UNTOLD TALES OF TORTURE: The Day Islamabad Burns

Umar Lateef Misgar & Khalid Fayaz

It was early November of 1991.The whole town was locked on account of “self-imposed” curfew. Streets were deserted and shops closed. The chill served the purpose of arresting everyone inside their cozy living rooms. Sipping extra cups of Nun Chai, the elderly were sharing their memories of Dogra rule in Kashmir. Defying the whole day’s house arrest, me and my friends, finished our afternoon tea in a jiffy and went out. We were orderly sharing the clasp of our kangri(firepot) on the threshold of my store. As the situation provided, we were hashing out Azadi (freedom). We were about to depart for offering asar(afternoon prayer), when a group of men passed by. They were heavily armed. In their mid-twenties, they looked determined to face every obstacle in their path. Excited, we greeted them obsequiously and proceeded towards the mosque.

When we came out of the mosque, a pack of CRPF gypsies hovered upon us. A large contingent of soldiers came forward and our hands automatically went in search for the ‘proof of our identity’. Despite our verily satisfying IDs, they seized us. They ferried us onto their gypsies and drove deeper downtown. We were heading towards Reshi Bazaar area, when the gypsies were cascaded with bullets. CRPF retaliated and changed their direction. They parked their gypsies near Sherbagh police station and warned us against escaping. While they were leaving, we could hear them say, “laga do aag” (put it on fire). Terrified, I and my friends whispered our last prayers. We had already sensed the impending death.

After a few minutes, our captors returned and drove via Cheeni Chowk to Sadar police station. On our way, we could see fierce flames engulfing Malaknag, Cheeni Chowk and Qazi Mohalla. The CRPF men opened fire on everyone who tried to extinguish the fire, including the state fire brigade. A CRPF trooper opened fire even on an el­derly woman who tried to put off the flames which were extinguishing her life-long in­heritance. At dusk, we arrived at sadar police staion. Our eyes were engrossed by the disastrous flaming of Islamabad. It was ironic to hear a CRPF soldier yell at our faces, “dekho ugarwadiyoun ney anantnag ka kya kara”? (Look, what insurgents did to Anantnag?).

At night, they transported us off to the CRPF camp at Verinag. The Camp was my first encounter with the dreaded ‘interroga­tion’ rampant during those times. That night was full of sobs as we heard cries of those who were being tortured. The pain of fire, I had just seen; the chill of November as I was given nothing to wrap my body with and the fear of dreadful dawn accentuated my insomnia. For whole night, I was staring at the ceiling, thinking about my family and friends who were locked in the opposite cells. At daybreak, we were charged with batons. After a bone-breaking session of baton-charge, they dragged us by holding onto our hair and locked us back in the cells. Verbal interrogation followed thereafter. 

I clearly remember the first question they posed, “Tanzeem kya hai?” (With which insurgent group does your loyalty lie?). I feverishly replied, “Main Dukandar hoon.” (I am just a shopkeeper). I suppose that the ferocious tone of my voice antagonized the interrogator and he started to humiliate me out of anger. He blindfolded me and began to strip every piece of clothing ma­terial that was clung to my torso. Firmly tying my hands, he began to experiment his cane on my naked body. After a week of rigorous torture, one morning, they loaded us into a truck and we were taken to Awantipora camp. The camp was just a stopover but not a recreational one. At Awantipora, they made me wipe-clean the corridors of a seven storey building.

Our next stop was the infamous Hari- Niwas interrogation centre. Hari-Nivas proved dreadful, both psychologically and physically. Terrifying cries of already detained youth greeted us into this dun­geon of pain. Formerly, a palace of one of a Dogra rulers, it was turned into a paramilitary base during 1990s. I recall, while we were entering the premises of Hari-Nivas, a CRPF trooper on guard clutched my beard and mocked at my face, “Bakra hai Sala” (This sala looks like a goat). A systematic pattern of torture was followed at Hari-Nivas. Ev­ery odd day, I was taken to the inter­rogation room and tortured to pulp. On numerous occasions, they electrocuted the most sensitive parts of my body, including the penis. Within just ten days, I remember, lice had occupied my body. Every cell at Hari-Nivas hosted a noose on its ceiling, which obliterated us from any possible sleep. Offering namaz (prayer) was our only appointment with peace. Provided a meager amount of ration, we used to steal and hide extra bread inside our pajamas. Five men shared a single cup of tea or whatever liquid it was.

The chorus continued for almost a fort­night. Finally, after a month of rigorous battle with psychological and physical inflic­tion, I was released. After reaching home, I was cleaned with a superfluous supply of disinfectants by my family members. Later, when I recovered from my limbo, I came to know that my uncle had gotten me re­leased in exchange for a bag of almonds and a Kashmiri shawl.

Note: This story is based on first-hand accounts taken from Muzaffer Ahmad (name changed) in August 2012. Muzaffer Ahmad is a shopkeeper at Islamabad.