Did it a year ago, bears a repeat. (Always). Coming right
up. Notes from a diary of a trip.
In 2002, soon after violence blighted Gujarat, a group of us
travelled through that state. Some thought it was a journey of compassion.
Then as now, I was cynical about compassion applying to
folks who had committed horrible crimes. I wanted just to observe. Learn.
Remember.
Like this: Start in Godhra, went on to Baroda &
Ahmedabad, stops at villages & towns on the way, stops at camps for the
victims.
In my diary I described it as a "raw, disturbing,
nerve-wracking, soul-deadening trip. Most depressing several days of my
life."
Like one year ago, here are some notes from a diary of
Gujarat in a time of massacre. 2002: I remember.
In Godhra, our first sight: huge hoarding with portrait of
Narendra Modi. It says: "Gujarat measures 9.9 on the recovery scale."
Inside the carriage - that carriage - at Godhra railway
station, the floor is strewn with, of all things, grains of rice.
But also strewn on the floor of the carriage: shoes, jeans,
socks, bottles, twisted metal, pictures of Govinda, a (twisted) metal cup.
And a half-burnt kid's exercise book: first legible page,
careful schoolkid hand, has these Hindi words: "baal kaan haath gaal naak
maathi"
Also lying in the carriage: several booklets titled
"Ayodhya", picture on the back of the Babri Masjid with people on top
of its domes.
And several books printed in Hindi, with this title in
English: "Ayodhya Guide."
Gurgaon man I speak to a few days later, his eldest brother
and wife died in the fire. He says: "I'm afraid to come to Gujarat."
Part of our group is a theatre collective from Delhi,
"Nishant". In Godhra, they alight from the carriage, gather us all,
and sing.
Picked up small handful of ashes in that carriage. Once again,
they're on my lap now, wrapped in plastic. (They'll fly in the mild breeze).
Inside of the carriage, I noted, looks like barracks I've
seen in Auschwitz, Dachau. There and here, how could anyone hope to survive?
On to a camp in Godhra. Yusufbhai from Kuwajar village says
the mob that drove him and others out was shouting "Maro, kaapo, maal loot
lo!"
He says the police did nothing to stop the mob. Instead,
they told Yusufbhai and the others escaping with him, "Save yourselves and
run!"
Same camp, we meet a 20 year-old girl from Kesharpur. She
doesn't know where her husband is. Their 2 year-old child was killed.
Salambhai's house in Kuwajar, burned down by a mob.
"What is the fault of us villagers," he asks when we meet, "in
what happened in Godhra?"
Still same camp: A woman tells us that the police said to
her: "You better run away, or they will use their swords on you!"
Siraj Patel watched 3 people being killed on the road from
Limkheda to Baria to Antala (sp?). One of the three: his 10th standard son.
Another Siraj (?) tells me how some men were burnt alive:
"They tied branches on them and set them on fire."
Amina's son? "Made into 3 pieces" ("unka teen
tukde banaye"). Man with him? Shot dead. Another man with him? Tied up and
burned alive.
10 year-old girl saw her father attacked, ran to save him.
Someone slashed at her. She is alive. He is alive. She has a gash on her back.
She tells me of another 10 year-old who told the mob:
"Kill me, but spare my sisters!" Her father killed with a blow to his
head. Sisters?
Teacher in the camp says: "We believe in sarva dharma
sambhava. But the people who watched their kids being burned, how will they
believe?"
70 houses in a village near Dahod were burned. Met a man
from there, wife, 4 kids. They stayed in the "jungle" for 3 days, no
food & water.
He also told me fourteen other members of his family were
raped and/or killed.
Girl in Godhra camp said: "Sarpanch hid us in a field,
said we'd be safe and went away. Then he came back with many people to kill
us."
The same girl saw her friend standing outside her home,
saying "My father will save us!" Then a mob appeared and cut her
down.
She is crying quietly as she tells me that story. Then she
tells me three of her uncles were also killed.
In Godhra camp alone, three different women told us about
sarpanches who told them to hide in fields, then brought mobs to attack them.
Zohra, 23, hid with husband in cornfield. A mob set fire to
the crop. So they ran. Mob caught her husband, killed him. She saw it happen.
Fatma, 45, ran to the hills without footwear, hid for 3 days
without food and water. Why? Mobs burned down her house in Randikpur.
She tells me this, then Fatma is quiet for a half-minute.
Then she says: "It's a Rs 14 ticket from here [Godhra] to Randikpur."
Another Fatma, 22, hid in fields. Mob came - "10 of
them for each of us"- for them, hit her with lathi & sword, she fell
unconscious.
