Some say the blonde-haired, suntanned head of Hans Christian Ostro was balanced between his legs for effect while others say the head was found 40 meters away. Some say that the words "Al-Faran" were carved with a knife on his back, while others say they were on his chest. All agree that the Norwegian tourist was beheaded while still alive. This is not what Kashmir claims happens to its tourists. And this crude method of death is supposed to be reserved for those in Third World countries where human behavior is still in a primitive, barbaric state-not for Westerners who are simply visiting what has been called among the most "beautiful and historic parts of Asia." But it happened.
News of trouble piled up quickly at first: One American escapes, a Norwegian is killed, the others are sick, and rescue attempts fail. There are conflicting reports of shootouts, executions, sightings and burials. And then silence. The families search desperately in vain. The world's best intelligence groups search in vain. Over half a million Indian troops search in vain. Then, as dramatically as the story appears, it disappears. Not surprising since the Westerners were about one percent of the 548 people kidnapped in Kashmir in that same year. Over 2000 people have been kidnapped in Kashmir since 1990, less than half of them survived the ordeal. Something evil is happening in northwestern India.
Kashmir is a tourist destination and it is a war zone. A quarter of a million Indian soldiers, long-range artillery duels, grenade and mine attacks have resulted in a death toll that climbs like a rocket heading into space. So far there have been more than 25,000 people killed with a burn rate of about 50 deaths a week. I decided there is only one way to find out what is going on in Northwest India--I put Kashmir on my list of places to visit.
My first stop, Delhi. You drive into town from the airport and then begin an inescapable spin into the city center. The British built Delhi in the shape of a wheel, with the hub being a group of colonial white three-story buildings the same color as a faded linen suit. New Delhi is a sprawling city built more like a sewer with a central drain. Foreign tourists arriving from the airport serve as Delhi's main source of hard cash, therefore, compliant cab drivers funnel new arrivals to "official tourist offices" even in the wee hours of the morning.
It's 5:30 a.m., the air is still cool and thick--the best time of the day. But already the dirt and smoke hang low over the trees and people hurry about dressed in clean clothes. Soon the heat and dust will descend upon this bustling country and India will fade to quivering pastels.
Four hundred rupees gets me into town in an aging black Ambassador taxi. A '50s anachronism (still made in India), the Ambassador is a genetic mixture of Austin A-55, Morris Minor and bad Indian craftsmanship. (This Third World luxury on wheels can be yours for $US8500.) The early morning is also when the street cleaners poke supine men sprawled along the streets and gutters to see if they are dead or just hung over. One man is carted off, dead.
The cities of India consist of overflowing rivers of people running between buildings like an unstoppable torrent. Walking, crawling, riding, or running they are surprisingly quite efficient, forming huge mobile masses that rarely collide. Even the animals display a sense of order, so to speak, as the macaques in narrow alleys are creative enough to run along the tangled electrical wiring overhead and somnambulate cows sit calmly on traffic medians surrounded by oceans of smoke-belching vehicles.
Much of India is not dangerous. It is a refreshingly energetic, polite and industrious country. Some visitors may be mildly amused by the Indian habit of adopting the worst elements from various cultures whether they be '50s cars and motorcycles from the British, '70s weapons from the Russians, home decor from China, or '60s musicals from the Americans. American culture is transcendent here. India's Hollywood, or rather "Bollywood," now cranks out musicals that are reminiscent of "West Side Story," only it sounds like the songs are performed by Alvin and the Chipmunks on speed. You can't help but wonder if the youth of India, faced with carrying on centuries of complex culture and religions, just said "Fuck it, let's watch MTV."
Ticket to Ride
I take my driver up on his offer and visit not one but a dozen "tourist" offices. I walk in and find calm, friendly people behind the smudged dark glass of the counter windows of the air-conditioned office. Wherever I want to go, the answer is always: "No problem, sir. When would you like to go?"
I then inquire about kidnapping, murders, a rather large insurgency and the upcoming election with its resultant mayhem. Their smiles get wider, "No problem, sir. When would you like to go?"
They recommend the "Golden Triangle tour," a three-day excursion that takes travelers to Agra for the Taj Mahal, Jaipur and then back to Delhi. Having experienced the three-day journey previously, flanked by apocalyptic bus and car crashes (about one every 10-20 km), I wonder if this is actually more dangerous than going to Kashmir.
At one office, a Kashmiri man asks me darkly what I know about the hostages. He closes his office door as he sends the errand boy out for tea. We engage in a serious discussion about what is happening in Srinagar. We keep the conversation light but I sense he knows my purpose. I decide that I will return here to buy my tickets.
The next order of business is to wander around Delhi, engage in small talk, and hopefully get some bits of advice on Kashmir. Indians speak of Kashmir in the same manner and tone as a father would when discussing an unruly child. One man says "India has been patient and polite, but soon there will be a war--a 30-minute war, and this time we won't hand Pakistan back to the Muslims." Tough talk, but a good betting man's position since Pakistan has been thumped in wars over Kashmir three times before in 1948, 1965 and 1971.
