“When one war ends in the shadows, another begins in the streets.”
After the dust settled on the slopes of Naugam and the bloodied snows bore witness to Lt. Col. Razdan’s spine-cracking courage, we believed the worst of the winter was behind us. But in Kashmir, one tragedy rarely waits for the last to heal. Just weeks after Naugam, the Valley’s heart beat with fresh unrest - not on mountaintops or militant hideouts, but inside sanctuaries of faith and in markets that once sold only fruit and cloth. Hazratbal and Sopore weren’t just places on a map, they became symbols of what happens when gunpowder enters prayer halls and vengeance replaces rules of engagement.
The winter of 1993 was not just bitter with cold but charred with the memory of two defining moments in the Kashmir conflict - Hazratbal and Sopore. These incidents were not only military flashpoints but also emotional turning points for soldiers like us who stood guard at the crossroads of loyalty, law, and loss.
Hazratbal Shrine, revered by Muslims across the subcontinent, had been under siege since October 1993 when a group of militants took refuge inside the shrine, believed to be heavily armed. The shrine housed a relic believed to be the hair of Prophet Muhammad, making the standoff not just a military operation but a cultural and spiritual powder keg.
Our unit wasn’t directly deployed inside the action perimeter, but the tension reached every post, every guard duty, every wireless transmission. We were kept on high alert. Soldiers cleaned their rifles with mechanical precision. And in our conversations, muted and measured, we often asked - what happens if a place of God becomes a battleground?
The standoff lasted for nearly a month. Negotiations followed, religious leaders intervened, and public pressure mounted. Eventually, the militants inside agreed to surrender. But the psychological toll on both civilians and soldiers was immense. Hazratbal reminded us that in warzones, even prayers can get caught in crossfire.
Just as the Hazratbal tensions seemed to simmer, another wound was torn open in Sopore.
We, stationed as
reserve backup at a nearby post during the Sopore escalation, received
briefings loaded with urgency but shaded in secrecy. The wireless buzzed all
day, and for once, even the hardened among us avoided jokes. When reports
trickled in - civilian deaths, markets ablaze - we looked at each other, not as
warriors, but as witnesses to something none of us signed up for.
The Sopore Massacre occurred on January 6, 1993, and remains one of the most tragic episodes in the Kashmir conflict. A BSF patrol had been attacked by suspected militants of the Jammu and Kashmir Liberation Front (JKLF), reportedly killing two security personnel. What followed was a retaliatory act that would be etched in fire and blood.
According to eyewitness accounts, BSF troops opened indiscriminate fire in the town’s main market, torched dozens of shops, and gunned down civilians trying to flee. Some bodies were burnt beyond recognition. Families searched through ashes for their loved ones, and the aroma of spices in Sopore’s bazaars was replaced with the stench of charred dreams.
Fifty-five civilians reportedly died that day. Others would carry the trauma for life. Human rights groups and local politicians condemned the incident, accusing the BSF of wanton brutality. The state’s response was muted, caught between nationalistic narratives and international scrutiny.
The Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA) came under sharp criticism. While intended to empower forces in insurgency-hit areas, it often became a cloak for impunity. Though the government ordered an inquiry, no one was held criminally accountable. Some BSF personnel were transferred, a gesture too feeble to soothe such deep wounds.
The massacre triggered protests across the Valley. Funerals turned into processions, and the tricolor fluttered in a hostile wind. In our camps, orders were repeated to maintain strict discipline and avoid provocations. But within the fences, we could feel the ground shifting.
The psychological toll of Sopore was different. Hazratbal had been a crisis of control. Sopore became a crisis of conscience.
Due to escalating public pressure and the complexities of the civilian-military dynamic, the government began withdrawing certain units and replaced them with Rashtriya Rifles Battalions, specially trained in counterinsurgency but also more adept at handling civil-military engagement.
Years have
passed, but Sopore still smells of ash and echoes with unanswered cries. We
stood by in uniform, helpless witnesses to decisions beyond our command but
within our conscience. Those fires weren’t just burning buildings, they
scorched the fragile thread of trust that holds a nation together. And
sometimes, when silence falls during stand-by orders, the soul wonders if duty
and humanity ever truly march together.
“When temples burn and protests swell, silence isn’t peace - it’s a warning.”
Hazratbal tested our restraint; Sopore tested our morality. Both events hardened the atmosphere in a Valley already frayed by fear and fury. But as January thawed into February, what followed was not calm, it was louder. Protests erupted, not just in shrines or marketplaces, but in streets lined with students, shopkeepers, and widows. The next firestorm was no longer limited to encounters or sieges. It came clothed in slogans, carried in fists raised skyward.
Tral, a quiet town nestled amidst deodar trees, became the epicenter of this next wave, a protest that bled. And we, still reeling from Sopore’s smoke, were once again ordered to stand ready - not for an ambush this time, but for a crowd that chanted, "Aadhi roti khayenge, Pakistan jayenge”.
No comments:
Post a Comment