The day three militants hitch-hiked with me

The day three militants hitch-hiked with me
February 2001

Times of India

Travel through Kashmir Valley and the impression is that of a state under siege. Army camps, checkposts, convoys with mounted guns, BSF patrols, J-K police jeeps with bayonets pointing at you through wire mesh and frequent checks and searches. Fresh graves, roads pitted by grenade attacks, water pumps in derelict condition, burnt down transformers. Walk into villages and it is injuries and deaths and
above all, fear. What is not visible is the shadowy presence of militants, made real only through their
deaths and civilian killings. Staying on the higher reaches of the mountains, or melting into villages, it is not often that one crosses them, unless one organises a meeting. Perhaps it was the ceasefire that eased their movements, bringing down a group of Hizbul militants onto the main road running through Kupwara district; and that’s where I met them last week.
I was returning to Srinagar when a group of men on the road stopped us to say someone had been injured. Even though I avoid giving lifts to locals it curtails movement I felt it would be inhuman not to stop. I stub out the surreptitious cigarette I have been smoking while they clamber in and we move on. Three, including the injured man, are in the vehicle. I don’t really look at them because I am squeamish about blood, but talk over my shoulder. It is a bullet injury on the leg his revolver went off inadvertently. In the meanwhile, my cigarette, buried hastily into my kangri, starts to burn. I am worried about this breach in decorum while travelling in the Valley. Having tackled this mishap, I think it is a good time to talk to some more villagers (the utilise every opportunity syndrome we journalists suffer from while outstation).
Are they from here? What is the situation like? Their clipped responses so unlike the garrulous Kashmiris do not discomfit me. “Is the situation so bad that all of you keep guns?” I persist. “No, only some of us.” It is only then (so late that I was later embarrassed to admit it) that something penetrates. “Are you with some tanzeem (militant group)?” “Yes.” “Which one?” “HM” (Hizbul Mujahideen).
Bizarre. That is all I can think as we move on the snow is falling and I am travelling with three gunmen in the back seat. Obviously, they have nothing on their minds but their injured companion who is
groaning. I wonder how wise it is to question them, but the reporter in me gets the better of my caution. They are locals, they say, like most in their unit. One of them joined three years ago after graduation.
Yes, he tried getting a job. No, he never visits his family who are being harassed by the security forces. The training was in Pakistan and arms are supplied from there. The ceasefire has eased things. They stay in villages.
Their own actions have decreased. Will the talks help? Of course not, only the gun. The situation is so strange that fear seems implausible. I wonder how the ride will end. Will they turn hostile? “Would you have forced us at gun point if we had not stopped?” “No, of course not.”
Another thought crosses my mind what if we are intercepted by security forces and they open fire? What will happen if I ask them to get off the vehicle right now? If news of this leaks out, will I ever be able to work here again? Nothing of this kind happens. Even my “interview” is tame with my passengers uncommunicative. They don’t seem to understand that I am a journalist and they are part of my ‘investigation’!! They reach a point, ask us to stop and melt away. Not even a warning not to talk! We
continue our journey towards Srinagar.