Choosing Compassion over propaganda

Today Kashmiri Pandits are in the crossfire of the National Political battlefield, becoming the subject of Electoral fortunes. The government and its right-wing propaganda mills have started grinding them suddenly after eight years of just making cosmetic noises. Today it is the fodder for ultra nationalist fervour, like many others before it.

The Left is also briskly shooting from the hip trying to reduce the issue to a minor statistical detail, to suit its narrative and broad brushing of the issue.

Between these two sides, the issue, and the plight of the Kashmiri Pandits are being torn like a rag between the mouths of rabid dogs, without any empathy or kindness that it requires.

Unfortunately, masses on either side of the divide, are fed on steroids of social media with little patience to do real reading and informed decisions...

While the issue is very complex and solution is nowhere near the horizon, it is important to first listen to the Kashmiri Pandit view of their issue without clouding our eyes with affiliation to either side. To this end, this book by Rahul Pandita is an important read that narrates the plight of a 14-year boy who is thrown into the cauldron of hate and the whirlwind journey from a Kashmiri Native to refugee in his own country. What sets it apart is that while it details the human travesty and tragedy that unfolded by years of religious bigotry and hate, it also presents the spirit that refuses to succumb to that hate and offers a hope for redemption for those consumed by the hatred on either side.

Initially Rahul starts with the words that establish the identity of the Pandits, which to me sounded like the usual Brahminical entitlement, probably just his way of explaining their identity from the past, that has shaped their thought and path to salvation. It becomes more clearer as he narrates how Books and Knowledge – transcending religious boundaries - were cherished by many among the Pandit Families.

“𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆’𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒚, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒈𝒆𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅. 𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆’𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒎𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒖𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆. 𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑲𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒎𝒊𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒓𝒂𝒉𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒔, 𝒐𝒓 𝑩𝒓𝒂𝒉𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒔—𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔.”

Rahul registers that the issue of extreme religious hatred against the Hindu Pandits in the valley is much older than or as old as the Indian independence. Today there is a section of the media that tries to reduce this to a sporadic or caste issue which is ridiculous considering how different the society in Kashmir valley was compared to that of the Indian mainland. The Pandits in that sense, are not even the usual Brahminical stereotype of mainland India who usually profess superiority of lifestyle and food. The Pandits contrast that stereotype, being open about their lifestyle and food choices. Like having meat in their regular food to what that they offer to their god and even receiving them as gifts from their Muslim Neighbours, they break all the preconceived notions.

But the issue of the Pandits is not just from the 90’s. Their pain is not just even from the hands of the terrorists as the left liberals likes to paint. Their pain stems from the hatred, duplicity and betrayal which many of their Muslim neighbours dealt them with, every time, from the tribal invasion to the time of insurgency until they were pushed out.

“𝑴𝒓𝒔 𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒋𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕-𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒘. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒂 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒘. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒄, 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒖𝒎 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆. 𝑩𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆. 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂 𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍. 𝑷𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑴𝒓𝒔 𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒋𝒖 𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅, 𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕. 𝑰𝒏 𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑺𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒓, 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒕 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓. 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒎 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒋𝒖’𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒉𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒖𝒎. 𝑨𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎, 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕 𝑩.𝑲. 𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒋𝒖 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒖𝒎.”

...

“𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒅, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏. 𝑽𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒆 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒎 𝒏𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔. ‘𝑰 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒎: “𝑰𝒏 𝒎𝒆𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒆 𝒌𝒐𝒊 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒂𝒎𝒊 𝒊𝒏𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒏𝒂𝒉𝒊 𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒈𝒂.” 𝑵𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔.’

𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒆. 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒎 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑽𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒅’𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔. ‘𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈,’ 𝑽𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒔, ‘𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒖𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆.’ 𝑵𝒐𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏. ‘𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒉 𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒖—𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔,’ 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝑽𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒅.”

Again, while the left and right are shadow boxing on the issue of political correctness and to pin who let the Pandits down on the fateful days, it is important to listen to what they think - coming from the heat of the moment - irrespective of the side, left or right one subscribes to.

“𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒂𝒕𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒈𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆, 𝑱𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒐𝒉𝒂𝒏. ‘𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝑱𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒐𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒖𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒎𝒍𝒚.’ 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔. 𝑰𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚, 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅—𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑨𝒈𝒉𝒂 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒉𝒊𝒅 𝑨𝒍𝒊—𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚.”

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“𝑱𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒐𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒃𝒚 𝑵𝒆𝒘 𝑫𝒆𝒍𝒉𝒊 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝑱𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑲𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒎𝒊𝒓. 𝑶𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒐𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝑱𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒚 19, 𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝑩𝑺𝑭 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝑱𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒖. 𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒂𝒋 𝑩𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒏, 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒘 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒑 𝒐𝒏 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎. 𝑱𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒐𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒑𝒐𝒑𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅, 𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒏 1986 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆, 𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒆-𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒔.”

