My shirt is their mask

The wrinkles on my shirt,
the dust gutted collar is the story of my land.
 
Every crush on it is a symbol of suppression,
the one that was Kashmir, Manipur , Bastar, is now at every nook and corner .
 
The spots gutted with dust are all in your honour
The shirt, I tried to pull it off and stand half naked
To show my heart, beneath the shirt
But they won’t let me do
My shirt is their mask.
 
I promise, to tear this cloth apart
when red is the colour of shirt,
Soaked in my blood.
 
Asad Ashraf

Arnab Goswami-style journalism is killing the essence of debates

On the Monday edition of Times Now’s show The Newshour, editor-in-chief Arnab Goswami referred to journalist Asad Ashraf as a ‘cover for the Indian Mujahideen’. The following is Asad’s own take on that particular situation and the present state of journalism as a whole:

As I sit to write this piece, images from the day Arnab Goswami called me a ‘cover for the Indian Mujahideen’ in his studio, return to my mind. If it’s merely the thought of being called a terrorist that scares me, I wonder what it would be like for those who are implicated in cases of terrorism on false charges.
The takeaway from the events of that day not only jolt me, but also present a very grim picture of the time in which we are living. Journalism, once a respected profession has become a tool of hoop-la into the hands of certain promoters who use it as a mechanism to build public opinion and manufacture consent.

Times Now Editor-in-Chief Arnab Goswami. Image courtesy: Facebook.File image of Times Now editor-in-chief Arnab Goswami. Image courtesy: Facebook
I am sorry but I wouldn’t hesitate to say that Arnab, arguably the most well-known face of Indian TV journalism today is setting a precedent that is very dangerous for the future of this country.

He is teaching a whole bunch of young journalists, who follow him, not to question the narratives propounded by the state machinery, to believe every word of it and call every detractor an ‘anti-national’. While in a democracy where journalism is considered the Fourth Estate, it is the duty of journalists to continue to be watchdogs.

He is bifurcating opinion into the plain binary of national and anti-national
Someone who agrees with him is a nationalist, while others are anti-national. In the name of debate, he is actually running media trials.

One can only imagine the absurdity of a situation, wherein he calls me a sympathiser of the Islamic State and a cover for the Indian Mujahideen just because I pondered over certain loopholes in the police version of the Batla House encounter.
However, what must have really annoyed Arnab is the fact that I not only questioned the authenticity of the encounter, but also the video — that was supposedly released by the Islamic State — featuring one of the ‘absconders’ of the Batla House encounter. And that this came mere months after Arnab allegedly played doctored videos of JNU students on his show must have hit him where it hurts the most.
As a journalist, with an acumen for investigation, Arnab should not only have agreed with me but should have also tried to investigate whether that video was at all genuine.

But on the contrary, I was asked by him that if it was a ‘fancy-dress competition’?
Why not? It could have been a fancy-dress competition — a bi
But on the contrary, I was asked by him that if it was a ‘fancy-dress competition’?
Why not? It could have been a fancy-dress competition — a bit like hoax calls. Don’t we have hoax calls about bombs being planted?

Did the video undergo forensic examination before being aired on Arnab’s Newshour and becoming a matter of debate?

Tasleem Rahmani of the All-India Muslim Council, was right in pointing out the fact that even the employees of Times Now were not sure about the authenticity of that video as they ran the ticker, ‘#BatlamaninISIS’ below the screen followed by a question mark.

But logic ceases to exist when it confronts Arnab Goswami on his Newshour show.
And what replaces it seems to be pure rhetoric woven into allegations and accusations.

However, I realise that I am myself engaging in things of which I have been accusing Arnab, and I am keen to maintain a thick line of difference between myself and him.
Therefore, when I talk about Batla House, I would use reason and logic to substantiate my claims — something that has serious doubts about the credibility of the police theory hovering around this encounter.

