www.sacw.net | September 13, 2004
Love in the Times of Slaughter
by Harsh Mander
[Published earlier in Tehelka, August 28, 2004]
Even two years after their residents had been savaged by the carnage, hope and spirits were always extremely fragile in these small homes. A sudden gust of memories could smash these in moments, as could a boyís quiet weeping when he remembered his lost father, a girlís terrified screams in her sleep as she relived the brutality of the killings that destroyed her world, a widowís unacknowledged loneliness or the barbed taunts of her neighbours, harrowing worries about the future of her children and the humiliation of continued dependence on charity. Despair constantly stalked the nearly twenty one-room apartments allotted to widows and their children, in a colony erected by compassionate relief workers at the outskirts of the village Delol for the most bereaved and vulnerable survivors of the Gujarat massacre of 2002.
In the enduring melancholy of these homes, a steady voice of comfort and strength was that of thirty-one-year old Naseebbahen Mohammedbhai Sheikh,í ëYou have to now make two hearts beat is yours breasts,í she never tired of telling her widowed sisters. ëOne is of a mother and the other of a fatherí. She urged them, ëLive for your children, but also live for yourself. Make sure that your children studyí.
As the residents of the Delol rehabilitation colony listen to Naseebís counsel, their eyes often turned moist. An onlooker would not have suspected that Naseeb herself had lost an utterly numbing toll of 26 members of her family in the massacre, including her husband, her 12-year-old daughter, her parents, and almost every living relative in her parents and husbandís home, all of whom were brutishly slaughtered.
Naseeb survived only because of the intervention of the most slender chance. She was admitted to a government hospital in Delol for a hysterectomy on 27 February, 2002. She was not even aware until much later about the burning of the Sabarmati Express coach at Godhra Station, barely 20 Kilometres from where she lay on her operation table, nor that the horrific deaths in the train compartment had become the epicentre of an orgy of the most barbarous and gruesome mass extermination.
Her husband Mohammedbhai, grim faced, visited her the evening after the operation. He did not tell her that their beloved home had been plundered and burnt down by marauding mobs, the TV set smashed, all their belongings that had been lovingly accumulated through 15 tears of married life destroyed in minutes, the locker broken into and looted. Their life savings of seventy thousand rupees were stored in the locker, with which they had proposed to buy agricultural land. At the hospital ward, her husband just gave her home-cooked food in a tiffin carrier, asked after her health and held her hand briefly. It was the last time that she saw him alive.
The next night, Koyobhai, an adivasi worker who had tended their fields for many years, brought her young ten year-old son to the hospital. There were some communal disturbances in the village, he told her briefly. Some adivasi agricultural workers had given her extended family shelter in their homes and they were all safe. Her son wept incessantly for his mother, therefore he had carried him to the hospital to be with her. He assured her that there was no cause for worry.
On the morning of 2 March, 2002, Naseeb awoke to a menacing roar of frenzied crowds ran to the hospital gate milling around the hospital. She stumbled out of her hospital bed and some distance away, she saw an over-turned tempo van set aflame by a mob. As the passengers struggled to escape the incinerated vehicle, she screamed when she thought she recognised amidst the whirling smoke her own brother Yakubbhai. As he struggled desperately to escape, the crowds overpowered him, sprinkled petrol on his clothes and set him on fire. At this point, Naseeb fell unconscious. She was spared witnessing the horde fall on the manís wife, stripping her naked and raping her by turns, even as she begged for mercy. Her two terror- stricken children ran screaming for safety towards the hospital, but they were easily overpowered and burnt alive.
When Naseeb regained consciousness, she was back in her hospital bed. The nurses had dressed her in a saree, and placed a bindi on her forehead. Her traumatised son sat frozen by her bed side. Mobs were scouring the hospital wards for Muslim patients. The doctor convinced them that she was a Hindu, and they passed her by.
The doctor Hasmukh Machi was an elderly gynaecologist, who had treated generations of women from Naseebís family. After the throngs bent on butchery left the hospital, he reassured a violently shuddering and sobbing Naseeb that the man she had seen killed was not her brother, and that all her relatives were safe. As the days passed and no one came to see her at the hospital, her cold fear and panic mounted unbearably. But the doctor said that they had all taken shelter in relief camps, and were unable to visit her only because of curfew and the unchecked violence.
