Stolen Innocence

She snorts, she sniffs, she’s in a tiff,
She gulps; she gags, but still smokes a fag,
They giggle, they snigger, they dig a little deeper.

She’s stoned, she’s cold, she cannot hold,
She coughs, she crocks, she begins to choke.
She bleeds, the reds, until she’s nearly dead,
Her tears, so dear, they begin to smear.

She hears, she sees, she feels what they speak,
Their fake, they make, they wish to take.
She tries, to plead, with all she can,
They stop, they stare, they look away.

Her time, is up, and kicked into gear,
So young, she was, no more she is.

Good bye, innocent one, you lived your life,
Of drugs, and thugs, you were their mug.

By Noor Mubarak

Kingdom of Heaven

To my grave I go,
Leaving the world I once called home.

Gliding through the skies of gold,
My new life begins to unfold.

Running through the tunnel of light,
Reaching to the end so bright,
I get a sudden shiver up my spine,
For there is a door,
In front of these eyes of mine.

Touching the handle of my destiny,
My heart starts to pound like it’s meant to be.

Taking a deep breath,
I take my first step.

Standing in a room so white,
A golden light appears in my sight.
Walking to it with a fright,
I stand in the heavenly light.

When the burning sun breaks of day,
When nothing shines upon this fray.
Then you stop showing your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, not tonight.

You travel through the dark,
You forget your tiny spark.
You could not see which way to go,
You did not twinkle, why so?

In the sinister blue sky you keep,
I watch you through my translucent blinds.
For I will never shut these eye of mine,
Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny sparks have died,
So does the one, I loved all my life.
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, you’ll always be my star.

I drive down the boulevard in Srinagar, Kashmir and I see a culture of substances. Young boys sitting in Maruti 800, smoking up the wildly grown Charas and cooling it off with a bottle of beer. Just like one sees in the movies. Where a new culture of nouveau riche has grown to an extreme.

A society in which: boys want to be “super heroes” and girls want to be “super models.” Where apparently drinking and doing drugs is considered “cool” and if one is not part of that “class” then they are considered to be an outcast. It seems now new “traditions” and “values” have risen within the streets of Srinagar, created by the youth. But they cannot be fully blamed; for it is the fault of their parents too.

Parents, who are engaged in earning tremendous amounts of money and pouring it amongst their children, while being ignorant towards the effect it has on them, as their children indulge into the bags of money, just like a 5 year old would stuff his face with chocolates. Money that is frequently used for various corrupt and unprincipled motivations, but regardless of the usage being used over drugs & alcohol; prostitution too has started playing a role in it all.

Without any realization to their actions a growing number of HIV cases have been reported within Kashmir, 745 of them, where as unofficial and independent studies estimate 25,000 cases of HIV infection and these statistics are still changing as the infections are growing.

Stuck in a dilemma of ‘old-fashioned’ vs. ‘modernization,’ where Kashmiri youths are losing their rich and unique culture, as they are ashamed of speaking their ‘mother tongue’ and prefer speaking in ‘Urdu/English’ because they believe it is more sophisticated.

Where girls cannot even walk the streets without the fear of being the next victim of eve teasing. Just like a young Romana Javed had been run over by a car because she threw away a piece of paper with the phone number of the two boys behind the wheel.

A culture, that is on the verge of extinction, just like the “Tibetan antelope.”

And as I drive away from this scenario, I think to myself: “Is it worth it?”

What do you think?

By Noor Mubarak

Running & Stopping,
Running & Stopping,
Is the story of her life.
Cities to Countries, she flies & flies.
Running & jumping into the sky,
Stopping & sitting, only for a while.

Venturing for her next destination into the wild,
She leaves the place she once called home, behind.
Not knowing if she will ever come back,
For she wants to live life by the tracks.

The tracks without a destination,
The tracks that want to live.
The tracks without an end,
The tracks that keep on moving,

Running & Stopping,
Running & Stopping,
Is the story of my life.
Cities to Countries, I fly & fly,
Running & jumping into the sky
Stopping & sitting, only for a while.

Building a new nest,
Until the next adventure begins to hatch.
I live the life of a free bird,
Who chooses to soar through the cloudless blue skies.

By Noor Shah Mubarak

This is me.
The one without a name,
The one that walks across this deserted road,
Without a soul.

This is me.
The one without a name,
A black rose,
That has shriveled to its decay.

Oh how I pray,
To live again,
To feel the pain
That once went through my veins.
Oh how I pray,
To live again,
To weep,
Until I fall asleep.

Touch me and I will wither,
Wither away into the windy winds,
That blows across this dying night.

I pray for the sun to not rise,
So I can be alive,
With darkness by my side.

By Noor Shah Mubarak

To me Kashmir was a magical place that I would visit every summer, a place where the whole family would come together. Where I would spend my mornings and afternoons playing in the garden with all my cousins and brothers, visiting relatives at their homes and eating all the delicious pastries and meat dishes they’d offer us, Chicken patties, mutton patties, kantee, black forest cake, pineapple cake, while washing it down with either Kahwa or Nun chai (Kashmiri tea). A land in my perspective filled with happiness, love, colour and life. Where the grass was emerald green, the lakes were sapphire blue and the sky was crystal clear, but that was until I grew up and opened my eyes.

During these yearly visits up to the age of 9, I wasn’t aware of the Kashmir conflict, the militancy, shooting and bombings that took place within the valley. I couldn’t even recall the summer of 1991 when my father’s sister’s wedding took place during the high peak of militancy. Till date my mother still tells me about certain incidents that occurred during the wedding. How at night, rocket attacks and firings would take place, and how we would all be rushed into the corridor to be protected from the bullets that could break through any of the windows in our house. As a child I had never even realized that most of our time was spent indoors because of the cross fires that would take place on the streets between groups. And those who dared to go out would easily end up getting caught in the middle of it. I guess I was never aware of these surroundings because I was too engaged in playing with my cousins, who I’d only see once or twice a year, after all I was only a child.

