. The turnout for the elections proves that,” he says.
On our way to Avantipur, our vehicle breaks down. Boys in phirans gather around while two men sit in the shade smoking a hookah. “How have things changed?” we ask the men. The older man replies, “You think you could have stood there and asked me that question six years ago
By Nikita Doval
Imposing poplars flank the busy Srinagar-Baramulla road, which on paper is a highway but in reality is a single road with double-lane traffic that is a nightmare. Blue sky, densely forested mountains, smoke belching diesel trucks: it could be any other tourist-ridden summer retreat except that this is Kashmir where all it takes is a moment for the ordinary to become alien.
A speck of olive green on the horizon approaches, gradually taking the shape of an Army convoy. The leading 2.5-tonne vehicle is draped in camouflage gear. A soldier’s torso in bulletproof gear with his face covered in a surgical green mask juts out of the hatch, balancing a light machine gun. It is a formidable procession.
While the rest of the country may have several admiring adjectives for the Indian Army, in Kashmir, Here, the Army vehicles never travel solo, the convoy quorum is three, the regular strength around 15. This is just one of the small legacies of the troubled two decades that both the Army and Kashmir have seen.
Today civilian traffic moves alongside the convoys. Earlier, however, the roads were cleared every time the Army stepped out. “There would be a soldier on the perch of the opening vehicle brandishing a stick, warning everyone to get out of the way,” recalls an old-timer. Locals had to stop walking, their hands out of their phirans during winters, to show that they had no weapons. And there was a heavy price to pay if you overtook the convoy.
“In the 90s, we moved our convoys in an aggressive manner. We were routinely attacked, it was a tense atmosphere,” says Lt-Gen. Syed Ata Hasnain, 15 Corps commander-in-charge in Kashmir. Improvised explosive devices and bullet shots were a regular hazard, requiring road opening parties (ROPs)—armed troops and disabling technology—to ensure that the path was clear.
Even today, ROPs are sent out but not with the same intensity or frequency as before. Earlier, each vehicle in a convoy would be visibly heavily armed. Today, the arms are not brandished openly, except in the opening vehicle. “We are trying to tone even that down,” says Hasnain.
Throughout our drive to Uri, we encounter military presence, but there is an ease in their stance. Soldiers sipping tea at roadside stalls with locals wasn’t a sight possible even a few years ago. This February, a recruitment rally in Ganderbal saw almost 30,000 aspirants, leading even the BBC to remark that in doing so ‘they disregarded the struggle for independence’. Contrast this with the situation 15 years ago when “only seven to eight locals turned up for a recruitment rally,” says a Colonel.
Kashmir erupted in violent protests with the Amarnath land row agitation in 2008. The discontent reached its peak last year with the stone pelting incidents. So far, 2011 has been peaceful with the valley registering a record number of tourists. Airlines have announced new flights and now a literary festival boasting of heavy-weight presence like Aamir Khan has been planned. Caught in the middle of all this is the Indian Army whose actions could make or break this fragile peace.
When Kashmir exploded in the national consciousness in 1989, no one could have predicted what lay in store over the next two decades. “We were not trained to tackle urban insurgency. We had to learn on the job,” says Maj.-Gen. V.S. Dadhwal, general officer commanding (GOC), Dagger Division.
From fighting terrorism to facing open hostility from the locals to charges of human rights violations, it has been a tumultuous 20 years for the Army in Kashmir. The force has lost more than 25,000 men on this battleground and came dangerously close to losing its credibility, too. Today, the stress-ridden atmosphere of the 90s, when soldiers carried weapons even to dinner—for who knew when a fidayeen might come calling—is a distant nightmare. But the Army is still pitched in a two-pronged battle, struggling to keep its men motivated and trying to win the hearts of the Kashmiris.