Yakub whom I met in the camp told me: "We can't return
because they destroyed our homes and turned the area into a maidan."
Bilkis of Randikpur had a three year-old child who was
"cut and thrown away" ("kaatke phek diye"). Then 12 men
raped her. She is pregnant.
I need to point out: I learned about Bilkis from her bua,
sitting beside her in the camp. Bilkis herself only stared. She could not
speak.
Road from Godhra to Baroda, a burned-down mosque. Inside,
cloth pieces, several goats. Man outside: "I know nothing abt what
happened here."
Dehlol: another burned-down mosque. Inside: monkeys. (No
goats). Outside, the residents of Dehlol stand and watch us sullenly, silently.
Man says 37 Dehlol residents were chased to this mosque
& killed. It was torched, its minaret toppled. Still sullen, people still
watching.
Also in Dehlol, we pass a trishul with an unexpected object
fluttering from it. A bra.
Photographer pal and old man from our group, surrounded by
mob in Dehlol, demanding their film. They refused. Gets ugly. A cop saved them.
Dehlol: man in sleeveless vest, glasses, running to flab:
"Pakistan attacks us on the border. We can't go there, so we hit back
here." (1/9)
"See what Israel is doing to the Palestinians," he
says in an admiring tone. "That's the treatment we have to give them
here." (2/9)
"For 50 years," he says, "they have been
doing things like Godhra. The press never reports it." Who's
"they", I want to ask. (3/9)
(Still with same man in vest, running to flab. He's talking
to a German blonde and me, middle of Dehlol, growing crowd around us.) (4/9)
"The days of that ch***ya Gandhi, turning the other
cheek, are gone!" He thrusts his cheek at me in a way that is shockingly
crude. (5/9)
"When people enter our houses and torture us," he
says, "we have to react!" Crowd nods. Who entered your house, I ask.
Angry silence. (6/9)
Crowd disperses. He says: "Have a soda at my
shop." He makes us a lime drink. Good stuff. But he takes no money, just
shakes my hand. (7/9)
Blonde & I walk out of Dehlol. Unnerving several
minutes. In complete silence, large crowds watch us pass, women snickering
behind us. (8/9)
For 11 years I've wondered: someone killed 37 people in
Dehlol. Flabby guy who wouldn't charge us for soda, was he one of the killers?
(9/9)
Cops tell us that the residents of Dehlol have complained,
saying our group harassed them and made them uncomfortable. I remember the
soda.
60 year-old in Ahmedabad camp, was watchman in a building.
Mob of 5000, he thinks, began throwing stones at bldg. He and his wife ran
away.
He shows me a "Rahat Chhavninoon Hangami" card he
says the Government gave him because of the violence. "What's it
for?" he asks me.
(Outside that camp was this large banner: "Health and
Family Welfare Department, Government of Gujarat, At Your Service".
Kodnani's dept?)
2 women, driven by mob from homes in Guptanagar, went back
to look. Everything burned down. "Doesn't look like a place to live",
one says.
"There were people standing there with lathis and
swords," she goes on, "and they told us to get out." They
returned to the camp.
Later, the Army took the women and families back to Guptanagar.
They put locks on whatever of their doors still stood, came back to camp.
Kudratbano, 35, saw her brother, his wife and their six
children burned alive in Naroda-Patiya. The mob, she told me, "came from 4
sides."
Ishu is the son of her other brother. He was hit with sticks
and thrown on a garbage dump. He lived. He shows me the scars on his head.
Ishu's two year-old brother (I find I didn't record his
name) was burned to death.
Outside this camp, a young man yells at us: "We don't
want your peace committee!" With some others, he starts throwing stones at
us. (1/8)
Small stones, but frightening anyway. "Take your peace
nonsense ["shanti bakwaas"] to the RSS!" they shout, throwing
more stones. (2/8)
Ahead of us, I can see that the stones have broken a few
windows on our bus. (3/8)
I'm walking to the bus alongside a monk from our party who's
dressed in saffron robes. Several young men point at him, pick up stones. (4/8)
As they target us, a young woman comes up on a scooter.
"Get on behind me!" she orders the monk. "Get on right now! I'll
take you!" (5/8)
The monk does as she says. She zips through the milling
shouting irate crowds to the bus. I see him climbing on. (6/8)
Me, I'm now alone. But nobody is interested in me. I run to
the bus. I see her. There's time only to shout: "What's your name?"
(7/8)
I've said it silently and often, these 11 years. I'll say it
again now: Thank you, Mumtaz, for being brave. For being human. (8/8)
