Apoorvanand, Ali Javed and Satish Deshpande report on Atali village - ‘Are you a Mulla or one of us?’
NB: All of us in civil society are in debt to the authors of this report, for visiting Atali and recording the views of the people who live there. It is sad to see the latest manifestation of a pattern - it is the least we can do to remember this and understand what it means. Violence against ethnically defined groups (ethnic cleansing); ghetto-fication and suspension of lawful governance for the benefit of politically motivated criminals; or controlled mobs - these have been the recurrent features of communal politics in India for decades. They conduce to a steady process of criminalisation of the state - a process that is ongoing. This was noticeable at the time of Gandhi's murder. I cite a few lines from Sardar Patel's letter to B.G. Kher, Premier of Bombay on June 5, 1948, regarding, ironically, the lenient stance taken by Kher's ministry towards 'non-Brahmin' rioters who had attacked Brahmins in Poona, Satara etc, in the wake of the assassination: "I regret I am still unconvinced that the action was wise and proper. Fear of further reprisals by perpetrators of evil and wrong-doers can hardly be a justification for treating such wrong-doers with leniency. It has never paid to condone crimes of violence under any so-called repentance. After all, such things are done under a spirit of mass hysteria, and leniency shown at one time is soon forgotten; more particularly, it is ignored when the scene of another mass hysteria sets in.." Vallabhbhai Patel to B.G. Kher, June 5, 1948, (vol 6 of Sardar Patel's correspondence, 1945-50; edited by Durga Das)- DS
It has been ten days since the Muslims of Atali have
returned. Normalcy has been restored. Or it is being restored, if
we are to believe the grave voice of the police officer on the phone who very
politely advises us against entering this Haryana village that was hit by
anti-Muslim violence on 25 May. “Please come back after a week. The situation is very
sensitive here, you should understand. A misinformed ‘outside’
intervention might break the delicate peace we have managed here.”
We do not want to test the patience of the police men and
women guarding the peace of Atali, braving the merciless sun beating down
on them. “We are here precisely to understand this process of
restoration of peace,” we make a vain attempt to convince the officer. “Your
academic curiosity can wait, we cannot take a chance with outsiders. Memories
of the conflict get revived with such visits.” It is not very difficult to sense his growing irritation as
we persist, but the phone line gets disconnected and cannot be re-connected.
We are not here to collect ‘facts’. These are already
known and follow a familiar storyline involving claims of harassment of women
and, of course, a disputed mosque. What is new and unfamiliar in Atali is
that, despite their unresolved grievances, the Muslims were ultimately
persuaded to return by their Hindu co-villagers. However reluctant it might be, such a return is unheard of
in the numerous instances of communal violence of the last decade. On the
contrary, geographies centuries old have been permanently altered in places
like Gujarat or Muzaffarnagar. Villages have turned their back on their
own neighbours of several generations, and far from calling them back, have
only stoked the hatred. What is it about Atali that makes it different?
We are here to see the Atali that has brought back its
Muslims.
After about two hours of waiting at the barricades put up by
the police, we decide to enter the village anyway, risking the wrath of
the policemen on the scene, who seem by then to be wearied by the heat and no
longer interested in us. In the village we meet a team from the People’s
Union of Democratic Rights. They want to meet the Sarpanch,
but he is apparently away on a business trip to Hong Kong and no one seems to
have his mobile number.
A small crowd gathers around us. An old Jat woman
asks, “Are you a Mulla or one of us?” We try to laugh
away the query. She generously invites us for roti-pani to
her house. Some young men follow us. Her son, a middle aged man
with an amiable smile, welcomes us. According to him, everything was
alright in the village till recently. ‘They eat from our thalis, we trust them to
take our women for pavitra-snan (holy dip). They owe us
lakhs of rupees; our forefathers gave them land and helped them settle here.
Even in 1947, nothing happened to them. It is just two families who have
now earned some money, who are at the root of all this. There was never a
mosque here, only a chabootara, and now they want to have a grand
structure. How can it be? Our devisthan is close by. We
are ready to give them land, even money to build their mosque, not here, two
kilometers away, but they are adamant. They even threw stones at our
women when they went there for puja’.
