And so it has happened.
***
The terrorist attack targeting tourists in Pahalgam lifted
the curtain on an eager chorus ready with war cries. Night after night in
television studios and on location, they told us about the perfidy of the other
side and whipped themselves into a vengeful frenzy, hoping that we would join
them. They shouted so every household in the nation could hear them.
Beyond them, an enigmatic government escalated diplomatic measures,
such as suspending the Indus Waters Treaty and cancelling visas, and spoke
about giving the armed forces operational freedom.
***
Those of us that have spent our lives talking about peace
and working towards it, one small task at a time, have watched in horror. We
have preached to the choir of our friends and associates—because that is the
extent of our reach. We have sat with our words because we have nowhere to put
them. Our voices reach no one. We have reflected on how much agency and voice
we have lost in the last decade or so. The sense of futility has equalled the
horror felt as war-mongering voices have become louder.
***
On April 30, 2025, I wrote on Facebook:
Terror, or indeed any violence, by any actor, state or
non-state, is wrong and its consequences are always tragic. The tragedy begins
with its immediate victims, lingers in the vengeful anger we feed as we perform
outrage and finally, decimates our own humanity--our ability to feel for others
and our ability to think.
We can close the door on this by pausing. Feel deeply,
but do not equate grief and solidarity with vengeance. Perform grief with
care--for those directly hurt, for those indirectly affected. Perform care with
thoughtfulness--that considers consequences, that considers who will pay the
cost of what you demand, that considers the means more important than the ends.
Responding to violence with violence is always wrong. It
always feels like it's now too late for pause, for patience or for dialogue,
but it never is. When the chorus mounts, peace seems to be the talk of the weak
and witless. But it is when the crisis is most acute that it is time to
breathe. It is time to maintain balance. Rising vengefulness is a sign that one
is becoming the other, or more truthfully, a sign that one IS the other.
At a time when I feel less confident in my agency as a
citizen, I am writing this because my silence would be my failure.
It is Akshaya Tritiyai and I wish you peace. May peace
abound--in our thoughts, in our lives and in the world!
***
Today, Indian cities will carry out civil defence drills
with air raid sirens and sheltering. For people my age and older, this is
reminiscent immediately of 1971.
We shifted school buildings, had two drills a day, ducked
under tables, had blackout paper on our windows.
One evening, my father stepped out just before the air raid
signal went out. He was on the road when there was a fly-by of Pakistani
aircraft. We ran from our flat to our neighbours’ flat to shelter together with
them—my great-grandmother, my cousin, my mother, my 1-year-old sister and I. My
paternal grandmother came to stay in the middle of the fortnight long war and told
us stories to keep us occupied during the blackout.
But nothing ever removed for me the memory of loss. I went
to a school where students and teachers alike came from military households. Twice
or thrice a day, we would hear announcements about fathers and husbands who had
fallen. Those moments of silence remain with me today. They keep me here,
writing, so there is no silence about war.
***
These disjointed pieces of writing are what I can manage
today, like stuffing paper into the cracks in a crumbling wall, hoping to keep the wind
and water out. Not doing even this is worse than its pointlessness.
***
When civilians glorify the military and the sacrifices of those
who serve, they also do them a disservice. There is always glory in doing what
you have assumed as your duty and there is satisfaction in doing what you think
is right. However, when those of us who do not serve, stop at vacuous praise
and romanticising militarism, we also abdicate our duty as the people they
defend. It is their job to defend and protect. It is our job to protect them by
practising restraint, by resisting the temptation to join a vengeful chorus, by
holding our leaders accountable for trying every measure and by making sure,
their blood is not shed in order to satisfy our egos. The military’s job is to
protect us and it is our job to protect them from our own vengeful bloodlust or
our leaders’ egotistical vision. Military options should be the last option.
The very last option.
In security decision-making, there is little transparency
and therefore, there is no accountability. Are we sure that every other option
has been exercised?
Most important, have we insisted that every other
option has been tried?