The Valley of War
Kashmir is just one of India's ethnic, tribal, religious and financial conflicts. Kashmiris are independent, nonpolitical people living in a proverbial garden of Eden. When Britain divided India, the local mughals who ruled predominately Muslim Kashmir threw their lot in with Hindu India. Confronted by the idea of a Muslim majority being pledged to India, Pakistan and a large number of Kashmiris voiced disapproval and the problems started. Pakistan is not the gateway to Kashmir, nor do India's tourists want to vacation in a foreign, Muslim country. Kashmir was the most visited region in India until the late '80s and the gateway to the region has always been through Delhi and the South. Today it is not a war of Kashmiris vs. Indians. Any Kashmiri cab driver in New York will tell you that they would rather be pushing a hack rather than being press-ganged and forced to fight India. Kashmir is a war that Pakistan and India want, not the Kashmiris.
The tug-of-war for Kashmir is understandable. It's not some desolate Afghan desert or steamy uncharted jungle, rather a major tourist area immersed with history. Some people believe it to be the Bible's Promised Land, the place where Moses wandered to and was buried; one of the places where Jesus spent his youth and where he ultimately returned and died. There are many such legends about Kashmir and what's more, it is a beautiful, fragrant land inhabited by kind, handsome, creative and generous people. It is a land once blessed with peace, but when you hear a MiG-21 scream through the valleys, you realize that Kashmir is also a war zone.
Today, the border between Pakistan and India is an ill-defined series of armed border camps featuring daily firefights on scenic glaciers and artillery duels with cannons that can lob shells more than 20 miles. The Line of Control was determined in 1972, after the last war, and continues to be contested daily. Skirmishes are common and the resulting deaths are never featured in any newspapers There is also an active insurgency within Kashmir instigated and supported by Pakistan under the direction of its secret police, the ISI-the same folks that were the middlemen between the mujahedin in Afghanistan and the CIA back in the '80s.
On any given week, there are more than a quarter of a million Indian soldiers stationed in this tiny valley and in the mountains that surround it. Pipe-shaped MiG-21's fly hourly sorties as they thunder and echo through the valley. Every corner and crossroad is protected by soldiers hidden inside sandbagged, wire-fenced fortifications.There is no place where you cannot see at least 20 to 50 soldiers at any one time. Inside and outside the major cities and towns there are firefights, dozens of mine or grenade attacks, the odd village burning and massive sweeps for mujahedin every day. When asked about these specifics the tourist folks say that Kashmir is a great place to do a little trekking among fields of fragrant saffron and deodar. Yes, they admit, there are problems but nothing to worry about.
Before embarking on my date with fragrant saffron and deodar, I decide to play tourist and see what our officials have to say. I call the U.S. Embassy in Delhi to ask for advice on traveling to Kashmir. A bumbling, apologetic staffer offers a stern warning but cannot provide details, after all, they have a MIA somewhere in the cedar forests. Then I'm connected to an unnamed embassy liaison who sounds like an airline reservation recording. He tells me they are advising against all travel to Kashmir particularly because of the election. I ask for specifics. He has none. I ask him where he gets his information. He gets it from the press. Has he been there? No. I ask him where the hostages are and if they are dead or alive. He doesn't know. When I ask about the whereabouts of the Delta Force team, the German GS-9 and British SAS teams sent to Kashmir to help in the hostage recovery effort, the staffer finally shows a little emotion. "I can't tell you that," he barks. I get the same warning and lack of hard info from the Canadian embassy as well. It may be chilling to note that some of the kidnap victims also made calls before traveling to Kashmir, but they were told no problem. Well, now there is a problem, but no one seems to want to tell me what it is.
No one blinks when I buy a ticket from Delhi to Srinagar. I change a few crisp US$100 bills into a dirty brick of rupees. The two-inch wad is bundled with industrial-sized staples. I am given the secret on peeling the money: twist back and forth and don't worry about the rust spots or gaping holes where the bills were stapled. At 35.8 rupees to the dollar, that means I must carry bricks to pay for large items.
Kashmir is jammed up tight against the Hindu Kush, a name that appropriately translates to "Killer of Hindus." This region is also squeezed in by Pakistan, China and India. From the air Kashmir does look like Shangri La -- a completely self-sufficient, isolated garden of Eden with no real connection to any of its neighbors.
I am intrigued by the irregular curved patches made by the stepped and irrigated yellow rice fields. Medieval European-style houses with steep, pitched tin roofs create jumbled intersections with no straight roads. Each village is softened by a ring of golden sycamore trees with leaves turning gold. In this medieval jumble of well-worn brick homes there is a sense of the English countryside.