After she was discharged from the government hospital, the doctor took Naseeb to his own home, where his wife and mother gently nursed and restored her to health. It was the longest that Naseebbahen had lived in a Hindu household. They treated her as one of her own. Finally, one morning 20 days after the violence first broke out, the doctor and his wife sat by her side and broke their terrible silence. In low shaking voices, they shared the horrendous news with her.
After their home was destroyed by the rioting mobs, the adivasi workers who had been employed by Naseebís husband family for many years, sheltered in their hutments her extended family, a total of 11 women, men and children, for three nights. When the bloodshed and butchery refused to die down, they advised them that it would be safest for them to shift to the relief camp in Kalol.
The entire family set out that evening, cowering in the fading twilight. They walked a short distance, then decided that it was too dangerous to continue, so they hid up to nightfall in a shallow pit on the riverbed of the Goma river. The villagers had assured them that they would remain unharmed, still them trembled as they clung to each other, holed up, hoping that they would live to see the next dawn.
A crowd of men armed with naked swords approached stealthily from the rear and surrounded the family. They first cut off the head of Naseebís mother in law, even before she could react. They then attacked her husband Mohammedbhai. They cut off his arms, and as he cried out piteously to Allah, they pierced his stomach and murdered him. The death of their 12-year-old daughter was even more merciless; they cut her arms, feet, hair, and only then ended her life. In this way, one by one, nine of them fell to their swords as their blood collected and coagulated in the riverbed and their screams filled the stillness of the approaching night. Two small children they burnt alive.
The doctorís deathly tale of the blood bath that extinguished her entire family did not end even here. Frequently breaking down himself, the doctor went on to tell the utterly devastated Naseeb that it was indeed her own brother, trying unsuccessfully to escape from the charred tempo, whom she had seen from the hospital gates. As their home was looted and scorched, her parentís extended family of 15 hid in the fields. Somehow the throngs had left their tempo van unharmed. After two cowed days camouflaged in the standing crops, their brother decided that they could not continue like this indefinitely. The storm showed no signs of passing. He felt that there was no option except to drive them in the tempo to the relief camp in Kalol.
In Kalol, they found the road blocked with crude and hasty barriers of stones and mounds of sand. Naseebís brother tried desperately to drive over these, but at one point near the hospital where Naseeb was recovering from her operation, the tempo swerved and overturned into a ditch. Crazed death dealing crowds gathered immediately and set the tempo ablaze. As each of the men and boys emerged from the inferno, they were slaughtered, the women and girls gang raped on the streets and then killed.
An utterly distraught and incredulous Naseeb begged to be allowed to go to look for her surviving people in the relief camp at Kalol. With her terror stricken son clutching her shaking hand, she walked unsteadily through the makeshift relief camp. The only relative that Naseeb could find in the camp was her husband elder brother Abdul and his wife, who had survived the massacre only because they lived in another town Dehasar, where their homes were destroyed but their lives spared. They cried out loud when they saw each other, holding each other and weeping inconsolably. Abdul recounted once again the gruesome events that had decimated their large family. There was so many lamentation everywhere in the camp that no one even noticed the grieving brother and sister, with Naseebís uncomprehending son holding on to her as she cried out loud and long.
The state government had refused to manage the camp, or assist beyond subsistence food grains. Unlikely leaders had emerged to meet the challenge of this humanitarian and moral crisis every where in Gujarat. One of these was like Mukhtar, whose small factory was burnt down in the riots. But he was so moved by the suffering of the thousands of his village and the surrounding countryside who had survived the slaying, rape and plunder, and who were now wrecked internal refugees abandoned by their own government, that he pushed his own sorrow and loss aside. He instead recruited a band of youth volunteers, that raised makeshift plastic and covers on bamboo sticks, cooked and distributed food, carried water for bathing and drinking, organised milk for the infants and medical care for the wounded, and helped the survivors file complaints with a recalcitrant and openly hostile police.
