Peace-loving Kalash Threatened by Violence
On the last day of the Shandur Polo festival, Akram and
Waris realised something had gone horribly wrong near the border where they
ordinarily worked.
“The terrorists timed their attack on the Kalasha
perfectly,” One of the policemen said. “Our minds were occupied with the
task of keeping Shandur safe, all police forces had been diverted there, no one
was thinking of the border or the Kalasha. Their harvest festival was weeks
away, and thats when we normally go in to protect them.”
On July 30, a band of foreign militant crossed over from
Afghanistan, ate meals with Nuristani shepherds, broke bread with Gujjar goat
herders and then killed two Kalasha shepherds in a brazen pre-dawn attack.
On the 31st, while Raheel Sharif, chief of army staff, made
statements about how “the people (of Pakistan) could now breathe freely…
(because) the noose is tightening around terrorists,” the Kalash found
themselves suffocating with fright and grief over the news of their recently
killed relatives.
The Kalasha, an animist tribe whose population has dwindled
down to just 3,700 people spread across the valleys of Bamburet, Brir and
Rumbur must now confront the reality that militants and their local sympathiser
threaten their right to exist.
One policeman who asked for anonymity said, “They didn’t
kill any of the Muslim shepherds they met, they were waiting for the big kill,
the kafirs, the Kalasha, it was targeted. Also they allowed the two other
shepherds to escape, the two others were Kalasha who have converted to Islam.”
“The first news was that there had been a theft of a large
amount of cattle, and we concentrated on securing Shandur. It was the
last day of the Shandur festival, and then the army announced to all forces
that there had been a terrorist attack. But it takes a day to get back from
Shandur.”
The policemen huddled over a cigarette they were sharing,
each dragging hard on it before flicking it into the ravine below. They explain
that it doesn’t matter how hard you ride or how fast you drive, the precarious
mountain bends and rugged terrain will slow you down.
“So the attackers had time to get across the border to
safety but they were so sure no one would come after them, that they would be
able to hide, that they remained in the area. Inki himat daykho, zara
jurrat ka andaza karo – imagine the audacity. Do you begin to see the
complicity they have with the Nuristani people, they are now sunni and
sympathise with the killing of kafirs, so they knew they could count on people
to hide them. But they didn’t count on how enraged the army was.”
The shepherds, Khush Wali and Noor Ahmed, had taken their
cattle to graze in the higher pastures, beyond the army checkpoints positioned
to protect the region.
“This is what the
Kalash do,
we take our animals to graze in the pastures high above the valleys. Tthis is
our way of life, so now every family is filled with fear. When the bodies
were brought back, the mourning began and a silence came with it. We are a joyous
people but the religious extremists see no merit in our singing and dancing,
they label us indecent,” said Quaideazam, a Kalasha who works at Hindukush
Heights. This is a boutique hotel in Chitral which also manages a
fund, providing bright Kalasha youth with scholarships to pursue their
dreams.
Just before the festival of Uchaw begins, the Kalash
community leaders from Bamburet advised the families, whose loved
ones had been butchered by the militants, to end their mourning
and return to participate in welcoming the harvest season.
A procession of town folk from Bamburet begins the walk to
Krakaal early in the morning, trekking past idyllic looking pastures, gurgling
mountain streams and little waterfalls. Several others come later piled into
jeep taxis. The Kalasha ‘Qazi’ or religious leaders carry tiny flowers
picked from nearby meadows in plastic bags.
It is impossible to discern what is being said among the
gentle muttering of the religious leaders as they hand out the minuscule
offerings to the people waiting for them in the home of the deceased. “Hum
yahaan soog khatam karnay ka liyay aain hain…We are here to end the period of
mourning, and to put the pain in these flowers,” explains one religious leader.
The mourners take the flowers in their hands, some inhale
the non-existent fragrance, and then tuck the flower into their headdresses and
caps in a gesture that they accept the offering. They will move towards the
healing process, helping their community embrace the harvest ahead.
Amid a kaleidescope of colours, and silent bent heads, a
girl introduces herself, telling us she is an engineering student. “I am
Nooria, daughter of the deceased. You are our guests, please eat something.
Thank you for coming today. We will now look again in the mirror, cut our nails
and put on our headdresses. Please do not feel any distress, we must go back to
working to making life better, safer for others.”
Men emerge from the kitchen carrying platters of tea and
biscuits that are distributed to the guests. Nooria speaks to us about broken
bridges, the lack of road access, and the damage from floods, “That is what we
must concentrate on. We see our hostels, modern and clean, and we wonder why we
cannot bring that change to our village. But you have seen our bridges and
roads, its hard to bring anything here. And hard to get out, and now these
attacks… We are under threat all the time, from all angles.”