Snow-capped peaks frame the rice fields and orchards that grow in the cool mountain temperatures and clean air. It is this scenery and mountain air that has attracted visitors from the hot arid flatlands to the south. Oddly, it doesn't look like a war from 30,000 feet. As we land, the hard scream of the engines warns me that reality awaits down below. We are landing at a speed that would be more appropriate for takeoff--a technique similar to carrier flights where maximum air speed is needed in case of abort or evasion.
The plane slams down in Srinagar, and I notice rows of bunkers on each side of the runway as we whiz past. Russian-made MiG-21's and large camouflage transport planes stand ready to take off. The thrust reversers and hard brakes push against the seats and the belts. As I disembark, there are 20 soldiers ringing our plane, guns at the ready. My fellow travelers, who I thought were businessmen or returning locals, turn out to be journalists here to cover the election. A handful of anemic looking hippies in their early '20s look curiously out of place. It seems they are trying to recapture the love and drugs that brought thousands of their parents here in the early '70s before the Russians invaded Afghanistan and before jihad, or holy war, was in the news.
My plan is to stay at Adhoo's, a well known hotel for journalists and then head into the countryside. My cabdriver has other ideas. He extols the beauty of houseboats, the joys of trekking and the ecstasy that awaits me in the trout streams high up in the mountains. Because he has a polite and unnerving habit of looking directly at me from the front seat when he drives, I say that's nice, but for now please shut up, turn around and drive.
The convoluted and crowed road into town is overseen by a massive military presence. My newfound guide advises me sotto voce when to not take pictures by saying "military" as we approach each sandbagged bunker. I make him very nervous by taking pictures of the checkpoints as well as the scenic spots. The blast marks and nervous state of patrolling soldiers indicate that when my guide speaks of the various attacks that have occurred here, it is not a history lesson but something immediate and real.
Hundreds of skinny, mustached soldiers with ill-fitting uniforms stand guard every 50 meters as we enter Srinagar. Each corner is controlled by a 20' x 20' bunker crudely built of sandbags and covered with plastic mesh to deflect hand grenades. From within these bunkers peer the white eyes of dark skinned, helmeted soldiers with just the tips of their machine guns protruding.
Each intersection is clogged with soldiers on guard and roving groups of Jammu Kashmir Police outside the bunkers directing the chaotic traffic. They work in groups of four with short sticks and whistles. They argue, cajole, yell and threaten to keep things moving. They never quite agree on their diverse directions to each motorist as they wave their two-foot sticks and bang on the hoods of the cars. Meanwhile the jumbled traffic completely ignores them. As we sit stuck in traffic at the battle-worn traffic circles, my guide continues to rattle off a list of recent attacks at each bunker. I can visualize how one grenade thrown at the bunker would roll down into the stalled traffic and shred dozens of innocent bystanders. Any machine gun fire from the slit bunkers would add to the death toll. For now I am just stuck in traffic with about five-to-eight soldiers banging and yelling under the watchful eye of very nervous troops.
The journalists have missed the traffic jam and have beat me to the hotel. Much to my chagrin, there are no vacant rooms. All the other hotels in town are occupied by the military. What to do? Well, the houseboat doesn't sound too bad now. My driver seems quite pleased since he happens to have a cousin who owns a houseboat.
The British began the custom of residing in houseboats because they could not own land. The ornately carved boats became de rigueur in the '70s for marijuana-smoking tourists who could indulge themselves in the local weed safe in isolation from the police on land. Dal Lake is lined by empty houseboats, all 980 with romantic or foreign sounding names.
The houseboats of Srinagar are long, gently curved rectangular barges with a porch at the entrance and bedrooms toward the back. There is also a large sitting room, dining room and extra bedrooms. Most are ornately carved and fashioned out of the fragrant cedar that grows in the mountains.
There is nothing wrong with staying on a houseboat on Lake Dal but I didn't want to be a sitting duck. After I visit the boat, it seems to be a smarter place to be than the frequently attacked hotels with their great iron gates and barbed wire. The lake makes the gunfire and shouting echo at night, making it seem more like an amusement park complete with fireworks rather than a fully-active war zone.
The owner of a particularly fine houseboat next door to the one I choose to stay at tells me it took eight people working for five years to create his 20' x 80' masterpiece. It curves gently upwards at each end and is built of fragrant deodar, a local pine that comes from the mountains. As I talk to my neighbor, it becomes evident that the investment of so much money during a time where there are no tourists was not the wisest thing. But he was never in it to make any money to recoup his investment. All he has is pride in the beautiful craftsmanship. Someday when the tourists return, he will have enough money to furnish it. As I get in a shikara or small canoe to visit his house, my host, who is returning from the opposite shore, assumes that I am jumping ship for his neighbor's boat and screams, "Wait, wait, I am coming, I am coming!"
It's not too profitable to lose track of your tourists around here.
I decide to go for a walk in the old town as the sun sets over the deep blue mountains. The owner of my houseboat, nervous about my visiting his neighbor, offers to come along. Or rather insists.
I like the cool crisp colonial feel of Srinagar. The solidly built British style mansions that overlook the lake give the city the feel of being in an upscale resort, which of course it once was. These homes are now occupied by Kashmiris who sell carpets, rice and wool.