Abdul hired a room in Kalol and left the camp with his wife, children and sister-in-law a week after Naseebís arrival at the camp. Naseeb lived with them for 3 months, but finally returned to the camp. Her sister-in-law unrelentingly taunted the bereaved widow. ëYour whole family died, why was it that it was you alone who survived?í She reviled her particularly because it was a Hindu doctor who left her at the camp. ëWhy did the Hindu doctor shelter you for 20 days?í
Humiliated and wearied by the torment of her sister-in-lawís insinuations, Naseeb returned to the lonely austerities of the crowded relief camp. They slept on the bare floor, and were able to bathe only once in 10 or 15 days. Mukhtar hired a tanker of drinking water, but this was never enough as temperatures soared through a raging uneasy summer.
The stigma and vulnerability of being a young widow did not escape her in the camp. Even before she had left with her brother, the maulana insisted that she observed the customary iddat of four months, ritually prescribed for all widows, complete confinement in her husbandís brotherís home. Her brother-in-law stoutly supported her resolve to defy this custom, even if they were excommunicated from their faith.
Back at the camp, the maulana again harangued her constantly because she had been rescued by a Hindu doctor, and refused to observe iddat. There were 15 widows at the camp, and they all lived together, extending to each other a sisterhood of comfort and support. None escaped the maulanaís recriminations. On the other hand, Mukhtar and his band of youth volunteers were especially protective and caring to them.
One day, Ransinghbhai, a Hindu vegetable dealer with whom her husband had close business dealings, visited them at the camp. Appalled by conditions in the relief camp, he offered take them to his own home. Naseeb declined because she was afraid of the gossip, but gratefully sent her son with him.
Alone in the camp, Naseebís thoughts would frequently wander back to her husband. ëCompared to my parentís home, Naseeb told me, ëwe were not well off. But we had a happy home. My husband was a good man. He would always inform me before he left our home, about where he was going and when he would return. He never beat me, and fed me wellí.
Her grandfather had given her in marriage to her motherís sisterís son, despite their poverty, because he wanted her always before his own eyes. Naseeb had been his favourite grandchild. He owned 100 bighas of irrigated land, employed 20 farm workers, and grew vegetables and castor. He went three times for the Haj pilgrimage, and each time spent a lakh and a half rupees. They owned three tube wells. From one, he offered a free supply of drinking water for two hours daily to any villager who needed it, regardless of community and caste. He also dug a trough of water for animals and birds.
Naseebís two brothers studied up to class 10, but the girls were allowed only to go to the local madrassa up to class 7. Naseeb wanted to study further, but the religious school offered ëmore Quran, less schoolingí. Her grandfather was progressive and never permitted purdah for the women in his family. He encouraged them to participate in Hindu festivals like Navaratra.
Naseeb was married to her cousin Mohmmebhai when she was 16. He was more educated than her brothers, having studied beyond secondary school, and acquired a diploma in electrical engineering in the local ITI. But he ended up in the business of dairying, with a single buffalo, and as dowry, her grandfather gave him a second animal. Her father also encouraged and assisted his son-in-law to trade in the vegetables raised in their fields. When Naseeb would go to cut grass from her fatherís fields for their buffaloes, he would never allow her to carry the grass back on her head. He would send it in his tractor. Naseeb and Mohammedbaiís sold milk mainly to Hindu neighbours, and vegetables to Hindu traders.
Her mother in law always used to say, ëNaseeb has brought us good fortune. Her footsteps in our home are auspicious. Only after she came to our home has our poverty and want ended. Today we have in this home every happiness.í
As Naseeb lay on the uneven floor of the relief camp, with no clothes except the ones that she wore, surrounded by crowds of weeping children, bereaved women and dispossessed men, battling mosquitoes, the hot sun and despair, all of this seemed a distant shadowy dream.
Six months after the relief camps were opened, the state government forced even these community-run camps to close. Normalcy had been restored, the local authorities claimed. Elections to the state assembly were due. People must return to their villages. No one bothered to explain to the ravaged tens of thousands people sheltered in the relief camps how they could go back to villages where their neighbours remained violently, and implacably hostile, where they were retrenched from employment and tenancy, their homes and livelihoods were destroyed, and the state government refused to offer them anything more than a pittance as compensation and nothing as rehabilitation grants and loans.
Mukhtar rented a single room in Kalol for Naseebbahen with a few other widows, where they all lived together with their children. Naseebbahen was awarded a death compensation of Rs 90,000, for only one dead member of her family. They declared the remaining 25 dead as ëmissing personsí, and informed her that she would have to wait seven years before she was paid compensation for their deaths.