***
The problem with terrorism is that it tempts you to insist
that only a violent response will satisfy. The truth is we have no patience for
the alternative—which short-term may be to press on diplomatically and long-term
to understand the appeal it holds. We are also defenceless against those who
will goad us into demanding violent reprisal. That chorus is so loud that it sounds
like a universal demand. For governments, a violent response is an easy
simulation of action—someone else carries it out and pays and you get to say
you did this. But nothing really changes.
The fog of war distorts our knowledge about what is going
on. Who struck whom? Did they actually hit their targets? Did they hit
something else? Were they felled or did they make it back? Very quickly we do
not know. And we do not ask because asking is not allowed in times of war (and
let’s face it, now also in times of no-war).
The fog of war also obfuscates our real reasons and agendas.
Everywhere.
The real impact of this surreal time is on people. Soldiers
who die. Families on the border. Families of soldiers. What looks glorious and
glamorous at a safe distance is actually a lifetime of grief (mixed with pride
for military families), displacement, disruption, disability and a struggle for
those at the epicentre.
I am not belittling this sacrifice. I am questioning why we
let it happen if there is even a chance it could be avoided.
***
Even when there is no war, life in the border areas is
war-like. Over the years, we have seen and read countless reports of schoolchildren
playing cricket and landing on mines. We have heard about the military presence
in small towns, taking over schools or subjecting people to searches. And yes,
there is always a justification for all this.
But really, honestly, truly, is there?
***
I live two lives that are apparently incompatible.
I am a peacenik, peace activist (whatever activist means), pacifist,
peace educator—one of those people—you pick your word. In a small measure, this
is because even in everyday life, I hate shouting and confrontation. Everyone
should just get along and leave me alone. In a large measure, this is because I
cannot separate violence and conflict and war from their dehumanising and cruel
consequences. This is what is foremost in my eyes. This is who I have always
been.
I am also a security studies scholar. This means my professional credibility depends on being and sounding like a peer group of (mostly) men--some of them my friends--who sit in suits, know everything (and everyone) and having spoken of all they know, are convinced of the rationale for war. Decisive action, forceful responses, cool reasoning, realist thinking—all of which add up to understanding and justifying the exercise of coercive power. It takes a generous and confident display of testosterone-driven aggression.
I came to this field because I wanted to be a more effective
advocate for peace. I respect my colleagues for how much they know and for
their integrity in speaking their minds. But their conclusions have never become my
truth.
***
There is a gender dimension to war. It should be obvious but
I will state the obvious here.
Those who were shot in Pahalgam were men. Those who shot
them were men. Those who shouted in the TV studios were mostly men. Those who
sat in those televised but secret official meetings were mostly men. Those whose
op-eds got media space were mostly men spelling out the arguments for a ‘forceful
response’ and the very few voices I read calling for restraint were mostly those of
women. Those who led the diplomatic effort and pronounced it successful (but
still not successful enough to prevent war) were mostly men. Those soldiers who
will die in the fighting between the two countries will mostly be men.
Those who were bereaved in Pahalgam were women. Those who are
displaced or left behind by war are mostly women and children. Those who are rarely
seen as experts or asked about what they think are these women who must live
and rebuild their lives after men have decided.
Those who are invisible in all of this are sexual minorities and non-binary persons. They don’t even exist and therefore, need neither consideration nor voice nor protection.
***
On another note, in every ‘ordinary person’ interview on TV, that
person has asked for peace and normalcy. Returning to the studio, this has
strangely transformed into a rationale for calling for war. Anchors have pranced
about exultantly and triumphantly telling us about how we have diminished our
neighbour and frightened them and created anxiety.
***
It is in times of crisis that one must stop and breathe and
wait. This is the advice one gets for one’s personal life. Don’t make big
decisions in times of trauma. This should apply even more to nation-states
because the stakes are so much higher. But it does not.
***
Air strikes have already happened and spin has already obfuscated fact. This writing is too little, too late and I know that hardly anyone will read it. But write, I must. When we are all dust and ashes, and perhaps, atomic waste, somewhere in the universe, someone will know—she did what she knew.