Along the narrow streets are shops where carvers, weavers and craftsmen create the intricate handicrafts and goods the area is known for. The Kashmiris are excellent craftsmen and the long winters and lack of professional jobs give them plenty of time to create meticulously ornate carpets, paper maché, and needlework. Most of them work by the golden glow of a single fly-specked light bulb. Almost all families in the towns work the looms or carve during the winter to earn money. Their goods are usually sold by local co-ops which once provided an important supplement to the summer tourism income. Now there is no summer tourism income and India does not allow wholesale exportation of these goods. Therefore, tourists must come to India to buy these goods, but the problem is, there are no tourists.
As if to add drama to my bucolic stroll, in front of me, a large brown eagle swoops down and repeatedly attacks a chicken who is walking mindlessly down the street. The eagle flies down the narrow lanes, claws spread and repeatedly attacks the terrified bird. The chicken finally runs under the house and the eagle calmly waits on a telephone pole for its prey to reemerge. An omen or a warning?
There is little evidence of the nightly tension here as the sun sets. True, the walls and streets are decorated with green scrawls of graffiti-"JK-LF" for Jammu Kashmir-Liberation Front or "AZ-JK" for Azad Jammu Kashmir. But children play, women cook and men smoke as if it is just another day. When I mention to my guide, Ahmad, that I have seen this graffiti in Pakistan, he is surprised that I know what this means. I explain to him that a few months ago, I was on the other side of the border where the Harkut and other groups are very visible with big offices complete with neon signs. When I say the word "liberation" for the second time he uncharacteristically says "That is all bullshit."
I ask him what he means.
"They do not want liberation, they are just using us," he answers.
This is the first indication that my guide has opinions about what is going on.
Although both the people of Srinagar and their dwellings have suffered from the war, the buildings have fared better. The old town bears the damage from bombs, fire and bullets. In the blue dusk and warm light from the shops, I feel as if I am in a medieval village complete with rambling lanes and quaint cottages.
I stop to talk to the locals who introduce some of their friends as freedom fighters. A joke or a test? They are testing my sympathies. There have been three years of war in this town. Threatened by mujahedin and by the Indian military, there is no safe political or moral ground for these people--survival is foremost. I notice the soldiers on patrol are now wearing bulletproof vests and helmets instead of their crisp uniforms.
My guide, who is Muslim, asks me if I like Muslims. I say yes. He asks me what I think of the taliban, whom I visited a few months earlier in Afghanistan. He asks in the same manner someone would ask you about a football team. He is uncomfortable with the image Muslims have in this Hindu-dominated region. It is portrayed as Muslim against Hindu, but in reality it is the Muslim Kashmiris who are dying.
He apologizes, then asks me if he can take me to a carpet shop; he gets a three percent commission and I don't have to buy, just look and have some tea. Inside the carpet shop, there is a Japanese businessman intent on negotiating down the price of the carpets. I listen to the pitch, examine the merchandise and learn that a carpet costs US$5000-US$8000 here. A large sized carpet with fine knots takes two years to make and is made by hand with each fiber hand knotted and tightened. The photo album of satisfied customers is a popular sales tool here. The pictures all date back to the late '80s. The Kashmiris will weave any design you would like these days. They need the money.
Walking back to the houseboat in the dark I find myself in the middle of a night patrol; 12 men are spaced 20 meters apart (in case of grenade or mine attack), carrying sub machine guns at the ready. There is no curfew tonight, but anyone out on the streets at 8:30 at night better have a good reason. The night is when the mujahedin attack and the soldiers make it clear from the looks they give me that they don't like my presence.
The Next Day
Only five people were killed yesterday. But today is a special day. The new government will be sworn in and the mujahedin have called for a general strike. This means shops must be closed, no one is to work and truck drivers and cab drivers are to stay home. Along the road there are soldiers every 20-50 feet. There is no civilian traffic allowed, only armored military vehicles. Naturally, this is the day I have chosen to take a drive in the country.
Ahmad greets me by saying, "Please hurry, our cab driver is afraid." Hyperventilating would be a better term. The driver says hello and flashes me a pained smile. He rattles off his warnings: the ministers are being sworn in today; the mujahedin will strike; the roads are closed; there is a general strike. He asks in a pleading tone if we can skip the Tomb of Yusaf, a tomb that is said by some to be the tomb of Christ. It is right next to the mosque and things are buzzing right now. I tell him that today I will go to Gulmarg, a popular trekking area on the unofficial Pakistani /Kashmiri border. We are going on a holiday jaunt to the front lines.
To protect us, the driver has created a homemade "PRESS" sign, and with the characteristic Kashmiri artistic flair, has used three different colors of ink in an intricate design. I ask him why he just doesn't put a bullseye on the passenger door. He smiles that pained smile again.
