I concluded my previous column with this quote from the philosopher, J. Krishnamurti: “Love is not thought, love is not remembrance… we (must) negate everything that is not love, jealousy, hate, violence, all the rest of it.” I wish to continue this conversation with all of you.
Over a month has passed since the heinous attack on tourists in Kashmir. In the interim, a lot has indeed happened. For a few days, we were participants in what seemed to be developing into a prolonged military confrontation with Pakistan. I am not here to discuss the decisions of the Indian government or the pause in hostilities but to reflect on how we as individuals responded to the happenings. There was anger, frenzy, and a demand for revenge across the board. The atmosphere was heavy, clouded, and filled with the spirit of vengeance. It was so overwhelming that beyond a point we did not know — and did not care — if what we were sharing on social media was real or false. There was glee when fake news-mongers claimed that cities in Pakistan had been attacked. At that moment, truth be told, it did not matter who was being killed. Whether it was a terrorist or just another person on the streets was irrelevant. Many imagined our tanks rolling through the streets of Pakistan and, once and for all, ending decades of conflict. Every Indian was a virtual member of the armed forces, firing at the Pakistanis through a gaming console. I am certain that it was the same situation on the other side of the border.
Any talk of non-violence, peace or love was portrayed as anti-national, anti-armed forces, belittling the sentiments of those who lost their lives in Pahalgam. Some hinted that it is emasculating to want peace when the enemy has unleashed this evil. The meanings that lie within the idea of emasculation are very disturbing and have no place in the modern discourse. But the suggestion that there was something unmanly in not wanting violence exposed the socio-emotional location of the overflowing feelings. Beneath the ‘wear-it-on-your-sleeve’ nationalism, there was the old hand of male testosterone fuelled by incessant, noisy and mentally-destabilising bombardment from social media platforms and television.
When the conflict was raging, I put out a short tweet that said, “I am a pacifist. Don’t be afraid to say it.” Beyond the vulgarity of many comments, the point that was being made in the responses was that this was not a moment to talk peace. When, then, is the right time to talk peace? The language of peace is most crucial when violence and war are our reality. It is not just the semantics, we also need the tonality of peace in our voices. Being touched by peace is that much harder when we are engulfed by hate. When it is impossible to make sense of our feelings and a kind of helplessness is forcing our hand towards killing, the white dove needs to be discovered. Irrespective of whether we believe in any form of god, religion or spiritual quest, finding some space for non-violence within our hearts when anger is so overpowering is the challenge we must pose to ourselves.
Calling for peace during a crisis is not cowardly or weak. Quite the opposite. Peace is difficult during these phases because even those yearning for its presence are struggling with their own rage. We are all angry at what has transpired and want to hit back. But if, from within that quandary, we could have found some semblance of sanity, we would have stumbled upon peace. Peace is not a request to ‘put down weapons’ or ‘embrace your enemy’; it is a search for saneness and quietude. It entails regaining the ability to empathise. This constitutes the search for peace. It is distinctly possible that we may fail in this endeavour. But to reject that internal grappling as enfeebling means we are falling into the trap laid out by those who killed unmercifully. To keep trying to find oneself every time we encounter the urge to hatefully retribute must be our life’s purpose.
Does the peacenik not want those responsible for Pahalgam to be brought to justice? There can be no doubt that justice is necessary. But justice is not a tit-for-tat game. It comes from a deeply moral place where emotional outbursts do not influence decisions. Some will argue that when such horrible things happen, we must allow rage and passions to find vent. But what does venting mean? Where do we draw the line? Each individual will move that line according to his/her perceptions. Justice cannot come from this chaotic situation. Justice has to be dispassionate. Governments need to decide what justice means in terms of military or non-military action. But responsibility for justice also lies with the citizen. If we want our government to act in a just manner, it is imperative that we respond with equanimity to the situation, not feed the mania.
Many claim that all they wanted was action to be taken against the terrorists and the Pakistani Establishment. The reality, though, was very different. Hate against Muslims and Kashmiris was everywhere. The incident became an excuse for bigots to unleash untempered Islamophobia. You could say anything and even attack people in the name of patriotism. It was not just citizens who indulged in such behaviour. So did the people in power. Uttering a word in support of Muslims was considered a betrayal of the country, which was purposely conflated with the Hindu identity. Those who found all this disturbing were scared to say anything because of the volatility of the situation. We watched it play out while Kashmiris and Muslims faced — and continue to face — the onslaught.
I am accused of being an armchair commentator speaking from the security of my home. This safety is provided to me by the armed forces. This is true. But why would I want army personnel to go to war and sacrifice their lives? As a citizen, I should be praying that they are not be put at risk. If I really care for our armed forces, I must not want war and support every effort to dial down the temperature.
The other accusation is that I did not lose anyone in the Pahalgam attack. In Pahalgam, we were all witness to how horrible it was to lose someone to violence and felt their loss viscerally. A couple of weeks later, thirteen Indians were killed in Poonch due to Pakistani shelling but we did not respond with compassion. We don’t even know their names; they are mere statistics. Demanding war as the only way to solve our problems comes from people who have never faced the bullet. Ordinary people living on the borders do not want war; they don’t want to die.
Will we listen to them? Listening is love.
T.M. Krishna is a leading Indian musician and a prominent public intellectual