We are in a room with 10 soldiers at the Kaman Aman Setu post. Surrounded by Pakistan-occupied Kashmir, this post, till the 2003 ceasefire, was fired at at all times. “It is much more peaceful now,’’ says a havaldar, who is a Kargil veteran. He recalls spending sleepless nights listening to bullets whizzing past and the ambushes in which friends were killed. Two or three ambushes a day were common then. It has now come down to just one or two in a week.
The soldiers’ duties include patrolling, dealing with civilians who pass through the post every Thursday (when the Srinagar-Muzaffarabad bus plies), and manning the post. Weather, however, is a tough adversary. “Small details like not touching metal railings on winter mornings have to be drilled into the men,” says an officer.
Traversing the varied landscape is another big concern. “There are all kinds of terrain here, mountain ranges, swamps and jungles,” says Maj.-Gen. Ravi Thodge, GOC of Rashtriya Rifles assigned to north Kashmir. “The altitude ranges from 12,000 to 17,000ft. In winters, everything gets snowed under and during the rains, the roads get washed away,” says Maj.-Gen. S.K. Chakravorty, GOC of the Vajr Division, highlighting the challenges that the soldiers face.
We are on our way to Pharkiyan Gali, the headquarters of posts on the Line of Control. The road runs through many ‘black’ (Army code word for areas sympathetic to militants) villages. The semblance of everyday ordinariness contrasts with the occasional Go Back India graffiti, and photographs of Pakistani cricketers on shop windows.
Our first view of Pharkiyan, situated at 10,000ft, is the helipad where troops are doing yoga. “We have indoor games, DTH connection and satellite phones to call home,” says rifleman Kuldeep Singh, about the amenities available to the troops. One of the most important aspects of being posted here is familiarity with the terrain. “You can have the best technology to map movement but the routes are still traditional. For that you need extensive ground knowledge,” says Chakravorty.
At the snowed-in posts, where temperatures drop to -25 degrees, troops are stationed for only six months at a stretch. Once a soldier returns from the posting, his feedback is recorded.
To combat stress among troops, the Army has trained junior commissioned officers and a regimental religious teacher for counselling. Officers and soldiers are trained to look out for altered behaviour patterns as they battle issues of aspiration, separation and isolation. Recently, a questionnaire with queries ranging from work pressure to alcohol consumption was circulated to assess the jawan’s mental health.
The Army has significantly improved its resources for the troops. Measures like ensuring enough beds in transit camps to special chartered flights to different parts of the country have been taken. The quality of ration issued has also improved. The Sixth Pay Commission has made the men happy with even field allowances registering a substantial increase.
Last year, the Army estimated the presence of almost 600 terrorists in Kashmir. This year, the number is pegged at 300 with only 50 per cent considered active. During the years when militancy was at its peak, 10 to 20 encounters would take place in a day. But in 2010, only 180 incidents were reported.
Naik Ganga Singh of 10 Garhwal Rifles, the unit that boasts of the maximum number of kills, says things have changed considerably. “Those were unpredictable days. A routine convoy movement could turn into a bloodbath, a regular search operation into a disaster,” he says.
Now, the Army reacts only to specific technical and human intelligence, making the target clear. If the infiltration is successful, then a well-established network of intelligence kicks into action. The network includes local informants keeping track of over-ground workers and their movements. “Intelligence is tracked for days with officers at the highest level kept in the loop,” says Chakravorty. This has led to a reduction in the number of fake encounter cases, insists the Army.
The Zaloora post, situated atop a hillock overlooking a bowl which has seven villages scattered around it, is our final destination. The area falls in the infamous triangle comprising Lolab, Sopore and Handwara, a popular stopover for infiltrators. This year, in Sopore alone, 13 terrorists were killed.
“Now, residents volunteer information about terrorists for fear of their homes being destroyed in the search operation,” says a captain. The men make announcements through the loudspeakers in the village mosque asking people to assemble. Search operations are invariably carried out in tandem with the Jammu and Kashmir Police.