As we drive out of the city and toward the mountains, my guide points to certain spots and intersections. All that can be seen are bunkers with blast marks from previous attacks. Pointing out recent grenade attacks instead of scenic wonders seems to be the standard patter of cab drivers. We pass through the town of Gumpti. Ahmad says "We are afraid of this place." I ask him if there is a way to tell the mujahedin from the local people. He says, "The fighters are taller, like Afghans, and, like Afghans, they love to fight."
We pass through yellow rice fields on roads bordered by poplars and sycamores turning gold in the autumn weather. The blue snow-covered mountains in the distance are clean and pure against the trees and fields. The only reminder that we are in a hot zone is the constant presence of passing armored troop carriers, road patrols along the roads and various checkpoints.
My driver and my guide continually scan the roadside for anything unusual. To break the suspense, I decide to talk about cars. I am fascinated by our antique '50s Austin-like HM Ambassador, a car that is still made in India. I ask Ahmad what the HM means. He nervously says Hizbul mujahedin. I point to the "HM" sign on the dash, and he corrects himself, "Oh that, Hindustan Motors."
The guide and the driver chat nervously. Someone has too much interest in our passage. Ahmad warns, "That man was watching us." They both look over their shoulders to see if it was a curious local or a mujahedin writing down the license number for summary retribution. It's amazing how much driving gets done here even though the driver is looking over his shoulder instead of out the front windshield.
The scenery of the countryside is spectacular so I have to get some photos. I get out and walk through the rice paddies, now dry and mature. Men and women from the villages squat on their haunches, and using a small sickle, they snick off handfuls of rice stalks that are left to dry in the sun. Later the stalks will be threshed over a rock or wooden bench. The warm sun on my back, the crunch of the sickles and the beehive shaped mounds of rice stalks make for a very bucolic setting.
Wrapped up in photographing this rural scene, I unknowingly step right into a concealed machine gun nest and almost trip over the barrel of a .50 caliber gun. The two camouflaged soldiers are polite, but urgently direct me away from their post.
Getting back into the car I begin to wonder just how much I think I see and how much I don't see. We enter a village called Magam, about halfway to Gulmarg. Just before we reach Magam we pull off the road to let a convoy of dark colored troop trucks and armored personnel carriers rush by at high speed. Just behind the roof of each truck is a machine gunner squinting grimly behind large ski goggles.
There is something going on up ahead.
As we clatter towards Magam, the scene becomes less pastoral and more ominous. The soldiers we are seeing are not the anemic recruits we saw back in Srinagar. The cropped mustaches, tight bandannas and well-oiled weapons...they've come from where the fighting is.
We arrive in Magam shortly after the main excitement -- a shootout, followed by a military sweep and then another fight to the death by mujahedin holed up in the basement of a house. The soldiers are busy questioning the locals and searching homes. They don't seem to pay much attention to me.
There is an odd, evocative scene amongst the chaos. It's hard to tell if the crowds are looking at us, watching the soldiers or under arrest. I don't quite know who is who. Who is mujahedin and who is villager? Who is under arrest and who is informer? Who is spy and who is an innocent bystander? The people that don't fit in this scene are the Hindu and Ghurka soldiers who look nervous and twitchy.
Off in the distance another tableau is laid out. I watch a squad of soldiers coming in from patrol through the rice fields. They do not stick to paths between the paddies and are nervously making their way to the village. I remember seeing this scene on television back home a long time ago, except the setting was Southern Vietnam. This is India's Vietnam. The foe is within and without.
There are hundreds of soldiers now, lining the villagers up and checking papers. Some just stand around while others search. The soldiers are friendly and I hand out Mr. DP stickers that feature our laughing skull mascot. Soon the Indian Army officers come over for stickers. I ask them about the hostages. With some conviction they say the hostages were here but now they are gone. They say the hostages are south in Jammu. They won't come up this high this winter.
We continue our trip to the front lines. Our taxi clatters up the mountain toward the border. As we sign in at the military checkpoint guarded by Ghurkas I notice in the logbook that two Taiwanese tourists have passed through here the day before. A few miles later the road disappears. It has been taken away by a landslide. There are horsemen, or pony wallahs, waiting here. The horses formerly carried tourists around the hills, but the horsemen say they have been sitting where the road is washed out for ten days without seeing tourists. The Taiwanese never made it this far so they must have turned back at the checkpoint or given up when they saw the road was washed out.
Gulmarg is the site of an 18-hole golf course (the world's highest) and a rather impressive ski lift built by a Swiss company surrounded by rustic chalets. Now the hotels are empty and falling apart, the ski lift is in pieces. The golf course is kept well cropped by grazing goats and today there is one family sitting peacefully on an abandoned putting green enjoying the scenery.
I hire small mountain ponies to take us up to the vale of Khilanmarg and then the mountain of Apharwat.
My anemic horse, Peter, keeps tripping over my legs, which I have to hold up to keep from dragging on the ground. My pony wallah says that Peter is small because he had little to eat when growing up. I offer to switch and carry Peter up the mountain and the horseman laughs.
