I was visualising that the enemy will be the ones who will give us a pitched fight. Obviously, I was nervous. I had never been under fire. At sunrise, we saw the entire expanse of the beautiful Meadows throng with tourists. We moved around carried out reconnaissance of
the entire expanse and observed that the entire place was unguarded with virtually. No soldiers, no enemy, so whom were you there for? “This is your target,” I was told by our commander. I blinked. “What target?” “The tourists.”
I, Manzoor Bhat was just a boy, just 15 yrs old, uncertain, and crushed by the weight of my personal failure. I hail from the picturesque yet tormented Sopore, which is part of the beautiful Valley of Kashmir. My home is caught between breathtaking beauty and unbearable bloodshed. I am from a very humble background and my family lived modestly. My father is a diligent driver who drove tourists across the places of interest in his old taxi. My mother is an effective home maker and has been doing odd jobs including working at a handicrafts factory that adds on to the livelihood income. We were not rich, but we were a satisfied and happy family.
My life had already begun slipping through the cracks a year earlier. I failed my Class 10 exams. My father’s face crumpled when he saw the result. He looked at me like I had not just failed an exam, but betrayed his dreams. My mother, ever gentle, said nothing. But her silence screamed disappointment. Even my younger brother avoided eye contact that evening. I wandered out aimlessly, and found myself at Wular Lake, the only place I had known since childhood that listened without judging. I stood at the edge of the water, looking into the glassy surface and asking questions I didn’t know how to answer. Was I really good for nothing? Was I dumb?
And then, a man appeared. Cloaked in a grey Firan and soft-spoken, he asked me what I was doing. I told him everything, how I felt worthless, how I had nothing left to give. He smiled.
And now that I look back, that’s how the trap was set. He didn’t point a gun at me. He didn’t scream ideology. He offered purpose, Belonging and Redemption. He told me that our motherland was under siege. That people like me had a duty to rise. That a glorious afterlife, Jannat, awaited those who fought for it.
That night, I was taken to a house full of men eating wazwan and speaking of war, like it was a game. A young and beautiful girl served them food in silence, her eyes full of fear. Their gaze lingered on her and her sister with unsettling intent, as though my presence alone held them back from acts of unspeakable violation. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now - it was the fear of living among men who call themselves warriors but act like cowards. When I tried to leave, I was told I couldn’t and that I would die like any other Kaafir. I stayed. Because, as they say, fear is stronger than logic especially when you are young and lost.
They coerced me to take part in smaller missions where I would be the lookout to tell them about the movements of security forces. All this continued for a year. My parents and my family did not know what I was up to, but the guilt in my mind always lingered. I hid something very important from my parents, sister, and my brother. They did have a doubt initially, but I was a dexterous concealer. One of the innocent looking men out of them, came to our house as a friend and convinced my parents that there was a very lucrative job in Jammu for me and him at a hotel and the remuneration will help us elevate our financial status and also help us as
a family. My father was convinced, but my mother was sceptical. Not with standing, they permitted me to go with him and told me to take care of myself.
But what I didn’t tell them was that I would be taken to a place where I would be trained, train to be a killer. We moved up to the hill near Uri and stayed the night there, and after a day’s recce, in the wee hours of the morning, we negotiated through a Nallah and kept climbing to a place, which that man said, was Jannat. We reached a small village where we met Ahmed, an elderly man who received us as if he was a relative, and he fed us very good food, and we rested for the rest of the day at his house. We were in a village across the Hajipir pass, very close to Muzaffarabad. The next day we boarded a bus and headed towards Muzaffarabad, where we were received by three men in rickety vehicle and we were taken to a small house, which was also named Rahat. After an hour or so, an elderly looking man came to meet me and embraced me, and he said into my ear that I was the chosen one, and that I would be one of the warriors to free the Kashmir from the Kaafir Indians. I was confused. We rested at that house for the night and the next day, we were taken to a jungle where there were 25 armed men doing various types of training. The training was quite well organised, where they trained the so called Jihadists to become killing machines for 2 to 3 weeks before inducting them into Kashmir as cannon fodder.
I was to start my training the next day for two weeks. During my training I was not allowed to speak to anyone back home. I was missing my parents. I was missing my sister. I was missing my friends, but I could not share my thoughts with anyone at the camp because everyone was very hostile towards anyone who had the basic softness of a human. After my training got over, we were told that we need to go back to Kashmir and do something spectacular and make Islam proud of our existence. We started our move back to Uri and without any problems, we were guided by the Indian villagers to a safe place through a safe passage. As normal passengers, we boarded a bus from Uri and reached Sopore, my home. I went to meet my mother and father, but could not meet my sister. After a few hours we went to a safe place as designated by them.