What is the way out, we ask. He is very clear and others nod
in agreement that the Muslims have to understand. They cannot build their
mosque at the disputed site. Suddenly he warms up and gives a sophisticated
argument, he has been told by his sensible Muslim friends that a masjid cannot
be built at a site which is under some dispute. Should they not follow
their religion and leave this disputed place? We have heard this argument
before in the context of the Ram Mandir movement, as one reason for removing
the Babri Masjid.
But why the violence?, we ask. The question produces a
sudden hush as no one speaks for several moments. ‘We don’t know who did it. You know, people are at
their work, some at their fields, others gone for duty, how do we know?
Yes, it was bad. Nobody seems to know how it all happened. But did
we not work hard to persuade them to come back?’
We ask about the houses that have been burnt down. Should
not Hindus help Muslims in rebuilding their houses? ‘We should, and we will – once they give up their claim on
the disputed land.’ Suddenly the old woman gets agitated: ‘You are writing
everything we say, but not telling us anything! Tell us what the mullas have
told you?’. “They ‘ll send you to jail,” her son jokingly scolds her. As we start taking our leave, one of us notices a calendar
hanging on the wall. The image is a common one of Ganesha, but the shop
for which it has been printed is called ‘Saifi Electrical Works’.
Impressed with this little example of syncretic culture, we take pictures with
our mobile phones. “You had invited us for roti, where is that?”,
we tease the old woman. Everyone laughs and she blushes.
We move to the Muslim part of the village. Suddenly we come
face-to-face with a half-built structure. This is the mosque, we are
told. We enter a desolate house, part of which is visibly burnt.
The man of house flings down the blanket that is on the chowki. Why are you throwing it on the floor?, we ask him. “It is all burnt, can’t you see?”. He does not sound
angry. Two women are sitting on the floor with a small girl. “She
used to be very naughty. Kept roaming around in the village. Not
any more. After that evening she does not leave us.” It is a long story of tears, shock, anger, frustration,
betrayal and helplessness.
“We saw neighbors throwing petrol, women with
trollies. They destroyed everything.” He shows us the burnt grain from
the sacks lying there. “Tell us what do we eat? They burnt my tempo.
It used to feed us, and the eight children of this house. What do I do
now? Was the tempo building the mosque? They should have burnt
me. Why the tempo?” The man is in a hurry. This a Friday afternoon, time
for namaz. Men have gathered at the ‘mosque.’ A police party looks
on.
We move around. You can enter Muslim houses quite
easily because their front doors don’t exist or have been blasted out of
recognition. Only an earthquake or a bomb could have achieved this.
You can still smell the viciousness which motivated the attack. What is it that we wanted to see or know? We
start feeling weary. All this looks so familiar. We are led to another house. Its front portion is
totally devastated. About a dozen men, young and old come and sit silently.
We hear the same story again, with sadness and humour. Our host is
thankful to the uparwala (the one above) for having saved
them. And the police, who were kind enough to move them, their kids and
women to safety. That they were not killed is still a mystery to
him. What else but the grace of the Most Benevolent could have saved
them!
Muslims were persuaded to return to Atali with promises that
the mosque would be built, they will be compensated adequately. Hindus
told them that they would feed them. But once they came back, everyone
disappeared. The Muslims feel cheated. Nobody in the
village talks to them now. Shopkeepers have been told not to sell
anything to them. They are mocked and insulted.
After their return, no political leader has visited
them. No village elder, either. They feel trapped. They live
with the acute awareness that there is no support for them in a hostile Hindu
neighbourhood and village. There are five Hindu villages separating them
from the nearest village with a sizeable Muslim population.
Where will this story go? What is the way out?
How will any semblance of normal relations between the two communities ever
return in Atali? Such a situation of permanent tension between different
communities – and not only ones defined by religion – is depressingly familiar
in the Indian context.
What is new and alarming though is the frequency with which
incidents like the one in Atali are spreading nationally. Is this the
future of India – a state of permanent fear and tension for religious, ethnic,
caste, or linguistic minorities bullied by an intolerant majority, egged on by
venal politicians and an ineffective state machinery? As we drive back the 59 kilometers to Delhi, it is these
questions that weigh heavily on our minds, adding to the oppressive heat of the
summer evening.
http://kafila.org/2015/06/18/are-you-a-mulla-or-one-of-us/#more-25557
The Broken Middle (on the 30th anniversary of 1984)