We ride through Gulmarg and up into the mountains. I ask Ahmad if there are mujahedin here. He says occasionally the guides see groups of 20-40 armed men in the forest, but it is best to turn in the opposite direction. Has anybody seen the hostages here? No, but there is a rumor that they were spotted walking towards Jammu in the Kishtawar area. Kishtawar is beyond the southeasternmost point of Kashmir and we are on its northerwesternmost point. There have been many sightings and rumors of sightings of the hostages, but this one makes sense, as it is impossible to survive high in the mountains. Even the shepherds go down in the winter.
The October sun is warm, but the temperature in the shade is ten degrees cooler. At these altitudes it gets bitterly cold at night. The only shelter are seasonal herders' huts and abandoned villages. Up here there is no food, no communications, no transportation other than by foot or pony. The kidnappers would have to rely upon villagers for food, clothing and concealment. But there are no villagers here. People will later ask me if I was afraid of being kidnapped. The answer is no because, quite frankly, the thought does not enter your mind when you are surrounded by the solitude and beauty of the mountains.
In the valleys below, the snow covers some areas. There is no undergrowth and the grass has been trimmed by grazing animals. Despite sporadic snow cover, we can travel unimpeded in any direction in the valley. The downside is that there is no natural cover, no place to hide. We can spot shepherds two to three miles away. The air is so clear that we can see the 8000-meter high Nanga Parbat (The Naked Mountain) off in the distance. Ten miles away we can see soldiers on patrol are visible in the form of tiny bobbing dots. Kashmir would be a very difficult place to travel through undetected.
If I thought I could come here and learn all there is to know about the hostage situation without any probing, I would have been very disappointed. And, as I expected, the locals are hesitant to discuss anything; the military has no idea where they are, at the same time they say they know where they are.
The rumors I am chasing down seem to be ill-founded. In truth I didn't come here to find the hostages-it would take great conceit to assume that I can learn something that the relatives, FBI, CIA, SAS, GS-9 and other intelligence and military special operations groups have not-but rather to understand the lay of the land and background of the conflict in Kashmir. The five abducted Westerners are not the first hostages to be taken here and they will not be the last. Sometimes knowledge requires studying the obvious and circumstantial. More importantly, I am trying to understand how every traveler's nightmare occurred in the hopes that others will not have to enter the same dark underworld.
I want to see how close we can get to the border. The horses cannot walk in the steep, deep snow, so we climb until the snow drifts becomes too high. It is cold now and I am not dressed for alpine exploration. A military camp looms on the summit above. My guide says going further is ill-advised. "From this point two things will happen, either we will be shot at by the military or we will freeze to death." Realizing that the Pakistani military is not looking for overnight patrons and that we have 4-5 hours to return, I turn back.
Back down below the snow line we rest by a natural spring next to the destroyed ski lift. Two MiGs streak over us, sending those now familiar thundering echoes through the mountain valley. By now passing MiG's serve as a reminder to look at my watch. It must be tea time.
As we descend we chat with some shepherds who are laying in winter feed for their animals. A small calf bleats. The shepherd says it has been born too late and will not make it through the winter. They will kill it and head down in a week or so. Have they seen anything? The old shepherd's tan and weathered face tells me he has not lived this long by chatting about such things to strangers. He just smiles and poses for pictures with his daughter.
Driving down the winding mountain road, we are waved off the road by soldiers. From up the hill comes a convoy of Indian Army trucks. In the middle of the convoy is a Mahindra jeep with big red letters spelling out COMMANDING OFFICER complete with stars at each end. Inside is a portly, campaign bar decorated man and his driver. Not the secretive choice of transportation in a war zone. On the way back through Magam, troops are still mopping up. The villagers still stand passively watching them and then at us. I notice a group of young, well-muscled soldiers wearing black bandannas around their heads and carrying short assault weapons. They also wear special ops gear and soft-soled shoes. The war has come here.
That night back at my houseboat, I talk to an 80-year-old who was once a travel guide in the '30s and '40s, who casually puffs away on his "hubbly bubbly" as the British used to call hookahs, and reflects on the state of his country. He speaks in the same archaic form of colonial British. He talked of how his country used to be "damned cheap" and how "he was a jolly chap" in his youth. He remembers walking 14 miles to school. He recounts the joy of tourists when he showed them his country and how much he loves fly fishing, hiking and camping. But with the war, not to mention his bad legs and old age, all that is over. But it is still his country. This is a statement that the mujahedin and Indian army cannot make yet.
He has lived through the three wars with Pakistan but the past year has been the worst in his life. He says he wishes he could trade eyes with me so that I could see what he has seen. He doesn't speak the horrors and I do not ask him to. He points to his silver hair and to his heart and blames the deteriorating condition of both on the war. He says things are getting better now. He hears through the grapevine that there are now about 100-400 tourists a week and he hopes the new government will work out the problems. The prime minister is a good man, he says. But I don't think he cares anymore who runs the country.