In Summer 2004 we made a trip to Srinagar, Kashmir after 7 years. At that time I was 16, my eldest brother was 20 and the younger two were 13 and 7. As we arrived and were escorted to our home, I had noticed a change in the streets of Srinagar, it wasn’t the Srinagar I knew from my childhood. This one was dark, gloomy, depressing and lifeless. A place filled with police, soldiers, tanks, guns, tear gas, bombs, explosions, shootings, firings and so on. What happened to my Kashmir? The land filled with happiness, love, colour and life? Did that land ever exist? Did I imagine this magical Kashmir as a child to protect myself from the hideous truth? Was I blinded by my love for Kashmir? I wish I knew the answers to my own questions, but sadly I don’t.
In September 2008 I had decided to visit Srinagar to spend time with my maternal grandfather. This visit took place during the huge anti-India protests, where 1000’s of Kashmiris came to the streets to protest against the transfer of land to SASB (shrine board) which was an outside state organization as it was a direct violation of article 370 of the Indian constitution. The whole city was under government curfew during these times, no one was allowed to leave their homes without a ‘curfew pass’ and if they did, then they would either end up getting shot at or beaten up by the Indian army who were patrolling the streets. In some areas people couldn’t even open their windows without getting fired at, the 1990’s were back. Kashmir was once again drowning in the blood of its own people.

In the past 20 years over 80’000 civilians have been killed, 10’000 girls/women between the ages of 8-80 have been gang-raped/molested, 8-10’000 disappearances, about 7’000 killed in custody, 23’00 widowed, 110’000 plus orphans, an approximated 50-100’000 Kashmiri muslims and 150-300’000 Kashmiri pandits have been internally displaced due to militancy. Where 330 people have died while in police custody and 110 have disappeared from cells without a trace. A state that is known to be the highest militarized zone in the world, 700’000 armed forces within the Jammu and Kashmir state, but approximately 75% of the above statistics are within the Kashmir Valley and it’s population of 5 million.

This is my Kashmir, a dying land that was once alive, a terrorised state once secured, a disputed region once in peace, a paradise turned into hell. This is the Kashmir of the people, its people to whom it has always belonged to. This is our Kashmir. The Kashmir of the Kashmiri’s: the forgotten people.

By Noor Mubarak

Never in my life would I have thought that I would become an English teacher in an orphanage. Even though I have been brought up in England for half of my life, I am not qualified to teach English. It has been nearly 4 years since I was last present in an English class, and just because I was present does not mean I was paying any attention to what was written on the board. In fact I was the day dreamer kid, the one who would be lost in their own little world, and would end up going blank in their classes when asked a question by their teacher, because he/she was to busy dreaming. Yes, I was THAT kid. So how on earth could I, the day dreamer kid, teach English to 27 students?

Well, luckily enough some super geniuses created the internet and pretty much every ones favorite search engine: “google.” Ahhh google: the website where I spend most of my time (well, second to facebook). Google, every ones good friend, always there when you need it with all the answers to your problems! So yes, every day, I would ask my good friend ‘google’ on how to teach English grammar and language to my 27 students, and then ‘google’ would give me a list of links where I could research on teaching methods. Isn’t it amazing how the 21^st centaury works? I can’t imagine how life was over 50 years ago, but then again I can’t imagine how life will be in another 50 years! Maybe we’ll have search engines that we can speak to! But on a serious note it is amazing how ones brain can store certain facts that they were taught over the years. Fortunately I was capable to restore several memories of my English classes in primary and secondary school, and with the knowledge of my memories and the help of google, I have started to educate my 27 students.

I am a very lucky person to have been brought up abroad with the best schooling one can have, whereas these children’s luck has not been the same as mine. So if I am able to teach a few hours a day, a few times a week, then why not? What is the point of having all this knowledge if one does not share it with others

Noor Shah Mubarak

Honestly, this wasn’t my idea; a friend of mine had referred this to me. I guess I never got into the whole trend of “blogging,” unlike many of my friends. But, there is always a first time for everything.

So why did my friend refer this idea to me? It’s quite simple actually. Currently I am working in an orphanage in Srinagar, Kashmir. Teaching English to around 27-30 students, all being boys, aged: 8-18. Most of these students have lost their parents to militancy since they are from a district in Jammu & Kashmir called “Kupwara.” During the 1990′s, this was where most of the militancy took place, and till date, still is.

So, what are militants? Well, “Wikipedia” describes it as: “The word militant refers to any individual or party engaged in aggressive physical or verbal combat, usually for a cause.” And “The British Library website” defines it as: “Aggressive and violent behaviour in pursuit of a political cause, favoring extreme or confrontational campaign methods.” There are many, many more definitions for the word “militant’ but lets not bother with those, since they all revolve around the same forming of the two definitions given above. Interesting stuff huh?

Anyways getting back to my friend and why she thought I should start blogging. Her exact words were: “You should keep a full blog of your stay – either do it here or through wordpress.com.” ‘Here’ being ‘facebook,’ but I decided to give “wordpress’ a go and that is exactly what I am doing. My blogs will be based on my stay in Kashmir and my students.

I am looking forward to sharing this with the rest of the world (well, those who blog and read others blogs and hopefully my friends and family too). Okay, now I’m getting a bit excited, I can see why “blogging” is so much fun! It’s quite addictive too! Well, that’s enough for today.

Noor Shah Mubarak.