Mujhe Aitraaz Hai

At times I would be the only one travelling in the city bus and mostly, the only female passenger.  The entire length of 16 kms from my home at Odhav to my workplace near Jamalpur, represented that part of time which refused to move ahead or even reckon with the series of brutalities inflicted. And all was executed ruthlessly, fearlessly, with a perfect and fool proof plan and a dark intention. This is 2002. Post riot, old city, Ahmedabad.  Did I say riot? A common mistake we all like to make.  What was dubbed as riot was actually a genocide, a planned way of exterminating the Muslims in the state. 

At that time, my daughter was hardly two years old and my husband was mostly out of the city, working in the earthquake hit zone of Gujarat.  My family members restrained me from moving out of the confines of the house and our locality.  Their apprehension was not baseless. To reach Jamalpur, I had to cross the Muslim dominated areas like Rakhial, Gomtipur and Astodia. Even the bastis where our organization was working were dominated by the minority community. I was also not without the fear of loosing my life and worst, getting raped.  Annu (Habibun), a Muslim lady from Allahnagar basti, my trusted friend and colleague at the slum, made me memorize the kalma “Laa ilaaha illalaah, Mohamed ar-Rasool Allah” and instructed me to chant it, if ever I was attacked by a Muslim mob.  My other teammates warned me, barring me from wearing Sindur and bindi. I refused every time. I was driven by logic. Deep inside, I was confident that I am not the one to seek cover. Logic told me that I was not the one being targeted. A bit of research informed me that this being a state sponsored, government crafted activity fueling extremism, I, a potential voter, will not be put at risk.

I went to Bapunagar, Shah Alam, Behrampura and the other areas..... to work in the camps and to participate in the jan-sabhas. The anti Muslim and pro Hindu sentiment followed me everywhere....  weighing heavily. Needless to say, every time, I was put to shame.

From the end date of February 2002, the moment the news of the Godhra massacre reached Ahmedabad, and sporadic cases of violence started erupting, most of the Muslim dominated areas in the walled city were put under curfew, very systematically.  It was not the Muslims who were out with their swords, rods and rocks. The scenario was indeed unique. Out of the series of buildings, only one was selected and burnt.  The one that belonged to a Muslim. No, it was not a spontaneous act as it should have happened, had it been a riot. This, in the contrary, was a well planned, well researched, well financed and well organized item from the state agenda. 

Me and my organization were working towards the rehabilitation of the affected populations, people affected by the extremism in the hands of a few powerful and vicious people. Those affected the worst were the people from the lower and lower middle class, the marginalized, the poor.... the people for whom their poverty and abject living conditions was the only identity. The identity of being poor often overrode that of being a Hindu or a Musalman. These people were the daily wage earners. From both the communities. Due to the imposition of indefinite curfew, work was at stand still. The cost of vegetables and milk shot up. The poor were already stripped off their daily wages.  The high prices ate away into their meager savings. The ones who flourished were the money lenders, who controlled the micro economics. In the slums where we were operational, our health clinics became the only point of primary health care attendance. The poor were cut off from the life saving treatment centers, many died in the want of immediate and specialized care and timely medical response.

As a part of the relief work I along with my team visited a number of relief camps put up in the Dargahs and other places in the city.  Other than distributing the relief materials like clothes, utilities, water and food packets, we had also set up medical check up units providing primary health care.  Soon, the cuts, burns, wounds and sores seemed trivial. We were moved beyond tears to see little girls, adolescents, aged women and like, with inflamed and mutilated genitalia, awaiting for treatment, small children suffering from pneumonia and diarrhea, new widows and hapless orphans, unfed and unclothed infants separated from their mothers. But, above all, we could sense the seething hatred in the young hearts, the wounded souls, the unhealed, unseen, deep scars.  

Now, even after 12 years, the people are awaiting justice. The peace that prevails is an illusion. Scratch the long dried wounds. You will see fresh blood oozing out. Evidence of bestiality are ample. But not a single complaint had managed to get registered. 

Visit the ghettos...one definite outcome after 2002. The absolute lack of sanitation and drinking water facilities, lack of proper schools, roads, hospitals and housing greets you with their unwanted stories. Come and visit these many mangy huddled habitations of people  in  the vibrant state, meet the people faulty of being born as Muslims in Gujarat, a Gujarat crafted by Modiji. It is this state that has shot to limelight, thanks to the back-boneless media, carefully controlled by the powerful lobbies of the corporate houses. 

On the eve of the election day, when the nation is awaiting Parivartan and gearing for 'Ab ki baar Modi Sarkar', I see him as a cheap, glamour hungry, selfish and fascist trader.  He has traded his dreams of ruling the country with the innocent lives and with human rights.  No. Tomorrow I will NOT vote for you, Modiji. Mujhe Aitraaz Hai.

(Disclosure:The above written article is an edited version of my unpublished blog "10 reasons: Why I choose NOT to vote for Modiji. It might appear to be a lop sided version of 2002 event. The objective is not to analyze what happened, how it happened, who led, how it all started, how justified 2002 was and so on.  This is just a personal method of decision making to draw some indicators before I go out to vote tomorrow).