To help the widows out of their grieving, Mukhtar encouraged them to work with the NGOs engaged in relief and rehabilitation. Naseebbahen first worked with Seva, which gave Rs 15000/- to each widow to purchase buffaloes. But the corrupt trader sold the widows buffaloes that gave no milk, and in time most widows sold the buffaloes.
Mukhtar next introduced her to Dakshabahen of Aman Samudaya, a youth peace building initiative in Godhra and Ahmedabad. It was work that Naseeb came to love. Mukhtar agreed with her when she said of her work, ëWe need above all to share each otherís sufferingsí.
Naseeb initially worked as a volunteer without wages. She was entrusted the responsibility for six villages in Godhra. In each village, she gathered women and Muslim and dalit youth. ëI have not come to give you anythingí, she said to them. ëI have only come to join hands with you to see whether where there is communal hatred, we can build peace, justice and unityí. People were moved everywhere that a woman who had lost 26 members of her family, including her young daughter, husband and parents, could still speak of peace and love. One by one, many joined her.
In each village, Naseeb enquired which Hindus had protected their Muslim neighbours during the bloody carnage, and she invited them to be leaders of Aman Samudaya peace groups of their villages. Together they tried to instil faith in those whose homes and livelihoods were destroyed, to return the villages of their birth and take heart and courage to start life again.
Many Hindu neighbours laid down conditions for their return, especially that no one would give evidence to the police and courts against those who killed, raped and plundered. But in her meetings with the survivors of the carnage, they echoed Naseebís clear resolve. ëWe can starve, but we cannot give up the legal cases for justiceí. In Eral village, Medina was the sole witness, along with a 4 year old child, of the rape and killing of her 19 year-old daughter. Despite mounting of threats and inducements, Medina stuck to her brave resolve to give evidence.
It was not only justice for the survivors of the carnage that moved Naseeb. In dalit homes, women would hesitate to give her water because of caste taboos. She would insist on drinking water and eating with them, and even organised a successful agitation in to some villages secure rights for dalit women to draw water from the village hand pumps.
To teachers in the schools, Naseebbahen and her fellow volunteers appealed ëDo not discriminate between dalit, Hindu and Muslim children. Do not at least build wall of hatred in the hearts of childrení. In the schools of her village, she took joy to see children of diverse faiths come together for learning and play.
Mukhtar raised donations to build a colony at Kalol for the widows and others who were still to frightened to return to their homes. Naseebbahen and all her widowed sisters have moved into the colony. ëEarlier we used to weep separatelyí, she said ëToday we are able to weep together.í
The maulana remains hostile to Naseebbahenís work. ëYou go with your head uncovered and speak to strange mení, he lectures to her whenever he sees her. ëIt is because of women without shame like you that riots occur in the first place.í He feels that the only respectable course for Naseebbahen is to remarry and even suggests old men for her and other widows. Naseeb is only 31 years old, and is not averse to marrying, provided the right man asks for hand. But her first priority is her work and her son.
Each day brings a new small triumph. Naseeb stunned everyone by giving evidence against the municipal chairman and other powerful political leaders in an open court. For an infant abandoned at the village sub-health centre, Naseeb found a home. The child was adopted by a Hindu widow, whose Muslim husband was killed in the carnage. Sultana who was gang raped could not muster the courage to give evidence, for fear of both reprisals and shame, but in the end with Naseebís support she found the strength.
Naseebís son waits eagerly for her when she returns from her work at the end of each day. She wants to send her son to study in a modern school, not just confine him to religious teaching in a madrassa. She hopes that he grows up to be a social worker.
The Hindu doctor who had rescued her visited her with his wife, one and a half years after the carnage. ëWe feel very badly about what happenedí, he says. ëThe guilty must be punished under all circumstancesí. A new police inspector has joined from Rajkot. He treats Naseeb with a lot of respect. ë My daughter was killed when the gas cylinder exploded in the kitchení, he confides in her. ëI cannot bear the pain of her loss. I cannot even imagine how much more must be your suffering.í
Some people ask her whether she does this work because she is a Muslim. She replies, ëI do this work because I do not want any of my sisters anywhere to one day be forced into the same situation as meí. Naseebbahen says, ëWhen I go out to work, I realize how many others are in distress like me. I then forget my own anguish.
ëI feel today that I have a new family.í
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