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“𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝑱𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒖’𝒔 𝑹𝒂𝒋 𝑩𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒏, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 10 𝒑.𝒎. 𝒐𝒏𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔. ‘𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒖𝒔,’ 𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝑷𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒊𝒎. ‘𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒖𝒔,’ 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑱𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒐𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘, 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒑𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚. 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒚𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒑𝒔. 𝑵𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒆. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍, 𝒊𝒏 𝑵𝒆𝒘 𝑫𝒆𝒍𝒉𝒊, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒖𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒐 𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒂 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈.”

While understandably Jagmohan is absolved for saving the lives, clearly, the powers at Delhi were not.

On nature of the religious persecution, he paints a parallel with that of the Jewish holocaust and other holocausts which is how many of the Pandits see this, perhaps just fully so.

“𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒙𝒊 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒔. 𝑰𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒔, 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒑𝒂𝒖𝒍𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏. 𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒘 𝒂 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝑱𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝑨𝒖𝒔𝒄𝒉𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒛. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒘 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔, 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏’𝒔 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔.”

...

“𝑨 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 ‘𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒏𝒊𝒄 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒍𝒕’ 𝒊𝒏 𝑨𝒛𝒆𝒓𝒃𝒂𝒊𝒋𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒕. 𝑶𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒂 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒓, 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒛𝒆𝒓𝒃𝒂𝒊𝒋𝒂𝒏𝒊 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝑩𝒂𝒌𝒖, 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑺𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝑹𝒖𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑨𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚, 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒛𝒚, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝑵𝒆𝒘 𝑫𝒆𝒍𝒉𝒊, 𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒂𝒓 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒄𝒄𝒖𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝑲𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒎𝒊𝒓. 𝑶𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒅𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒘.”

However, he quickly dispels the painting of pan Indian Hindu cause when he points out how the fellow Hindus, outside the valley, including their Dogra Neighbours in Jammu and elsewhere abuse and exploit them. From calling them with derogatory intonation as “Kashmiri Loley” to exploiting them monetarily and murdering them, fellow religious followers had a sobering effect on him to ignore the bogus cause.

“𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎, 𝒘𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒔, 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒑𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒘𝒂𝒔:

𝑯𝒂𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒆𝒊𝒏 𝑲𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒊 𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒉 𝒎𝒆𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒉𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒚 𝑲𝒂𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒚 𝑲𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒊 𝒍𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒚

𝑲𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒊 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝑲𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒊 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒊𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆?”

...

“𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒍 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒏𝒊𝒄, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒎. 𝑯𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚, 𝒔𝒐 𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒚 𝒓𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒂 𝒓𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒕, 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒆𝒔. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚. 𝑶𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓, 𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒎. 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒎. 𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒚 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒖𝒏 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒉𝒊𝒎. 𝑯𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒑 𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎.”

...

“𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒔. 𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝑯𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒖 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝑷𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒊 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒇𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝑯𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒖 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍.”

The fact is, this is the state of refugees across the world and so refugees, across the ethnic and religious divide, share one class and identity. I have seen the same with Srilankan Tamil Refugees being exploited in TN by their fellow Tamils without any scruples or compassion, even while Eelam cause is always an emotive issue for Tamils and a major political plank.

“𝑾𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝑬𝒙𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒍. 𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒊𝒕, 𝑴𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒏 𝑳𝒂𝒍 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒊𝒕. 𝑰 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒘𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒉 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒍.”

Eeriely, this is another shared feeling with every refugee group. I have seen this expressed by many from the Tamil diaspora with similar lines.

The defining moment when some one must choose between hate or humanity, eventually came to Rahul one day.

“‘𝑾𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝑺𝑺. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒚𝒂 𝑺𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒂𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒌 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒉. 𝑾𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓,’ 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅. ‘𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒆, 𝒍𝒆𝒕’𝒔 𝒈𝒐 𝒋𝒐𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔,’ 𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅, 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒏. 𝑾𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒈. ‘𝑷𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕,’ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒅𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒓. 𝑺𝒐 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒅𝒊𝒅. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂. ‘𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒚,’ 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅. ‘𝑾𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒚. 𝑾𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑨 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚. 𝑾𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝑯𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒍𝒍. 𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒎?’ 𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒅.”

“‘𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆,’ 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆. ‘𝑲𝒐𝒕 𝒐𝒔𝒖𝒌 𝒈𝒂𝒆𝒃 𝒈𝒐𝒎𝒖𝒕?’ 𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒅. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅? 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓’𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒑𝒉𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒚. 𝑰 𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒐 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆.

‘𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍!’ 𝑴𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒑. ‘𝑾𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒕, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎—𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒏. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔. 𝑨𝒏𝒅, 𝒚𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒍. ‘𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏,’ 𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅.”

In hindsight that was the choice that enabled him to embrace Humanity, instead of carrying the lifelong baggage of hate.

And many years later Rahul's interaction with a right wing, retired defence personality, which he narrates, is the message that needs to be remembered.

“𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏 𝒖𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒓𝒖𝒏𝒌 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒘𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒐. 𝑾𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝑲𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒎𝒊𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒛𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔. ‘𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕?’ 𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒅. ‘𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒈𝒆𝒆𝒔.’ 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒚𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅: ‘𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍, 𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚.’ ”