Dr Vikas Sharma
Twenty-five years ago, a single night altered the course of our lives forever. I was only six years old when my family’s hopes and dreams for a new beginning were shattered by the eruption of conflict between India and Pakistan. That night, etched into my memory with vivid clarity, marked the beginning of a long journey of displacement and loss. My father, a devoted teacher in the education department, had dedicated years to building our new home in Samwan, a village in the Pallanwala sector of Akhnoor, Jammu and Kashmir. The home was not just a structure but a symbol of our hard work, dreams, and the promise of a better future. However, we never had the chance to settle into it, as war intruded upon our lives and displaced us from the land we had hoped to call our own.
It was a tranquil evening between 9 and 10 PM when the serenity of our newly constructed home was abruptly broken. I had been half-asleep in what was supposed to be our new abode. My mother woke me with a sense of urgency and panic, her voice trembling as she whispered, “Hurry, there’s been a war between India and Pakistan.” The air was filled with the deafening sounds of gunfire and the chaos of frightened voices. My father’s painstakingly built house, a testament to his years of dedication and hard work, remained empty. We had not yet had the chance to move in, and the dream of settling into our new home was abruptly snatched away.
In the midst of this chaos, we were forced to flee our village under the cover of darkness. We escaped on a tractor, leaving behind our home and the life we had known. Our temporary refuge was among the graves of fallen soldiers, about six kilometers away from our village. The stark reality of the situation was that we had to leave behind everything we had worked so hard to build. The safety we found was temporary, and the idea of returning to our village seemed increasingly distant as the conflict continued.
The aftermath of the conflict saw the erection of a fence along the Line of Control (LOC), extending three kilometers from the actual border. This was intended to enhance national security, but for us, it became a symbol of entrapment. The fence enclosed our village, rendering it a no-man’s land. What was once a vibrant community became a distant, unreachable memory. The fence not only separated us from our home but also imposed severe restrictions on our movements. We were allowed to visit our village only until 6 PM each day, after which we were locked out, unable to return to the land that had been our home.
For more than 2.5 decades, spanning 25 years, we have lived in a state of perpetual displacement. The home my father had built with such dedication remained uninhabited. Our village, now a ghostly reminder of our past, stands as a testament to the dreams we lost. The emotional toll of this displacement is profound. Even as I pursue my MD from the prestigious college of this state, the trauma of that night and the ongoing sense of loss continue to shape my life. The echoes of childhood trauma, marked by fear and chaos, remain with me every day.
The impact of the conflict was not limited to our family. Many farmers and families in the region, including the Chhamb sector near the India-Pakistan border, faced similar disruptions. The fence not only affected us but also had a broader impact on the livelihoods of those living near the LOC. The farmers, who once tilled fertile lands, were now cut off from their fields, their lives and work disrupted by the conflict. While the government provided 4-5 marla plots to displaced families as compensation, this was only a temporary measure, a way to wash their hands of the situation. But what about the farmers whose entire land was fenced off, rendering them unable to cultivate or even access their fields? These small plots could never compensate for the vast acres of fertile land lost to the fencing.
The government might have considered its duty done, but the mental and emotional toll on these farmers remains unaddressed. They are left with no answers, their livelihoods in ruins, and their mental well-being ignored. What is being done for the psychological distress of these farmers? Their land, their means of sustenance, lies abandoned beyond the fence, and with it, their identity and dignity.
The erection of the fence along the LOC was part of a broader socio-political strategy aimed at enhancing security. However, the human cost of these measures was often overlooked. The impact on families like ours, and on countless others living near the LOC, highlighted a disconnect between security policies and the real-life consequences for those affected. The fence, while serving its intended purpose of security, became a barrier to normalcy and a symbol of the deeper issues faced by displaced communities.
Despite the turmoil and displacement, education remained a cornerstone of my life. My father’s dedication to education inspired me to pursue a career in medicine. Today, as I work towards my MD, I am reminded of the sacrifices made by my family. The education and professional achievements I have attained are a testament to the resilience and determination that emerged from our challenging circumstances.
The challenges of displacement are manifold. The inability to return to our home, coupled with the restrictions imposed by the fence, created a sense of perpetual instability. The longing to return to a place we once called home is a recurring theme in our lives. The physical barriers imposed by the fence are a constant reminder of the emotional and psychological barriers we face.
The legacy of conflict extends beyond the immediate impact of violence and displacement. It leaves behind a trail of broken dreams, disrupted lives, and a deep sense of loss. For us, the fence is more than just a physical barrier; it is a symbol of the enduring scars left by conflict. The inability to reclaim our home and the ongoing restrictions on our movements are a constant reminder of the broader implications of the conflict.
Despite the challenges, there remains a glimmer of hope. The desire to reclaim our home and return to normalcy persists. We hold onto the hope that one day the fences will come down, and we will be able to return to the land that is rightfully ours. The hope for a future where our villages are no longer forgotten and where the fences are removed is a driving force in our lives.
Our story is a reflection of the broader human cost of conflict. It serves as a call to action for recognition and understanding of the lives disrupted by war. The tale of our forgotten village and the impact of the fence highlight the need for policies that address the real-life consequences of security measures. We urge for a more humane approach that considers the lives and homes of those affected by conflict.
It is not enough for the government to provide plots of land as a token of compensation. There must be a comprehensive approach that addresses the deeper impacts of displacement-both economic and psychological. Farmers who lost their fertile lands and livelihoods must be given meaningful support, including access to alternative agricultural opportunities or financial aid. Moreover, the psychological toll of such displacement-fear, uncertainty, and a sense of hopelessness-demands urgent mental health support services for these affected communities. The policies should go beyond land distribution and provide avenues for economic revival and emotional healing for those most affected by the fence.
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