Dozens have lost their legs to shelling and mines over the years in Uri. And life is a struggle in the mountains with hardly any support, government or otherwise.
Uri: Saira Bano, 22, a resident of the border village of Nambla in Uri, could have built a treasure trove of memories running through its green pastures and along its gushing clear streams.
When she trips down memory lane with her family now invariably lead her to the same day, the same moment, in 1998, when festering India-Pakistan hostilities unleashed a particularly aggressive round of cross-border shelling and robbed her of a carefree childhood.
Two-years-old at the time, Saira was sitting on a log of wood in the courtyard of her house, playing with her siblings, when a loud explosion plunged the surroundings into a cloud of smoke and shrapnel. Her right leg was badly wounded but she doesn’t remember much, or when it was amputated.
Needless to say, it has been a difficult journey since. “I don’t remember what it means to be physically fit. I saw the difference when I saw my siblings and friends run,” she says.
Five years after Saira lost her leg, in 2003, when Atal Bihari Vajpayee was Prime Minister, a ceasefire agreement was signed between India and Pakistan. Fifteen years later, repeated violations have all but caused the agreement to collapse.
This year alone, according to government figures, the ceasefire had been violated 192 times until 29 January, killing 16 people, including eight civilians. Of the 85 injured, 58 were civilians. In 2017, 860 violations killed 31 people and injured 151, including 12 and 70 civilians, respectively.
In this bleak narrative, Saira’s story of loss continues to find fresh echoes. After all, Uri has been a battlefield in all three wars fought by the neighbours since independence, and even until last week, shelling was sending the locals scurrying for cover.
Pakistani mortar shells
On 30 June last year, Shakeela Begun, 55, of Dardkote village was cleaning the cattle shed at her home when, amid a sudden attack from across the border, a shell fell on her property. Her son Aurangzeb, who had been feeding their cattle outside, ran inside to find his mother collapsed on the floor, a pool of blood building up around her left leg.
A good hospital was 105 km away in state capital Srinagar, down difficult terrain, and even Uri town is about 10 km from each of the 45 villages in the area.
“It took me two hours to carry her from the cattle shed to our home in Dardkote to Uri town. From the district hospital, I was referred to Srinagar. She underwent surgeries, and every two weeks now, we visit a hospital in Srinagar,” says Aurangzeb.
But no one from the administration seems too bothered about the victims of shelling – no compensation has been forthcoming. And even if it was, Begum laments: “What compensation will they give me? Can money give my leg back to me? My sons have to even carry me to the bathroom.”
Another victim, Zulekha (58) from Churunda village, was hit by a shell in February this year. Her left arm was injured and a nerve was lacerated. Even now, the wound is raw, and Zulekha’s pain takes just three words to sum up: “This is hell.”
Since the 1990s, official records say that 13 people have been killed and 44 injured in Churunda alone.
Apne landmines
Shelling from the other side is not the villagers’ only concern. Churunda’s Mohammad Shafi, 75, and his brother Noor Din, 70, have both lost a leg each to landmines in 2001 and 1991 respectively.
“I was cutting the grass on our own land when I stepped on a landmine – apne Hindustan ki mine (a mine laid by our India). It blew away our livelihood,” Shafi says, patting Din’s shoulder.
Both have had to take the neighbours’ help in raising their kids. “Our kids had to look for work at a young age as we could not work well,” says Din, whose daughter-in-law, Akbar Bi, also lost her left leg in one such incident.
“During the winters, the landmines slip due to snow and get stuck in locations which are not marked by the Army. In general too, we are not told anything, even if we are working for the Army,” says Shafi.
Perhaps the oldest victim in the area is Haji Ali Khan (90), who has lived without his right foot since 1971. “In those days too, there were landmines placed by the Army on the border. I was never given any compensation. Many people are not even alive to narrate their stories,” he says, removing his artificial leg to show the stump at his ankle.
“I wish I was the last one to suffer, but the constant skirmishes have everyone hurt – old or young. Everyone’s wounds bear witness to thus cruel war.”
Lifelong pain and stigma, without help
Shabir Ahmed (25) of Navarunda village worked as a porter with the Army till 16 June 2011, the day his right leg was injured. He is one of the youngest among a large group of men with amputated legs.
“Going up and down hills is our life; we cannot do without our legs. Artificial limbs wear out in a year’s time, and it takes Rs 10,000-20,000 to replace the leg every year,” says Ahmed, whose father, a labourer, takes care of him.
“I stay home and I am unable to work. I have not received any help from the government.”
Doctors in Srinagar say the artificial limbs manufactured by the Government Hospital for Bone and Joint Surgery are free, but “not at par” with those in the private market. While children and the youth need to change the limb frequently, even for older people, it wears off in two to three years.
“We have always made artificial limbs and given them for free to those who get injured. However, the injured are not ready to use them as there are better ones in the private market,” senior doctor Khurshid Kangoo said. “They may replace their limbs with artificial ones, but the trauma is lifelong. The pain and care is a long process. They face many other challenges including social stigma.”
On the issue of compensation, victims say those whose property was damaged in the year 2000 received Rs 5,000, but since then, there has been nothing forthcoming. “How do they compensate us for our wounds?” is a common refrain.
Asked about this, Sagar D., sub-divisional magistrate of Uri, admits: “Those who were given compensation are only the old cases. There is no record of any such compensation at present. Recently, a lady was injured, whose case I have sent to the deputy commissioner in Baramulla, who should forward it to the state government.”
Plea for peace
Ghulam Rasool, a social worker from Garkote, blames the governments for the sufferings of people living in areas near the border and LoC. “The government is responsible for this situation. On one side, it talks war; on the other, it continues cross-border trade. Yet, it is never ready to stop shelling,” he alleges.
“The government only does this to tell lies to the people of India living outside Kashmir. It says it will ‘finish’ Pakistan. But neither Pakistan nor India will be finished — it is just people like us who are sandwiched in border areas and soldiers from poor states who will be finished.”
But amid this negativity, Rasool also pleads for “goli nahin, boli” (talks, not bullets), which he says are the only way out of this mayhem.
Then again, there are people like Saira of Nambla, whose spirit is an inspiration to the people around her. Even while her family lived in a temporary rented home on a hilltop in Uri town, she went to the Government Girls’ High School, passed her class 12, and now wants to study in Uri’s Degree College.
“I want to study further and do a government job. I want to be independent, at least financially, so that I can repay my family. They have supported me and my dream for years. Now, it is my turn,” she says.