Jammu And Kasmir

[acharya]

This guy was sending money to the terrorist to kill hindus and indians in kashmir valley
Dr. Ayyub Thakur – A True Kashmiri
Murtaza Shibli

In early 90s, at the peak of Kashmiri armed resistance, I would spend hours listening to fellow journalists and all sorts of other people offering free analysis and comments about the situation – a tradition still very strong and flourishing. It was the latest and unedited information about the JKLF ‘area commanders’, Amanullah Khan’s future statements and the movements of larger than life Azam Inqillabi, a militant commander in his late forties, who sent his photographs to the press wearing battle fatigues with Kalashnikov rifles, pockets full of grenades and claims that he is living thousands of feet above the sea-level at some unknown destination. This gave a lift to my spirits in dingy local newspaper offices in Srinagar, adding a certain degree of mythical character to the milieu.

There was mention of other names and characters notably – Sheikh Tajamul Islam, Ayyub Thakur and Ghulam Nabi Fai. Everyone seemed to know about Dr. Ayyub Thakur as Jamiat-ut-Tullaba leader and university scholar, praised for being Kashmir’s first ‘nuclear scientist’. Some know-alls ‘revealed’ that Thakur and Fai were the real architects of ongoing militant struggle and were working abroad. However, the first detailed account of Dr. Thakur came from a friend and classmate Abdul Lateef Malik of Arwani. Lateef Malik alias Qari Abdul Basit was a Jamiat member who later became Hizbul Mujahideen chief for ‘education and guidance’ and was killed by the army in some border village in Poonch on his way back from Azad Kashmir. Much later another friend and a top militant commander who defected to the Indian side told me about his meetings with Ayyub Thakur in early days of militancy. He described him dangerous, guileful and cunning. A Pandit sitting next to him said that he is ISI chief in the UK and was responsible for the killing of Kashmiri Pandits.

My first encounter with Dr. Ayyub Thakur occurred in a cold December afternoon in 2000. I still remember first thing he asked when I called for an appointment was if I was comfortable and need any help. He invited me home and offered to pick me up from the nearest tube station – Ealing Broadway. As I walked out of the station wondering how to recognize each other – he came from nowhere racing towards me saying Hey Jenab Assalamu Alaikum in strong south-Kashmir accent and hugged me tightly. It took me a while to come to the terms. Bewildered, I asked him as to how he recognized me? His answer was simple and innocent: ‘I can recognize muzloom Kashmiris from a mile. Helplessness is writ large on our faces’.

At his West London home, as we sipped Kaeshir chai his favourite with bakirr khaene, we talked about Kashmiri politics to literature, about the people, his dreams and fears, about our families, as he knew my father from his student days. He quoted from Kashmiri poetry and phrases, exhibiting his love for his land and the people. I was surprised to see the intensity of his passion and calmness of approach flowing with gentle ease. He talked about music and his love for Habba Khatoon’s poetry and songs sung by Shamima Dev, wife of his one time friend from his university days Ghulam Nabi Azad, now a leading figure in Indian politics.

During my stay in London, whenever we met we talked endlessly – his repertoire was full of anecdotes and experiences – all about Kashmir and its people. After few months, when I was leaving for Kashmir, he again invited me for a lunch and gave me gifts, as he would do with every Kashmiri – related or unrelated, known or unknown. Later, when I came back to the UK, Dr. Ayyub was of great help in every way possible and the relationship grew stronger.

He was the only Kashmiri leader hated by both India and Pakistan for his guts and courage. He never compromised his beliefs and remained unmoved against India. He would also criticize Kashmiri political and militant leadership whenever he felt the need. Equally he would oppose any anti-Kashmiri moves by the Pakistani government and was the only Kashmiri to confront the Pakistani military establishment. He controlled them all, with a powerful discipline and provided both future direction and moral instruction.

He was very weary about growing criminalisation of Kashmiri militancy and politics. As early as 1990 he was the first to condemn misuse of gun in Kashmir, a time when Kashmiri leaders of all hues and sizes were singing symphonies in praise of gun as the only tool of Kashmir’s deliverance from the centuries old serfdom. He continued his open and uncompromising attacks on Kashmir’s separatist leadership and wanted all of them to go public with their personal assets in order to keep the political movement transparent. All opposed the move and lobbied against him at every possible place. As a result, his press statements and the news about him were often blacked out not only by the Indian side but by the Pakistani media too. There seemed a strange and tacit understanding between the two sides and it was all against him. When the Indian government was accusing him of supporting terrorism and demanded his extradition, I strongly felt that Pakistani media was silent about the whole issue. I called an official of a Pakistan based Kashmiri news agency and asked him for the reasons. He showed his helplessness and replied that he can only do what he is told to do and cannot offer any further explanation.

Soon after 9/11, the Indian government took advantage of the new atmosphere of fear and accused him of funding terrorism in Kashmir through his charity Mercy Universal and demanded his extradition from the UK. Mercy Universal came under growing scanner from the British security agencies. Its funds were frozen and the British media joined the witch-hunt calling Ayyub Thakur a terror professor and terror nuclear scientist etc. As the accusations grew thicker, everyone including me got worried about him. But he remained unfazed, though disturbed by the fact that to prove his innocence is consuming most of his time. But all along he remained faithful of the British justice system and his fondness for it grew to an absolute when the charity was acquitted and allowed back to work.

He was scholarly and thorough with a very sharp memory and good analytical skill. This gave him enormous advantage in his long-term judgments and placed him above those gullible souls taken in by appearances, ‘statements’ or ‘gestures’. He always remained strong in his convictions and beliefs. After 9/11 and subsequent American attack on Afghanistan, when all the Kashmiris advocating ‘freedom struggle’ tried everything to jettison their ‘jehadi’ image, Dr. Ayyub continued to support the idea of militant struggle as a way to bring India to the negotiating table. He openly supported the calls from Jehad Council whenever he felt necessary. He also increased pressure on the Pakistani Government to rehabilitate Kashmiri activists in Pakistan who are living in very poor conditions.

