A male worshiper objects as a photographer takes pictures - after all, this is a place of devotion. But Parveena Ahangar barks
at the worshiper with the moral authority that only a large middle-aged mother can command.
"We have lost our relatives. We are not here for tourism, sir." She stares him down and barks again. "The world must know
how we grieve."
The man slinks away.
Mrs.
Ahangar is the champion of families left vulnerable in this conflict.
She's also a ferocious oddity in a traditional Muslim culture where a
veiled woman's place is in the kitchen. This barely literate housewife
has become the globe-trotting face of a campaign to account for what
human rights groups claim are 10,000 disappeared men.
Indian security forces, an estimated half
a million are in the region, have often responded harshly to the
attacks here. Missing men have been snatched from their homes or picked
up for just walking near the sites of grenade attacks. Human rights
defenders say many have died in Indian jails and have been buried under
false names.
Indian authorities dispute the disappearance figure and assert that most of those alleged to be missing slipped into Pakistan
for guerrilla training, which has coveted this Muslim-dominated area since partition in 1947.
Whatever
the number, the 600 members of the group Ahangar formed in 1994 - the
Association of Parents of Disappeared Persons
(www.disappearancesinkashmir.org) - have been forced to the margins of
this paternalistic society while the fate of their men remains unknown.
Most are unskilled women who were jolted into a breadwinning role for
which they were not prepared. Many have been forced to beg or give up
children to orphanages - and they lack the emotional closure that a
burial can bring.
"The disappearances are like a cancer," Ahangar says. "We have been struggling for 18 years without a cure."
To
fight back, she organizes regular protests across the valley and
provides families with legal advice. On a given day, one can find
villagers from remote areas sitting on the floor of her unheated house,
sipping salty Kashmiri tea as they go through documents. Ahangar
advises them on how to lodge claims and which Islamic charities can
school the children.
By keeping the issue alive and building solidarity, members feel relieved of the sense of powerlessness that keeps them up
at night.
"She
gives me strength," says Rahet Kowoosa, a widow who cries easily. Every
day for the past 16 years she has replayed the evening that her son,
Mohammad, was seized by soldiers riding in a truck. They smashed her
hands with rifle butts when she tried to block the vehicle. Since then,
she has scoured Indian Army camps and jails, and filed court petitions
to demand his whereabouts.
"If I could bury him, I would have some satisfaction visiting his grave," she says. Ahangar mops Ms. Kowoosa's tears with
a cloth and sobs along.
Among
the most frustrated are the so-called Half Widows. Until their husbands
are proved dead, these women cannot inherit their property or claim
state compensation. Often in-laws throw them out, leaving them to fend
for themselves. Islamic law only allows these women to remarry after
seven years, but most choose not to in case their husbands return.
Ahangar feels their pain. In August 1990,
Indian security forces stormed a relative's house and dragged out her
16-year-old son, Javeed Ahmad. She says they thought he was a militant
who had the same name. Thus began her own hunt, so far fruitless.
"I couldn't just sit and do nothing," she says. "My heart had shredded."
By
her own admission, Ahangar is an unlikely candidate to challenge Indian
authorities. She had a sheltered upbringing as the daughter of a
building contractor, married a mechanic at age 12, and immediately set
about producing five children. Until her son disappeared, Ahangar
largely did housework.
She still remains unworldly. Ahangar
cannot read her nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize written by
"someone in New Delhi." She is unsure how many countries she has flown
to for international human rights meetings. ("Four? Five? Ask my
niece.")
But she's savvy in attracting media attention and donations. Ahangar says that public pressure has worked, pointing to a gradual
decline in disappearances from 81 in 2003 to none so far this year.
Some government officials have put the total number of unaccounted-for people at around 3,000, but insist that many of those
were militants who went into hiding and are not victims of "enforced disappearances."
Authorities
consider her group sufficiently embarrassing to periodically break up
events and detain her. In recent weeks, Indian security forces have
visited the homes of various association members and asked them for
photographs and details of the missing so that they can search for
them. Rights activists believe the gestures are a direct response to
her campaign.
Ahangar's boldness has also raised hackles
at the Coalition of Civil Society, an umbrella group that she split
from recently over "differences." Representatives there describe a
large ego that cannot share the public limelight. At the same time,
they praise her organizing skills. "Of course we respect her," says
Khurram Parvez, the coalition's program coordinator. "Her presence has
motivated other families."
That mobilizing spirit was in force back at the shrine. A young woman shyly approached Ahangar after witnessing the commotion
with the irritated man. Her husband was missing. Could Ahangar help?
Ahangar nodded briskly and motioned to a minion to note down details. The other half widows circled the newcomer with hugs.
"We'll take care of you," Ahangar said, making an appointment to discuss the case.
http://www.csmonitor.com/2008/0201/p07s03-wosc.html