The guy apparently featuring in the Islamic State video — Bada Sajid who allegedly fled from the Batla House encounter — has been declared dead twice before this video surfaced, according to media reports. Any well-meaning person would be curious to understand how a man who has died twice — once in Syria and then in Afghanistan — is alive again to send threats to India. But as I said, reason and logic have no place in Arnab’s ‘fish market’ which he calls The Newshour.

If Arnab had bothered to go through the postmortem reports of the two boys killed in that encounter, he might have sat and contemplated his position, rather than shouting at the highest pitch in his studio and presenting himself as the jury. However, the wish to contemplate would only be aroused if there was an inner desire to investigate and reach out for the truth. Arnab, on the other hand, forces himself to believe things that suit his interest are more important than knowing the truth, probably because truth will never fetch him as much TRP as the ignorance of it will.

For TRP-chasers, ignorance is bliss. Then why should one come out of that comfortable zone of ecstasy?

Not least for those who have nothing to offer him except some respect and love. But love and respect have lost their meaning.

Atif Ameen and Sajid who died in that encounter had been hit by a bullet in the back and the head respectively, whereas the police claimed that there was a gun-battle from the front as soon as the cops entered the flat. Both of the deceased had injuries on their bodies that were caused after being hit by some flat object, clearly indicating that the boys were beaten before being shot. All these facts are on record.

If one examines the locality where the encounter took place, it wouldn’t be difficult to ascertain at first sight that it is nearly impossible for anyone to flee the encounter scene in such a heavy presence of the police force in the narrow lanes of Batla House.

Investigations also revealed that these boys had submitted their original documents in the police station while filling up the tenant verification form before renting out a flat. Even the most foolish man, who is a part of such a big conspiracy, will not make that mistake.

Why was a magisterial inquiry as per the guidelines of the National Human Rights Commission (NHRC) of India not conducted after the encounter?
This is among the many questions that will continue to haunt our democracy if legislators, executives, and the judiciary do not come together to rectify the mistakes committed by the Special Cell of the Delhi Police.
However, I would still refrain from calling this encounter ‘fake’, until a judicial probe is conducted into the matter, and I certainly wish that the findings of the probe actually come as a slap in our collective faces. But I doubt that will happen, which disheartens me.

Before I conclude, I agree that other journalists have the right to point out the defects in my investigation and pave the way for a constructive debate, in a bid to restore the essence of journalism and bring back the journalism of a time when ideas were debated. I fail to understand why the debates have been reduced to ‘us versus them’ and have turned into scuffles between inflated egos. Debate is about engaging with each other in search for the truth and not screaming at each other to score brownie points.

If things do not change for the better, the ultimate loser, in the end, will be journalists and journalism

Muslim

Sadique, my name
a skull cap and lower above the ankles
is my identity,
who cares of the brain beneath my skull?
For them, all that matters is the cap on my head.

Aatif, my name
my body a potential bomb, terror my label
who cares of the warmth of my body?
For them, it’s just a potential bomb covered under the lower, above my ankles.

Yasin, my name
my beard, a mark of a bygone culture
who cares about a face wrapped under it?
And the innocence of adolescence on it
For them, my eyes can only beam violence

Muslim, is the common identity
that binds us together
and terror, the label.

Death Stalks On The Wall Of My Room

 

Bierut is burning inside the bulb in my room

Children of Gaza shot right in front of me

Grotesque posters of those killed in Afghanistan.

Blood on the walls of my room.

On my wall

In my room.

 

Can you see the dead Blacks lying on my floor?

I must wear my spectacles to see

So I pick mine

Only to see the world burning in my room,

The smoke choking my throat

 

I have become schizophrenic , I think

Perhaps, that’s why I can’t see the dead in Paris

In Lebanon, in Baghdad, in Gaza

In Syria, in Afghanistan.

 

The world would christen this as my Schizophrenic imagination

They will take me to a doctor, tell me that everything around me is fine !

But I know, like you know, it’s not just Paris that is burning

The world is burning.

