Th/Inking Borders © Clara Cornaro
Some thirty kilometres from the Line of Control, on a hilltop, sat Habibulla. Here on the Pakistani side of the LoC, he was contemplating freedom. Could the current unrest at the border aid his asylum application in Germany, or anywhere in Europe for that matter? Though the ideal destination would be Germany. A day had not passed without him thinking about his friends there or speaking German with random people on the streets of Munich. Sometimes he would imagine himself coquetting with beautiful men and women in Munich’s hip Glockenbachviertel neighbourhood and sometimes having an intense intercourse about migration with someone on the U-Bahn.
It was not uncommon for him to sit at Jazba-Point and gaze down the valley. In fact, since his deportation from Germany, he had been coming up here every morning without exception. The tiny colourful trucks, cars and motorbikes zig-zagging along the Poonch River down below helped him pace his thoughts. The mineral-rich waters of this river were no different from one of the tributaries of the Danube in Bavaria. Shades of cerulean, lapis, azure, teal and turquoise in the water made Poonch look like Altmühl, Naab, Regen, Isar or Inn. When he was not thinking of ways to get back to Germany, imaginary transfigurations of the visual-scape kept Habibulla’s mind occupied. Once the sun began to set behind the hills of Kashmir, sometimes Bavaria in his mind’s eye, only then would he start his minimum-thirty-minute walk back home.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
‘Oye Bullah!’
‘Bullay-ah!’
‘Bullay-oh!’
‘Will you listen to me, Habibulla? Dreaming about the hills of Bavaria again, were you?’ Making an effort to control his mirth, Saleem continued in a somewhat half-serious tone, ‘Freedom can be made possible here too. But you, you are always dreaming of another freedom.’
Saleem’s voice however, could not penetrate the curtain of Habibulla’s intense contemplation. He finally approached Habibulla, sat next to him, and put an arm around his shoulders. Trying to puncture his reticence Saleem asked, ‘Did you hear of the shelling by the Indians this morning? The Pakistanis retaliated too, I am told.’
Things had intensified between the two neighbours ever since India had revoked Jammu and Kashmir’s special constitutional rights. Umeed-Pur, their town, never saw any cross border firing or shelling. Still, it was close enough to the LoC for its residents to be gravely distressed about the whole situation. Residents like Saleem who had lost relatives during the brief but intense Kargil war, were especially concerned.
‘Why do we have to be the grain between these two grinding stones?’ sighed Habibulla. Last time his asylum application was scuttled by the Germans because of the Syrian flashpoint. The Europeans and their Grand Guignol sensibility; only Tarantinoesque gore and physical violence appeals to them, he thought. Perhaps it would be different if he were in Germany right now, he almost said to Saleem, but then kept his mouth shut.
‘Will you join us for the Azadi March tomorrow Bullay?’ said Saleem, trying to break Habibulla’s contemplative silence this time.
A shrug was all Saleem got in response.
‘The Indians are saying they attacked terrorist training camps in Jura and Dolomiti sectors of Azad Kashmir. What rubbish.’ With that remark, Saleem pitched the idea of supporting the Freedom March to Habibulla once again and then left, thinking himself to be loquacious. Habibulla had that effect on others since his forced return to Pakistan. He even made his untalkative mother feel like she was over-talkative of late.
‘Bullay-ah!’
‘Bullay-oh!’
‘Will you listen to me, Habibulla? Dreaming about the hills of Bavaria again, were you?’ Making an effort to control his mirth, Saleem continued in a somewhat half-serious tone, ‘Freedom can be made possible here too. But you, you are always dreaming of another freedom.’
Saleem’s voice however, could not penetrate the curtain of Habibulla’s intense contemplation. He finally approached Habibulla, sat next to him, and put an arm around his shoulders. Trying to puncture his reticence Saleem asked, ‘Did you hear of the shelling by the Indians this morning? The Pakistanis retaliated too, I am told.’
Things had intensified between the two neighbours ever since India had revoked Jammu and Kashmir’s special constitutional rights. Umeed-Pur, their town, never saw any cross border firing or shelling. Still, it was close enough to the LoC for its residents to be gravely distressed about the whole situation. Residents like Saleem who had lost relatives during the brief but intense Kargil war, were especially concerned.
‘Why do we have to be the grain between these two grinding stones?’ sighed Habibulla. Last time his asylum application was scuttled by the Germans because of the Syrian flashpoint. The Europeans and their Grand Guignol sensibility; only Tarantinoesque gore and physical violence appeals to them, he thought. Perhaps it would be different if he were in Germany right now, he almost said to Saleem, but then kept his mouth shut.
‘Will you join us for the Azadi March tomorrow Bullay?’ said Saleem, trying to break Habibulla’s contemplative silence this time.
A shrug was all Saleem got in response.
‘The Indians are saying they attacked terrorist training camps in Jura and Dolomiti sectors of Azad Kashmir. What rubbish.’ With that remark, Saleem pitched the idea of supporting the Freedom March to Habibulla once again and then left, thinking himself to be loquacious. Habibulla had that effect on others since his forced return to Pakistan. He even made his untalkative mother feel like she was over-talkative of late.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
As Habibulla walked downhill towards home, he noticed the abundance of fresh wall chalkings on the rock-faces:
Restore Kashmir’s special status!
Lift the inhumane curfew India!
He could not help but think about what they stood for, along with the old ones:
Kashmir is the jugular vein of Pakistan!
Kashmir will be Pakistan!
Like many, in his town, he supported the Kashmiri right to self-determination. Unlike many, he doubted the Pakistani narrative’s veracity. For him, an independent State of Kashmir was the only solution. Free from India and Pakistan. The stand against Hindu India was easy. What many around him found hard to argue was the independence from Muslim Pakistan. For Habibulla however, it was clear that ethnic lines cut through Pakistan’s heart. Within Pakistan, the Kashmiris would always be slaves as in India. With this realisation, he was overcome by a sensation of drowning. Despair filled his lungs, leaving no room for a breath of fresh air.
Restore Kashmir’s special status!
Lift the inhumane curfew India!
He could not help but think about what they stood for, along with the old ones:
Kashmir is the jugular vein of Pakistan!
Kashmir will be Pakistan!
Like many, in his town, he supported the Kashmiri right to self-determination. Unlike many, he doubted the Pakistani narrative’s veracity. For him, an independent State of Kashmir was the only solution. Free from India and Pakistan. The stand against Hindu India was easy. What many around him found hard to argue was the independence from Muslim Pakistan. For Habibulla however, it was clear that ethnic lines cut through Pakistan’s heart. Within Pakistan, the Kashmiris would always be slaves as in India. With this realisation, he was overcome by a sensation of drowning. Despair filled his lungs, leaving no room for a breath of fresh air.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Tomorrow, he resolved, he would march towards azadi. A glimpse of hope. Once again he set his sights upon his dream of another freedom. This time no one could deport him.
Usman Mahar is a doctoral candidate in anthropology at the University of Munich (LMU). Since 2019 he has been conducting – a German Research Foundation (DFG) funded – research that aims to understand the affective dimensions of deportation and ‘voluntary’ return migration to Pakistan. His alma maters include the University of Heidelberg, University College Utrecht and Aitchison College Lahore.
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