Nov 23, 1998
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CHAMBA In the Fronline of Fire As nomads are removed from the upper reaches of the district militants find their lifeline cut off. By Sayantan Chakravarty
It is an imposed exodus. A classic tool of counter-insurgency is to clear the disturbed area of local people who may provide logistical support to the militants -- and who may be caught in the crossfire between law and lawlessness. It is a strategy which has been put to use in insurgent-hit zones from Malaysia to Nagaland. Now it has reached Chamba. One deadly day in late summer changed Raj Kumar's life forever -- and made him a refugee from a mere nomad. It was in July that the militants came -- thickset, bearded men with their automatic rifles. They were on the run themselves, escaping from neighbouring Doda in Jammu, where the Indian security forces were making life dangerous for them. So the militants entered Chamba -- and announced their arrival by gunning down 40 locals in July and August. Two of the dead were Raj Kumar's cousins. Since then nothing has been the same. The militants plan to establish a bridgehead in Chamba and use it as a base to stretch their domain of terror to Kangra, Lahaul Spiti and even Shimla. The threat is real. Till a couple of years ago there were less than 100 Kashmiri porters in Shimla. Now there are over 6,000 -- and under close observation. The paramilitary forces' strategy is to make Chamba a sort of battleground and trap the militants in a Doda-Chamba pincer movement. The hour of reckoning will come in the winter of 1998. To make preparations, upper Chamba has to be cleared of its villagers and nomads alike: the predominantly Muslim Gujjars and their cattle, the largely Hindu Gaddis and their sheep and goats, and the Bakarwals. Raj Kumar, a Gaddi, would usually fatten his animals till well into December and then take them downhill to sell them in the cities. After Baisakhi (April 13), he would return with younger animals and the cycle would resume. This time it may not. His cousins gone, his life disrupted Raj Kumar is anguish itself: "Uniformed men asked us to leave so that we would not be harmed. So we left ... early." So actually have 20,000 others since September. It is not as if the "uniformed men" are clearing the upper reaches of people only to protect innocents. They are also depriving the militants of vital logistical support. After all the hill dwellers have been known to assist terrorists, whether in fear, greed or sympathy. Nomads at high altitudes -- the Chamba-Doda border touches 16,000 ft, more than half the way to Mount Everest -- often provide militants shelter, meat and information about troop location. In return the militants allow them to graze their animals unhindered. Sometimes they promise more. For instance, Mohammed Sharif was promised Rs 20,000 by Billoo Gujjar, a cattle herder who was hand in glove with the militants. Sharif's information had prepared the ground for the massacre of August 3 when "those tall Afghans and Pakistanis" sprayed fire. After the attack, nine local villagers were arrested and charged with collusion.
The 3,000-odd men of the India Reserve Battalion, the paramilitary forces and the Himachal Pradesh Armed Police aren't taking any chances though. They can't afford to. The terrain they are defending is among the most difficult in the world. Night search operations across the windswept mountains at heights averaging 10,000 ft cannot be easy. The very ground underfoot is treacherous: slippery riverbeds and sheer slopes which could give Superman vertigo. Sometimes even a toehold on a cliffhead is no more than 4 inches wide. If you lose your balance, they'll find you a few hundred feet below -- in pieces. That apart, there is the enemy: dedicated and well-prepared, hidden somewhere in the recesses of the forest, waiting for that one chance to puncture your brain with lead. The militants are well-armed: AK 47s, Universal machine guns, detonators. They also have a formidable communication network: 135 wireless bases in the jungles of Doda (none so far in Chamba) to coordinate operations. As Atul Verma, Chamba SP, warns, "We need to be very watchful. The militants are capable of scaling snowbound peaks during the winters." Given the hostile conditions, the security forces can't be everywhere and do everything. Mobilisation of the local residents is imperative. While the nomadic groups traverse the upper regions, in the lower altitudes of Chamba are its villages -- 370 of them, with a combined population of roughly a lakh. These people grow maize for about four months of the year and work as casual labour for another two or three. Now these rural folk have another duty: to man the frontline of fire. About 150 village defence committees have been set up. Each has eight to 10 members. The villagers are trained to defend themselves; and their country, even if they haven't seen the rest of it. Obviously a military-style regimen is something Chamba's idyllic little hamlets have never encountered. Most villagers fail to reach adequate fitness levels. The best of them can expect the job of special police officer (SPO) -- and the daily wage of Rs 51 that it brings. Chamba has found 70 SPOs so far; but it's early days yet. There is also the "each man for himself" approach, as exemplified by Gyan Chand, 40 and mean, ruggedness personified. He is a living example of how the spectre of violence can brutalise the most simple soul. Gyan Chand walks a proud walk, his ancient five feet long rifle in his hands, muzzle pointing skywards. A policemen stops him, demands his firearm licence. The reply is calm: "It's at home. You are welcome to go and take a look, maybe note down the number." Tula Ram, Gyan Chand's brother, was among those shot down on August 3. Since then the brother has carried his rifle even while herding cattle. He has four sisters, three brothers and an ageing mother to protect: "Who knows when the militants may strike again. There will be no policeman in sight. I have to defend myself." Against AK 47s, it'll be a hopeless battle; but Gyan Chand won't go down without a fight. He wants to die with dignity. The atmosphere can be chilling -- and not just because of the weather. It is an all-pervasive uneasiness. Says Jit Singh, a tea stall owner in Langera, "We had a peaceful existence. But suddenly it all seems so terrorising. We don't venture out of the house when the sun goes down." Every day, the sun sets; every day, Chamba loses a little more of its innocence. |
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Despondency. You wouldn't
know what the word means till you see it written all over Raj Kumar's face. He is only 21,
a slip of a boy really, but his face seemed wizened. It was the last day of October and
Raj Kumar was herding his impressive flock of lambs down the leafy meadows of Chamba,
Himachal Pradesh, down to the plains of Pathankot. 
Today, seven are out on bail. Sharif is one of the two still in Chamba Jail:
"I informed the militants that the policemen had left after patrolling. I even
carried a box of gelatin sticks for them." In his native village of Dandetta,
however, Sharif's wife insists he's innocent. "My husband has been made a
scapegoat," says Shamina Begum, "the question of hobnobbing with militants
doesn't arise. We are peace-loving people." 