Like you and I

I see Fascism Coming

I see Fascism coming

In the pool of blood of fetus

From the womb of their mothers

Shedding on to the streets

I see vagina’s screaming in horror against the barbarity of saffron trishuls

Breasts suckling red blood

even before babies could be fed

Yes from a distance close enough I see fascism coming

This time not from Weimar Germany

but from Gandhi’s Gujarat

Soil has no static culture

I turn sides in my bed

Reading the history of past

connecting Gujarat to Germany

Muslims to Jews

Who calls them the enemy?

The chain of historical fascism unites them together

Surrounded by the countless others.

Yes I see fascism coming and knocking our door steps

Images of Qutubbin Ansari and Annie Frank

their many sisters and brothers, dampen my eyes

I wipe out the tears with a handkerchief of spirits and passion

Yet fascism looks to be tomorrow’s reality

and the piece of cloth stained in red imitate the fascism I look at through my eyes.

I see the skyscrapers buildings in Ahmadabad from the windows of my room,

And not miles away from there,

the deserted farmlands with a plant of Nano on it,

the miseries of farmers ,who grew their crops on it once

and their malnourished children, do not escape my sight

I see fascism in those skyscrapers buildings with paints of fancy colors

Hiding the cracks on its walls.

Yes, I see the fascists coming

Before I sleep into a dream

harboring a new crop for the fields where industries stand now.

 

The world on the wall

I don’t need a piece of paper,
stamped by a sovereign authority
to discover what the world is.
On my wall, there hangs the world
there are boundaries, there are borders and capital cities,
there is Ankara, there is Berlin and there is Gaza.
There are mountains and rivers eclipsed by borders
Yet I trespass them all.


On days, I eat my meals in Lahore
And on others, I fight with along my comrades in Gaza
On nights, I die a martyr’s death and on others, I survive
to travel back to my own bed, and look at the wall strangely.
The borders, the army are all perishable
In the world of my imagination,
I trespass them all and come back to my bed every night,
Sometimes alive, at times dead.
Asad Ashraf

Deadline

I struggled to walk past the hundreds sleeping on footpath on a January night,
but there was a deadline.

They died crying for help, in the fields of western Uttar Pradesh
but I had a deadline to meet.

I have heard that hundreds of kids died in a school in Peshawar,
but I could not forget my deadline.

Deadline, deadline, deadline !
It superseded all my desires to mourn over the killings in Kashmir and Palestine.

I had to cover the brutal rape of a pregnant tribal woman in Chattisgarh,
I couldn’t do more than to meet my deadline.

My ear echo with sounds of bombings by NATO forces,
but don’t you know that I have a deadline?

ISIS beheaded a journalist in Syria,
I am sure the slain must be chasing his deadline too, just like me.

Someday something has to supersede my deadline,
probably death of my life engrossed in deadline,
then I will mourn in deep silence forever,
for the kids of Palestine, the Muslim women of Gujarat, the children killed by the NATO forces,
and the naked existence of ISIS.

Asad Ashraf

The Enduring Spirit

I died a lonely death last night
the mirror in my room captured the images of my last moments,
but the morning fog has hazed them.

And there is no mark of my existence ever now,
I wander in space, screaming, shouting and enduring
that I lived with you all once,
and that history shall not be buried under the carpets.

Somebody come and sparkle off the haziness from my mirror
let the world know, that I lived with them once,
before succumbing to the forms of daily discrimination,
a Dalit, A Muslim and everyone who is Rohith was my identity
let that not be buried under the carpet,
I Shall endure resting in peace now.
Asad Ashraf

Rohit, come in my dream sometime, we will play with stars together

 

Rohith, as I write this letter to you, my hand shivers in anxiety, on a winter afternoon, I can sense my body sweating. I am sure you must be wandering in the space, the place where you wanted to be. I have been thinking to write to you for the past three days, but finally gathered the courage to do so today. As I am writing this letter to you, I am not sure of where to deliver it. But I am sure you will read it from wherever you are right now. Unlike you, I believe in life after death, I believe that the messenger of god will deliver this letter of mine to you in heaven, far away from earth, somewhere in the space.