One fine day, I learnt that three of the people whom I had met a year ago had been shot down by the security forces in Bandipora and that I was upgraded into the rank and file of the fighting group. I was told that the only way to please Allah is through the route of attaining Martyrdom. And then came the mission. We were not told where we are going to. The commander took us to a pick up point on the by-lane from where we took a Tata sumo in the wee hours of morning. We reached our drop off destination and the place was where we had to target our enemies. We walked up to the woods from Pahalgam town and enroute picked up some food and snacks from the people who they called supporters, and surprisingly we were willingly helped. Upon entering the forest area, we were distributed in twos and were told to lie low.
I was visualising that the enemy will be the ones who will give us a pitched fight. Obviously, I was nervous. I had never been under fire. At sunrise, we saw the entire expanse of the beautiful Meadows throng with tourists. We moved around carried out reconnaissance of
the entire expanse and observed that the entire place was unguarded with virtually. No soldiers, no enemy, so whom were you there for? “This is your target,” I was told by our commander. I blinked. “What target?” “The tourists.”
I was not told that the target or the enemy would be an unarmed group of men, women, and children, who had no wherewithal to fight back. I froze. Tourists? The ones who breathed life into our economy? “Yes,” he said coldly. “They defile our land. They are the enemy.” Truthfully, I couldn’t believe the concocted and convoluted thought. I was not in for this. I was taught that these tourists are the ones who give us our life and that they are harmless. My mother made handicrafts and sold these to the tourist and the income she made from the sale was used to educate us and run the household. I said no. My commander gave me a tight slap. “If you disobey, you die here. Or worse, you live as a traitor.” His voice was trembling. Not with conviction. But with insecurity. I realised then - he wasn’t a commander. He was a manipulator. A predator who sent children to do his killing. A coward in a cloak of faith.
In my heart, I was convinced that I was an amongst fake Jihadi’s, or if I may say cowards. Cowards because, no brave soldier, even a soldier of faith will attack an unarmed and innocent civilian. I couldn’t sleep that night, not out of fear, but out of guilt that I was going to be party to a dastardly act, being termed as a sensational attack. The next morning, they drugged us. “Jannat hamara intezaar kar rahi hai,” they said. All I felt was numb. We walked out of the forest, the canopy thinning above us until sunlight poured freely onto the trail that lead to the meadows. And then, suddenly, we were among them - the tourists. We saw most families laughing and enjoying. Children tumbling across the grass, their squeals resonating in the otherwise silent valley. Couples stretched out on picnic blankets, arms entangled, phones raised to freeze moments they’d one day reminisce about. It was a scene from another world - carefree, untouched, blissfully unaware. We stood there, silent and out of place, carrying the weight of the woods behind us while they basked in a world that still felt innocent.
And then, the firing began. I fired too. Not at people -but towards the sky, the earth, anywhere but those eyes filled with joy and innocence. I cried. I begged God, “Ae maalik Mujhe uthaalo”. But I survived. And I guess that is how HE has decided to punish me. I live every day with the weight of what I witnessed and was part of. What I became. What I could not stop. I helped my cowardly team members in slaying innocent people who were visitors in my own home. Why will anyone trust people like my parents and siblings, all will be branded as, terrorist (Manzoor Bhat) ki ammi, terrorist (Manzoor Bhat) ke abba. Oh God! What have I done? Can I rewind the clock and reset my immature decisions. I guess no. This burden will only go away with me when I’m buried. I’m a loser, I’m a failure, maybe Wular was a better option, and it would have been pure grief for my family and not shame. I didn’t die that day. But the boy I was -the one who loved his family, his land, and his peole — did.
So here I write. Not for sympathy. Not for forgiveness. But for awareness. This is how they get us. Not with threats. But with promises. Not with faith. But with its twisted shadow. I call out to every parent, teacher, and leader. Children in vulnerable places don’t need ideology.
They need attention. They need affirmation. They need truth. And let every boy standing by a lake or on the edge of a cliff - lost and unloved - know this. You are not worthless. You are not weak. And your life, no matter how broken it may seem, is too precious to be handed over to cowards who call their fear martyrdom.
I feel dejected.
I feel I have let down my parents.
I feel I have let down my own sister and brother.
I feel I have let myself down.
I feel I did have the choice which I didn’t make.
I feel there is so much more to give to humanity than to take life away from people who deserve it.