Almost through a fake encounter

In Kashmir, where life is more uncertain than death, freedom becomes more important than life. Haziq Qadri talks about his experience of almost being the victim of a fake encounter…

In Kashmir the state forces can kill you in the most unexpected ways and make you unrecognisable. They know the dead cannot speak, so no one can say who you were.

On December 9, 2014, when some districts in Kashmir were voting for a new government and the state was priding itself for the great show of democracy in one of the world’s most dangerous conflict-ridden places there were great instances where one would be disillusioned about any of the democratic claims of the state.

On that morning, I, along with my university friends headed towards Fakir Gujri—a locality of Gujjars (a Kashmiri tribe), in the outskirts of Srinagar, situated on the foothills of Zarbarwan Mountains. Fakir Gujri is one of the less visited but fascinating spots around Srinagar. Its location and the beauty make it one of the apt spots for photography—the reason of our visit to the place.




There were thirteen students in the group, including five girls. We reached near Fakir Gujri around 11 am. I and three other friends of mine thought of moving a little ahead of the rest of us; so we started to move in a separate cluster. However, there was a friend, who was behind us and wanted to catch up. Trekking the hills was not a tiresome exercise at all. None of us panted, because we were all together, chatting and enjoying each other’s company. I, Junaid, Khalid and Irfan—were climbing a small hill when suddenly our movement was halted. What we saw was astonishing and panicking at the same time.

Not too far from the place where we stood, there were policemen downhill: One was already shooting us with a cyber shot point-and-shoot camera while the others signaled us come down. Being asked to stop by a policeman in Kashmir is normal but being filmed, and that too in this wilderness was something to worry about.

There was another thing to worry and that was our appearance. In Kashmir, those with beards or long hair or skullcaps have been the prime target of the police or army atrocities as they remind them of militants. I sported long unkempt hair and short, untrimmed boxed beard (which I continue to have), Junaid was wearing an Afghani Pakol, Khalid’s neck was wound in a checkered Palestinian Keffiyah—something that has been a rage among Kashmiri youths after the 2008 uprising—and Irfan had grown a long beard. All four of us, if killed, would have been easily pictured as militants, for we fitted in the descriptions that militants are given. But was that too much to think at that time? Why would anyone try to kill us when we were just students.

We obeyed the police call and began to descend. Some of us were resting somewhere on the mid climb. They had no idea of what was going on below or above.

Now as we stood before the policemen, one of the policemen signaled in a direction and in a moment an armed vehicle came towards us along with ten more armed cops. The policemen included the personnel of SOG—Special operation Group of police—who are tasked to crush militant activities. The Group is the most dreaded one and has earned a notorious name for its atrocious acts over the last fifteen years or so.

The four of us with a “militant appearance” were asked to stand in a separate line. Others were asked to stand aside and then the girls were segregated. Until then, only the directives and orders came. After keeping us in ‘positions’, they started abusing us—the vilest and foulest invectives were showered on us. It was very embarrassing in front of the girls.

They abused us for our appearance, for our beards, our hair and our names even. Our identity cards were checked and then snatched. We were separated and asked about each other in order to cross check our particulars. But there was hardly anything we could tell them except that we studied together in university and had become friends. It did not satisfy them, though.

About my long hair and beard, one of the policemen, who happened to be the in-charge of this police-party, abused me and said that I looked like some foreign militant and that he would shoot me in a fake encounter. Khalid was asked to talk in Kashmiri—to present a proof that he really belonged to the valley—because his full name, Khalid Khan, sounded more of an Afghani name to them.

All this abusing and identification process continued for nearly twenty minutes. Finally the in-charge of this police party asked his men to hold their positions and put the four of us in a line. He told us that we were going to be shot and then tagged as militants. At first, it sounded as if they were just trying to scare us, but when they opened the back doors of their vehicle open and cocked their rifles, we realised that it was something more than a deterrent. Yet they had really come with the intention to kill us. It was not happening for the first time in Kashmir but it happened for the first time with all of us. The Pathribal fake encounter at once struck my mind. That quite resembled our situation. We were also near the same fate and in the same position.

In early spring 2014, I and one of my journalist-friends visited Pathribal in South Kashmir. Pathribal was in news in mid-2000 for a long time after Indian army killed five local men and then labeled them as Lashker-e-Toiba militants. The families of the men killed, and other witnesses there, told us how those five civilians were taken to a hill and then shot at and later burnt to render them unrecognisable. Their staged encounter was celebrated as a grand success by the Indian army. Yet after a long investigation pleaded by the families of the killed men, the Pathribal is said to be one of the classic fake encounters in Kashmir.

We tried to contact our journalist friends, in Srinagar and elsewhere, who could try to save us from these men, but to our utter bad luck cellphone connectivity didn’t work well on such an altitude. There was only one way to save ourselves: prayers. Besides that, we could plea for our innocence to these men. So we started pleading.




After few minutes, one of the police personnel, who seemed a bit considerate, took me aside and told me the whole story: Earlier that day, when we had moved towards Fakir Gujri, a police informer had spotted us. He had informed the police about the presence of militants by giving them our “militant” descriptions. The surveillance in-charge of the concerned police station headed towards the spot, followed by the SOG men who were to stage an encounter. They had come with all necessary preparations.

Upon finding that we were not militants but students, they had decided to stage an encounter anyway and label four of us as militants.

The policeman told me that there were around 40 militants active in Srinagar and two had been killed in a gun-battle two days ago in Soura locality of Srinagar. The SOG had decided to add four of us in the list of killed militants now. He told me that they had made all the arrangements for the post-encounter situation and all they needed to do now was to shoot and ferry our bodies to the police station in the vehicle they had brought along.

Our pleas were going unheard. We felt hopeless. But the girls who were accompanying us did not lose hope. They continued to plea for our release and literally begged to them to let us go. After protracted pleas and begging by girls, we were finally let go.

But before they would let us go, they warned us from coming to this area again. They were certainly furious for they had not had their catch, they could not stage any encounter. No encounter meant no rewards, no medals for bravery and no money and no promotions.

We hurriedly left the place and reached Lal Chowk. We were still not sure if we were really alive. In Kashmir, where life is more uncertain than death, freedom becomes more important than life. Incidents like these are reasons enough for any Kashmiri to sacrifice anything for the sake of freedom: Freedom to live and die with dignity.

We were fortunate enough to return alive. Thanks to the girls who became our passports to safety. But what of those hundreds who were taken to forests, deserted mountains, orchards and other unknown places and killed in fake encounters? We luckily found ourselves alive out of this near-to-death situation but long ago, long before this war started, we lost our freedom, freedom to move in our valley.