“Tracking suspicious movement has become easier though mistaken identity still remains a big challenge at night,” says Dadhwal. “Although civilians have been instructed not to run if challenged by the Army at night, they still do so. After Kargil a lot of things changed. Surveillance and thermal devices and UAVs [unmanned aerial vehicle] were introduced. Today, we are much better off.”
Before being posted to the valley, the soldiers undergo mandatory training at the Corps Battle School in Srinagar where, apart from lessons on what to expect, they are trained to deal with the locals. “There is hawk-eyed scrutiny of the Army in Kashmir and that is why we prefer to be on the periphery even in cases like last year’s agitation,” says Dadhwal.
What do the soldiers think about the demand to withdraw troops from the valley? “Do you stop the treatment of a disease mid-way?” asks a lance naik. Says his commanding officer: “Infiltration is down here but they are still sitting across the LoC, waiting to come in.”
Goodwill hunting
The shadow of terror has receded in the once-infamous Old Baramulla, thanks to the Army’s initiative to reach out to the townsfolk. “Winning hearts has never been as important to the Army as it is now,” says Major Gen. V.S. Dadhwal, who till recently was the general officer commanding the Dagger Division posted here. Under him, a hospital project which had been abandoned because of paucity of funds was restarted.
H.A. Wadu, 25, a resident of Mattan, Pahalgam, says education would usher in change. The IAS aspirant is a fan of the Army’s Youth Employment and Guidance Node, which provides broadband connection and career counselling to civilians, and even does their paperwork for competitive exams. “My generation realises what all we have lost out on,” he says.
Listening to Wadu are four class XI boys of the local Army Goodwill School. They will take the National Defence Academy exams next year. “Humein education chahiye, ek normal life chahiye [we want education, want a normal life],” says one. The boys admit to once being hostile towards the forces. One, Khadim, sheepishly admits to being pro-Pakistan even four years ago.
The Goodwill schools organise tours across India for children, women and the elderly. It includes a meeting with the President. Once, they took a group to Mumbai to meet actor Shah Rukh Khan. Students sponsored by the Army train at a flying academy in Srinagar. Kashmir Premier League, an ambitious IPL-inspired venture involving several local cricket teams, is under way.
On our way back from Anantnag, we drive past two soldiers—one at ease, and the other talking on a phone. “During the peak of militancy, Anantnag was known as Chhota Pakistan,” says Adil, our young cab driver whose brother is serving in the Army. Now, it is peaceful enough for soldiers to be relaxed.
Signboards carrying the Army’s new slogan, ‘awam aur jawan, aman ka hai muqam’ (the common man and the soldier form the bedrock of peace), are everywhere. Campaigns like ‘Ji Janab’, which educate the troops in local mannerisms and ways of speaking, have been started. “Today an action of a jawan can have strategic implications,” says Gen. Syed Ata Hasnain.
Two months ago in Pahalgam, there was a run-in involving some tourists, a driver, local people and a Rashtriya Rifles jawan. As punishment, the jawan was posted out of the valley. Similarly, a rape accusation, which was later found to be false, saw the Army swing into damage control. When a boy was mistakenly shot at by forces out on an ambush at night, Gen. Hasnain himself met his parents at an awaami sunwayi (public hearing).
THE WEEK accompanies Gen. Hasnain to a public hearing at the Bandipore stadium. We meet Aqbal Safi Aiytmullah, a nattily-dressed 25-year-old former militant who surrendered in 2006. Does he regret giving up the gun? “Of course not,” he says. Aqbal wants to help the Army track down militants. “We know their training methods,” he says.
Mahali Chauhan, another erstwhile militant, has also eschewed violence. As the sarpanch of Malangaon, he has turned over a new leaf. “People want bijli, sadak aur paani [power, roads and water]. The turnout for the elections proves that,” he says.
On our way to Avantipur, our vehicle breaks down. Boys in phirans gather around while two men sit in the shade smoking a hookah. “How have things changed?” we ask the men. The older man replies, “You think you could have stood there and asked me that question six years ago
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