The Barbed Wire Fence in Paradise on Earth

Najma was wearing forest green khussey¹ the day she saw a dead body. 

She was admiring the dainty shoes on her excursion, the kashi kari² catching the rays of sunlight with her every step.

Her father’s sweaty hand firmly clasped hers to help her up the rough terrain. They had travelled for days, moving through different villages by foot and cramped buses, exploring the bazaars and picking up little trinkets along the way. 

She had let go of her father’s hand when she saw the rows of vibrant coloured khussey on display. She begged her father to buy the shoes but she would not tell him that she could feel a blister forming from where it rubbed against her toe. He would make her switch back to her boring practical shoes, and she wanted to enjoy the beauty of the embroidery adorning her feet as she traversed the unknown parts of her land like an explorer. 

Their travels were not storybook worthy.

Everything was the same, but not the same. 

The bazaars were urgent and loud, but the voices that drifted down the winding roads felt as if they had been blended into something familiar but with a different kick. The food smelled a bit different, so close to smelling like Nani’s cooking, but with a hint of an aromatic spice she could not place. The views of the mountains were similar from her village, but the white of the snow capped peaks seemed closer. The chinar trees stood like ladders reaching towards the heavens while the stumps of those cut down left the spaces in between empty.

Feeling underwhelmed by the mundanity of their travels, Najma pulled her father towards the scent of seekh kabab and pulao. She secretly removed her shoes under the table while taking the piece of kabab with the most coriander. They battled the sleepiness from their full bellies with ginger tea, her father winking at her as he asked for a second cup and poured a small amount for her to drink.

“Don’t tell your Ammi,” he said with a wink.

Najma slurped the chai in two gulps, giggling at how Nani had also given her chai two days ago.

They continued their trek uphill, and Najma climbed on her father’s back when the path became steep, still unwilling to change her shoes. She admired the way her green shoes were a shade darker than the hill they were climbing. The white and blue of her kameez³ matched the mountains against the backdrop of the clear sky. The chudiyan⁴ adorning her wrists were similar to the yellow of the dandelions swaying in the grass on their climb.

Her father placed her on the ground at the top of the hill. 

Najma looked around, and froze.

She had been looking for something completely different and she had found it.

Everything familiar melted away at the sight of the guns and a large fence splintering her land in half, the beauty and kindness melting into something more grotesque. Even the air felt different, heavier, from where they stood watching army men on both sides staring each other down.

“That is the line of control,” her father said, “We cannot go beyond.”

Najma’s mother always spoke of how Kashmir was considered paradise on Earth. Najma now wondered how paradise could have such an ugly fence with barbed wires and scary-looking men with big guns. 

“There is a whole part of our land off limits to us,” he said, “Azad Kashmir is just a piece of our land.” 

She looked at her father sadly, “Why can’t we take a trip to the other side?”

She would remember his long explanation about how walls were erected brick by brick by the greed of men. How lines were drawn with the blood of the civilians. How there were people in the world who could barge into other’s homes and claim it for themselves. How a land that was called paradise on earth was divided in two by an Englishman with a pen.

“What a strange world we live in, Najma. Lines are drawn into our land, but the Neelum River does not abide by these rules. It does not stop at any borders. The water flows like blood in an artery, going through both parts of our land.”

Najma could hear the sadness in his voice, and she knew he was speaking more to himself than to her. The pain etched on his face revealed a longing for his land to be free.

“You need to know the ways of this world. There are people who will forcibly take what is not theirs and if they cannot do that, they will destroy it. Either way, the consequences will be felt by future generations.”

Later, Najma would recall the knot in her stomach tightening and the chill running down her spine, she would wonder what caused her body to have such a reaction.

Her father’s somber words or the sound of commotion by the fence. 

The blur of movement or the urgent shouting.

The raised guns or the piercing noise.

They were too far for the bullets to reach them, but Najma still clung to her father’s arm. She watched the body sway and turn as if locked in an eerie dance with a chorus of weapons and shouting.

Her father did not shield her eyes from the sight, not even when the body hit the ground and lay motionless while the soldiers continued shouting with their guns raised and fingers on the trigger. 

It was not the sight of the pool of red underneath the body that made her look away, but the embarrassment she felt over how the body of the unknown man was discarded and ignored amongst the commotion. 

The soldier kicked the motionless body and Najma felt the bile rising in her throat. 

There was no dignity even in death.

Wordlessly, her father grabbed her hand and led her back to her familiar world. Najma’s teeth chattered on her way back down the hill, even while sweat soaked through her kameez. 

The green, white and blues of paradise on Earth felt tainted by the crimson running through the barbed wire fence. They stopped at the foot of the hill, and Najma waited on a bench near the dirt road while her father spoke to a local about the unreliable bus schedule. 

She opened her bag and looked at her old shoes, the peeling brown borders and the busy zigzag design that had felt so childish. Najma slipped off her beautiful green khussey, noticing blankly the crimson drops of blood from her blisters. 

She slipped on her old shoes. She felt no pain.

1. Type of shoe found in Southeast Asia – similar to ballet flats. ↩︎
2. Delicate mirror work found on Southeast Asian shoes, clothes, and homeware  ↩︎
3. Shirt ↩︎
4. Glass bangles ↩︎