Changing the subject, I ask him about the tomb of Yusaf and his eyes light up. "You know about this?" he asks excitedly.
I tell him what I have read and heard: Jesus' Hebrew name is Yazu. That Jesus wandered as far as India in his youth between the ages of 12 and 25 and returned to his beloved Kashmir after his staged crucifixion is a belief shared by many. He was also rumored to have traveled back to England with Joseph or even walked across the New World. According to local legend, Jesus was known as Saint Yuz Asaf, a man who performed miracles and preached in the first century A.D.
Some Kashmiris believe that their valley is the true promised land and some believe they are descended from one of the lost tribes of Israel. It sounded like the usual Chariot of the Gods stuff but worth exploring.
I ask him what he knows about the tomb. He says the tomb contains the body of Yusaf.
"He is your prophet and he is our prophet. Yusaf is all around us," he says.
I ask him when Yusaf was buried there.
"Four thousand years ago, before there was history," the old man says.
Who is Yusaf?
"Yusaf is everywhere, everything. When you breathe in and out that is Yusaf. Everything around you is Yusaf."
So much for accurate historical recall.
Not knowing quite where to go with this outburst of religious enthusiasm, I ask if the man in the tomb is Jesus Christ? He says quite frankly that he doesn't know.
As I go to bed my guide says, "Make sure you make yourself very clean tomorrow." He even tells me how to wipe the dust off my hiking boots. "We must be very clean for Yusaf tomorrow."
The next day we head for the Tomb of Yusaf. It is in a very nondescript building near the famous wooden mosque of Srinagar. The mosque was originally built in 1385 and has been burned and rebuilt five times since. Constructed with wood shingles and 300 cedar trunks the mosque retains its medieval look and also seems to retain its inflammatory character as the mullahs whip up hatred against the Indian army. The mosque is the flashpoint for most demonstrations and resultant violence in Srinagar.
All traffic is prohibited from entering this area, but we cajole the police into letting us pass. Large blue APCs with turret gunners roar up and down the street around the mosque. People gather to make their prayers at the mosque. My guide prays and kisses the ornaments as we enter.
Inside is a glass container and within that is a faded, dusty, shroud-covered tomb. A cement block inset with a pair of unauthentic looking footprints sit nearby. Otherwise there is nothing. Outside are demonstrations and troops. Inside, my guide is praying quietly. Is this the tomb of Christ? Does it matter? Is there a reason why he has chosen this beautiful but troubled land? Why would a prophet be in a Muslim country run by Hindus surrounded by Buddhists? I wonder if he or anyone can hear my guide's Muslim prayers. Like the hostages, this is an enigma whose need for a solution is overshadowed by the harsh reality of survival. But my trip to this tomb taught me that it is important to understand that the Kashmiris can accept these enigmas without facts or resolution. I think I have found my answer. The hostages are here and they are not here. Kashmir is a war zone and it is a tourist haven. It is whatever it must be for people to survive.
Things are heating up outside and my guide says it is time for me to leave. I think he is concerned I will miss my flight until he points to the angry crowds outside. I realize the quiet tomb has made me forget where I am. I head for the airport. We go through five identical in-depth searches on our way to the airport. Every single item from film canisters to food bars is opened. My batteries are taken out of every single battery powered device I have and are confiscated. A box of matches is taken and stuck in a soldier's pocket. He shrugs as if to say better in his pocket than in the trash. My guide is pressed against the fence by the crush of people. He asks me to think about him at Christmas and send his family something. He says Kashmir is dying. I thank him and wonder why he has chosen a Christian holiday to ask for something for his Muslim family.
The airport is packed with soldiers. I sit next to a Sikh army captain just back from the front. He says the war is fairly routine now. "They fire 500 rounds; we fire 1000 rounds back." There are casualties on both sides. I tell him of my trip into the mountains and he looks at me rather incredulously. When I give him the details he nods his head gently.
"The west is very dangerous," he says. "You never know who your enemy is. Is he mujahedin or Kashmiri or both?"
I ask him about the hostages and pull out a map. He pushes the map back in my hand and says, "Please, do not show me anything. I am not supposed to talk to you."
I realize that we are being watched by a number of officers in the waiting lounge. I ask him about the hostages and if the rumors that they were recaptured and held on an Indian military base are true. "That is silly" he says.
I ask him if the army knew where the hostages were.
"Don't you think that if we knew where they were, we would go in and get them?" he asked insulted.
I ask if they really did kill the leader of Al-Faran and if the hostages were wounded in the resultant fire fight.
"That is something I cannot talk about."
He gives me some tips. The spring is the most dangerous time, when the snow melts and the terrorists (as he calls them) can move freely without leaving tracks. The winter is much safer and there are fewer attacks. The militants like to use big road mines that they set off under the troop trucks. He has been here a year and a half and is tired of the fear and killing. He pulls out the army campaign ribbons he has for Kashmir and then quickly tucks them away.
