An Indian In 'Azad Kashmir'

Mirpur nestles in the hills. As our convoy of two buses and a police van winds its way up, large bungalows loom up in the darkness. They are sprawling, massive enough to make those in Gurgaon seem like servant quarters. Most are empty. I'm told, like the Cubans, there are more Mirpuris outside Mirpur—indeed outside Pakistan—than in Mirpur. Mirpuris visit the place once a year. And they wage their war for Kashmiri independence from abroad, mostly against India but also against Pakistan. Those here, I'm told, dream more frequently of getting out of here than of independence.

We're at Hotel Jabeer, a two-star. At dinner, people with torches appear out of nowhere, raising pro-independence slogans. They disappear as suddenly, ghost-like. At midnight, an old man goes around knocking on doors, wishing to speak to visiting journalists from India and, yes, India-held Kashmir. These are two different entities in Mirpur. The old man offers me Urdu books. I can't read Urdu. He's disappointed.

The following morning we are to meet displaced families of Rajouri, at Hotel Jabeer. A crowd gathers. We ask them, which among the Kashmiri leaderships best represents their interest? Abdul Aziz, a young doctor, says, "The first step is to let people get together, meet. My brother and my sister are there, I haven't seen their faces for 57 years. We hear of the Srinagar-Muzaffarabad bus, they should have one connection from here too." He then adds a philosophical note: "When people meet, more roads will open." It's neat, how metaphor and reality meet in Mirpur.

"Our lips tremble to kiss the land we have been separated from," another tells me. Apparently, some 20 lakh families here have been separated because of the line dividing Kashmir. Don't quibble over numbers, it's part of the mythology of separation. It also reduces the significance of the moment. Another voice rues the misfortune of Kashmiris as they don't have a mature leadership. "The hatred we nurture, we have to promote a formula to live and let live. We have to evolute a liberal leadership." Evolute? I blink.

Dr Shaukat Jamil complains Mirpuris are fed the staple of the local jehadi media. I can see people don't want him to talk. Someone from the crowd quips, "It's good to see our political leadership talk about wanting to go to Srinagar. Here, they are not even allowed to go to Gilgit." And then the old man who had been knocking on doors last night gets up to speak. He's Prof Nazeem Anjum. And he says the Hurriyat neither represents all Muslims nor all linguistic communities nor all regions. It's clear Mirpuris think the governments in their and our Kashmir are puppets; they can't consequently represent their interests. To know the real wishes of the people, Mirpuris feel, it's important for Kashmiris across the divide to keep meeting each other.

Later, at the Mirpur Bar Association, its president Mohd Riaz Inqalibi declares: "Bhutto said we are prepared to fight a war for a thousand years. I say we are prepared to fight for 2,000 years." The applause from the crowd is deafening. Another flash mob appears, lustily shouting pro-independence slogans. We pull out. To Abdul Majid Malik, a former chief justice, we ask: How free is 'Azad Kashmir'? His answer is cryptic: "Azadi in AJK isn't ideal.But what's there is there".

Outside Mirpur, under the mellow evening sun, the waters of the Mangla Dam stretch endlessly. Underneath it lies the old Mirpur town. On a good day, I'm told, you can see a temple spire and the minaret of a mosque sticking out of the waters. A Ukrainian diplomat once told Malik, "Do you realise how much money Kashmir will get if you sell power to others in the region?