Rohith, I am extremely disheartened at the way you took away your life and left us alone in our struggle. I never had the chance to meet you; However, I did speak to you over phone the other day when I was writing a report on your rustication from the hostel of HCU and your social boycott. You sounded energetic and spirited; I don’t know what motivated you to take this step. However, I am sure this is not an act of cowardice but of courage. I am not disappointed because you took your life away as I remain convinced that it was a political act and not an individual decision.

All I could write as a tribute to you on that fateful day was “political suicide is an act of courage, defiance and above all sacrifice. And that shall not go in vain. This will strengthen the Dalit and Muslim movements in the country,” Yes, like you I, a Muslim, also consider my birth in this country a fatal accident. I like you also have to face daily discrimination at the hands of upper caste people in this country, for taking positions on constitutional rights of Muslims; I am also teased as a Mullah, not by strangers alone but also my friends.

Rohith, like you I was also suspended in my university for demanding a student body, I was barred for attending classes for weeks and was literally blackmailed by my University authority.

Rohith like you, false complaints have been slapped against me too by the similar authorities, and I can relate to the pain and suffering that you had to undergo.

 I didn’t know you personally, but it seems our financial conditions were not very different. You relied on your scholarship and I on my part time job to live and survive during my college days. However, you had the courage to do what you did and I did not.

You sent a strong message by doing what you did, your sacrifice will benefit millions of other Rohiths living in this country. And I stand ashamed, for not having enough courage to tread on your path. Not that the thought has never come across me, but I preferred to be humiliated by this communal and casteist society, which seems to have a problem with my name itself. It makes me a potential terrorist, a traitor and everything that is not civilized.

The extent of discrimination prevailing in this society is to such, that I am reluctant in even telling the auto drivers that I have to go to Jamia Nagar, expecting a blunt ‘No’. I often tell them, drop me at the Jamia University, probably because civilization ends there. And no one wants to land in an uncivilized area, a place where supposedly modernity ends. Not even the auto drivers want to come and see where and how we live.

Like you Rohit, I am also quite ambitious, but let me reassure you that my ambitions will never supersede my politics. I will continue to fight for the rights of my community the way you did. You wanted to be a Science writer like Carls Sagan and I want to be a literary writer like Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Unlike you, this is not my first write up, but I am sure it is nowhere close to intensity and passion that had reflected in your last letter. Rohith, I have another dream now, not just to write like Marquez but to also address a letter like yours to this unjust and extremely cruel world, that may stir its conscience. However, I doubt if it has one at all. But I will try as you did.

There is a lot to write to Rohith, probably about our understanding of politics, disillusionment with Indian left and lately developed love for post-modernist politics. But I will write about all this, probably later, since I am sure you would be flooded with letters in heaven and wouldn’t be having much time to read a very lengthy one for now. But do respond my friend, come and meet in my dream sometime, we will wander together in the space, play with the stars and talk about this unjust and cruel world, far away from here, in the space, in my dreams.

Vidroh, shall never die !

Vidrohi, I I know you wouldn’t like me
We didn’t stand on the same side of ideology
yet we were together in many struggles!
Vidrohi, I know you were convinced with your path of struggle
and I was not!
But Vidrohi, for me struggle is beyond boundaries
And camaraderie is beyond party

Tonight I will peep into your mind through your poems
And will look for you in the pages of books that imprints the footmarks of your struggle
And I will also try to locate the first woman whom you called your mother,
Somewhere in the couplets of your poem!

Vidrohi tonight I will try to live like you, sleep like you and roam around like you in your poems
But the sunrise tomorrow will set us apart again !
And Vidrohi will be Vidrohi
revolting against the world in protests against oppression all over the world !
You shall never die
Vidrohi, Vidroh is an Idea that shall live forever

Asad Ashraf