He tells me he is bringing back dead soldiers to their families in India. His job is to explain to the bereaved families what must be done, the paperwork, how to file for benefits and how to conduct the funerals of their children. He is not too emotional about his job since he brings out a lot of dead soldiers. One thing he is happy about is the Army accepting his resignation. He plans to emigrate to Toronto to set up a trucking company with his brother. He says he is in love with Canada. But there are problems there. His brother has been forced to cut his hair and abandon his turban because of all the locals calling him "Paki." He is afraid that he too will have to cut his hair and beard. "Paki" is an odd insult to a Sikh from India fighting a war with Muslim Pakistanis in Kashmir.
On the other side of me is a young Canadian couple returning from backpacking through India. They were told it would be safe, something utterly believable for them because "there sure is a lot of security." I tell them that 45 people died this week and that the man on the other side of me is paying excess baggage fines on stiffs. They laugh, thinking I am kidding. I notice they clutch a well-worn Lonely Planet guide to India. They said they had heard that there was a war here but that it is much better now. They are right; there is officially no war here. The government even bans books that reveal the disputed border between Kashmir and Pakistan instead of the official version. And in a way my touristic friends were right. They went hiking, had a good time and are heading home tanned and happy. They are surprised to hear there were some other tourists who came here for the same thing but never even made it to the hiking part, let alone the airport.
Back in Delhi, I have dinner at the home of a Kashmiri who has moved his business from Srinagar to Delhi. During my initial fact-finding stay in Delhi he was fascinated by my desire to seek out what is really going on, and wanted to talk to me when I got back. He has a curious habit of calling me "My Dear" or "Dear," but I'm not dissuaded since I am getting accustomed to their humorous use of the colonial British tongue. I meet him at his house to have dinner with his family.
He owns three houseboats and a small hotel in Srinagar. Many families have handed down tourist businesses since the 1930s. He wishes I could have met his father since he loved to fish and hike. He also has a fondness for the mountains, something that every Kashmiri seems to take great pride in. He is essentially a refugee, albeit better off than most, from the war. He says the fighting is between Pakistani mujahedin and the Indian army. He doesn't believe Kashmiris have taken up the fight. "Why would you risk your family and your little ones?" he asks. "If Kashmiris were to fight, it would be for independence, not to be part of India or Pakistan. It is not worth dying for India or Pakistan."
When I ask him about the hostages, he gives me the same reply virtually every other Kashmiri had given me, "What do you know about the hostages?"
I tell him that I think the Al-Faran have gone back to Pakistan and that the hostages have either been moved south or are dead by now. One thing is for sure: the hostages are the last thing the Kashmiris have to worry about. He agrees, as if to help me understand that the hostage situation is not the work of Kashmiris. "The Kashmiris only have two enemies; India and Pakistan," he says. "We do not know why India needs or wants Kashmir, or why Pakistan needs or wants Kashmir."
The hostages have become a riddle, an enigma and a mystery. And like religion, the weather and the future, it is something Kashmiris are very comfortable accepting.
"We are not a fierce warring tribe, but a people who love our cool mountains and who exist by showing others our beautiful country," my host says. "We just want our own way of life and not be forced to live in the heat and squalor of Delhi. Why do we sweat in this heat when we could be in our beloved mountains with our families? "
But for now the Kashmiris sweat.
Back in America, I talk to James Bowman, the campaign director in England. He is sure that the hostages are still alive. It helps that Terry Waite, former envoy for the Anglican Church, and once a hostage himself, is involved. The families return regularly to put a fire under the government and check with their own group of Kashmiri investigators. They have met with the prime minister of India and have begged him to warn tourists of the dangers in Kashmir. He won't. But he encouraged the relatives to do what they can to warn off other unsuspecting tourists. As for the two-year-old question: "Are they dead or are they still alive," the families firmly believe they are alive. Some journalists and governments say they were executed on Dec 13 or 15 last year. No one has proof and no one has produced a hard bit of evidence other than the eyewitness testimony of villagers who say they have seen the hostages.
Kashmir is a dangerous place. And for the hostages it will forever change their view of Westerners being able to ignore minor politics in search of adventure or relaxation. Westerners are an ideal negotiating tool and once they lose that status their existence becomes a liability. The long confinement of other hostages like Terry Waite and Terry Anderson have shown that time may be on their side. For now the families work, wait and wonder.
For now they sweat.
Note: The hostages were last seen by a number of villagers in May of 1996 in the village of Kuzuz. In the Kishtawar area of Kashmir. There is a reward of US$30,000 for information leading to the retrieval of the hostages. Any one with information or who wishes to assist the families in their ongoing search for their loved ones should contact:
James Bowman
Director
The Hostages in Kashmir Campaign
Independent House
112 Borough Road
Middlesbrough, England TS1 2ES
Tel [44] (1642) 339090, FAX: [44] (1642) 339191
Web: www.hostagesinkashmir, e-mail: jbowman@itl.net
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