As Uchaw begins the picturesque valley of Rumbur, we
watch the simple shuffling motion of dancers that the militants have declared
“indecent.” The dancers move in semi circles. With their arms across each
others shoulders, they reverse, stepping in tiny shuffles, then rush forward,
depending on the drumbeat.
A Kalash activist disentangles himself from the dancing and
leans over the railing at Grom, where the dancers have amassed on a platform
perched over 120 steps cut into the mountain. He asks, “What is wrong with
this? From the point of view of terrorists, everything is wrong, our girls are
unveiled and confident, men and women mix freely. They threaten these
freedoms, these simple basic rights of ours. If we send our girls to government
schools, they feel pressure to cover up. They are told the Kalasha dress tempts
the eyes of men, but it is long and covered. Perhaps it is colourful, but is
that worth killing our culture, murdering our people?”
A group of elderly men in brocade robes in gold and burgundy
are chanting in the midst of the young throng of dancers, recounting folk
tales they feel the younger generation should internalise as part of their
culture.
A middle aged Kalasha woman says, “This culture is dying and
the Muslims are interested in converting us, we don’t mind if Kalash want to
convert they should, but when they are forced we feel fear…” Her voice drops a
notch and she continues, “It’s not just Taliban, we are scared of strict and
angry Muslims who just decide someone is converted to Islam. Two youth from
Rumbur were said to have been converted. The Muslims insisted they were
converts but they were able to go to court and say they wanted to remain
Kalash. Thankfully, the judge decided it was their right… but Rani was not so
lucky.”
Just before the killings of the two shepherds in the
pastures, Rani, a Kalasha girl was taken to a madrassa, made to recite the
kalma, given a shalwar kameez to wear, and told she was now Muslim. When she
returned to her home and put on her Kalash clothing, Muslim mobs showed up
outside her home, pelting her house with stones in protest, insisting that she
must remain Muslim.
In a meeting of Muslim leaders and Kalasha elders, the
girl’s mother demanded that her daughter should be allowed to choose whether
she is Muslim or Kalasha, but the gathering refused, saying they had witnesses
to Rani’s recitation of the calm. She must now continue her life as a Muslim or
prepare to face the consequences. In a few hours, 700 muslims from across the
three valleys had amassed at her home, and began to hurl stones at hers and
neighbouring houses.
“It felt like there was gun fire and explosions, the sound
of stones on tin roofs is really scary. We realised there were no guns
later but the mob looked like they were out for blood. We saw her uncle
dragging her out. He said she is the sacrifice. They couldn’t endanger the
whole village to protect her,” said a witness to the events.
Several Kalash youth and member of the press, particularly
the Ishpata news filmed the stoning on their phones. Rani then made a statement
to the press and police, saying she had converted of her own free will.
Luke Rehmat, founder of the Ishpata news was particularly
concerned about the scale of the violence and the speed with which the mob had
amassed. “Their numbers are swelling, while our population is shrinking.
They are strong and they know how to get what they want. We are not weak, but
we prefer peace as a community so we step back,” says Luke. “We are
outnumbered here now, so the survival of our culture is tough. Up in the high
pastures we must live in fear of those who sympathise with the Taliban and
other foreign and local extremists. Here in the valley we live among those who
dislike our culture and want to see us converted and assimilated.”
A three hour bone-rattling, knuckle-whitening drive from the
valley of Bamburet, Quaideazam checks in people who want to work with the
Kalasha. This is what he says to them: “Help the Kalash lead
themselves, help them develop networks and systems which allow the Kalash to
make their own decisions and govern their own existence. What we need most
is schools where our children are not being brainwashed against our culture.
Then we need improvement of our infrastructure so the Kalasha can get in and
out of the valleys, work and earn, facilitate trade. And we need to stop
struggling to justify the ‘decency’ of our culture. Until the local residents
respect our existence, our culture is doomed to die out.”
But another activist says there is an institutionalised lack
of respect or recognition for the Kalasha culture: “When you go to make a
passport or Nadra identity card, you’re told there is no such thing as Kalash
religion. Of ourse there is, we have minority status and this is what I
practice so how can our officials says that. So then I went to the passport
office and I was told, no there is no Kalash religion, you’re a sect. A sect of
what? We are Kalash.”
In a country like Pakistan that is burdened by multiple
conflicts, the Kalash represent an oasis of peace. A serene people with
a unique culture that prioritises festivity and joy, they must be given
every protection.
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