Despite his strong opposition to the Hurriyat Conference leaders on certain issues, he remained their strong defendant outside. He would argue with Pakistani politicians and intellectuals about the need for strong Hurriyat Conference. When Syed Ali Geelani wanted to float his own section of Hurriyat and sought support from Ayyub Thakur, he avoided it as he felt the move was not good for Kashmiris. As a result, Geelani’s Hurriyat launch was delayed by few months. Finally, when Syed Ali Geelani launched his Hurriyat, I was in Srinagar. One of the rival Hurriyat leaders told me that it was the handiwork of Ayyub Thakur. I just smiled at the strangeness of self-propelled intrigue.

As a public figure, he has been described variously. Some Kashmiri nationalists accused him of being a fundamentalist pro-Pakistani while as the Indians called him an ISI agent and a pro-Pakistani militant supporter. Ayyub Thakur was a true Kashmiri whose ideology and political beliefs could be questioned, but not his love and passion for his homeland. He was the embodiment of the old school of Kashmiri innocence that is epitomized by warmth and love. His eyes would lit up whenever he talked about his life in Kashmir, vast expanse of lush greens, his time at the Kashmir University, his friends and class mates. And he would often long for those days.

He remained a true and traditional Kashmiri till his death with all his etiquettes and mannerisms intact. I would drink Kaeshir chai with chout every time I visited him. As a Kashmiri he would only eat rice at his home and would insist on eating it elsewhere. I have enjoyed razmah daal, yakhaen and other Kashmiri delicacies at his home and he was a host par excellence. His love for his language remained strong and no surprise, his children speak it at home. He would always help a Kashmiri irrespective of his ideology, faith or allegiance. He would provide financial assistance, accommodation and try to sort out all their problems. He was a mentor, a friend and a benefactor who remained rest-less to do things for Kashmir and Kashmiris. He never asked anything in return nor did he force his political beliefs on anyone.

I first realized about his illness when my wife told me about his continuous coughing for more than a year, which he did not think much of. However, in late 2003 just a few days before Ramadan he left a message on my phone saying that he is going to America for a health check. I got a bit concerned but later spoke to him on a couple of occasions and all seemed under control. After that Ramadan when he came back, I noticed his unique and inconsolable descent into old age, and he suddenly looked frail – not as much his body – but his grip over his breath and gait. However, he refused to acknowledge it, the concerns of his family and friends and off course doctors. He all but discounted it and continued to work with the pace he had set himself as a young student activist. He did not like it when, on a couple of occasions, I told him that he must realize he is getting old and his body cannot support his activities or vast energies of his mind.

With every passing day, he got busier as he was launching a new organization ‘Justice Foundation’ which he did not wanted to, but was drawn into by the circumstances. He thought about it obsessively and was busy preparing for its constitution and was finally exhausted by it. I saw sacks under his eyes – his days were replete with less slumber as he perfected the syllables of his document for weeks in the end. There was no limit to the violence he did to himself in order to nurture his ideas and visions for his people.

However, he was set in his ideas. What he believed was rightful and true vision for his people and country had not changed in his imagination ever since he left Kashmir more than two decades ago. He was kind of Peter Pan – who grew in the outside world – but his real world which he had left behind remained static. Despite many heated discussions, countless examples I would pluck from my life in Kashmir, he refused to acknowledge that Kashmir had changed anything little – let alone the ideologies and allegiances, the psychographics and sociographics. My often-rude analysis and judgments of what he thought made him sometimes angry but often irritated. He would discount my uttering by simply calling me a ‘pagal’ or mad, but conducted himself with grace and charm. It never bothered me, as his remarks were always embedded in true love and respect.

Due to his political involvement, his family suffered a lot and a highly emotional and loving Dr. Ayyub could not see his parents as they died in Kashmir. But he never made a great deal about it, as he knew that his suffering was not alone and was the consequence of his beliefs and sensibility, but shared by millions of voiceless Kashmiris. He sighed, but never cried. He suppressed yearnings, longings and disappointments. Every passing day caused him to dream and dream more about his Kashmir. Any action on the ground, no matter how demoralizing and painful gave his thoughts a lift.

At the hospital bed at Queen Mary’s, I would come to see him almost daily, talking to his family and friends. The hope was fast receding, but no one would acknowledge it. I talked to his friends and could feel the tensions rise and grow by every day, but no one said a word, at least to me. On his last night in the hospital while I was going back home with Ghulam Jeelani, his brother-in-law, I could feel the time had come. Next day, Dr. Ghulam Nabi Fai called me briefly saying it was all over. Finally Dr. Ayyub was dead. It was the first feeling of losing the sense of gravity. I was numb as I tried to gather my self to say my last salaams.

At his deathbed in the hospital, when I stole a final glance at him, his face, in repose looked radiant and peaceful. With white beard and flowing moustache he looked like a maharajah plucked from a Mughal miniature. Despite being overwhelmed by a charade of grief, I felt at peace too, for I took consolation in the fact that he was heading for a far better place, where all that he will face will be truth.

A couple of days ago, when I was about to finish this write-up, I visit his grave in the Greenford Cemetery, a walking distance from my flat. As I say fatiha, feelings rush fast through my heart – a collage of events – I feel heaviness in my breast and tears rush through my eyes. Soon it blends with dust, which blows, but I feel nailed to the ground. Suddenly the piercing chill of the late afternoon weather wakes me up and the cruel calculus of survival kicks me to leave. I head home with a sack full of fond memories.