Muslim children, traumatised by the carnage in Gujarat and subsequently shunned by the Hindu–managed schools they were studying in, are trying to rebuild their dreams at a residential school in faraway Kerala
The car had moved just a few feet past the check post when the security guard at the check point flags us down. He had waved the familiar car on, but then the sight of parcels on the rear seat raised his eyebrows. ‘What is that saab?’ he inquires. The answer immediately clears our way without further questions. Sheikh Abdullah told him that the parcels were for the Gujarati children in the school.
The word ‘Gujarati children’ works like magic at the Uppala checkpoint, the first one at the Karnataka–Kerala border. We are going from Mangalore in Karnataka to the Shihabul Uloom Residential School at Mangalapady in Kasargod district of Kerala, which has provided a home away from homeland to the riot–affected children of Gujarat.
The children appear to be quite comfortable at the new home after the initial homesickness and the haunting memories of their homeland. The Gujarat Sarvajanik Rehabilitation Committee had agreed to send these children there after a thorough investigation of the school, its surroundings and the Shihabul Trust, which runs the school. The Shihabul Trust was one of only two institutions chosen by the Gujarat Sarvajanik Relief Committee to shoulder the responsibility of nursing the ‘future generation’.
It is heart–rending to listen to the children who talk freely about what had happened in their home state. While their houses were physically destroyed, the others secure place for children — their schools — had turned abusive. The children stand with folded hands to narrate their stories, as they would stand in a classroom to recite a poem. However, this is all poetry of pain.
Their experience shows how the vicious communal divide has singed the innocent minds of children across Gujarat. Most of these children have had to come this far, to an unknown place, because their classmates and schoolmates in Gujarat had turned abusive, because the teachers had turned them down and because the schools were no more centres of learning. Some schools even stooped to the level of cutting down the marks scored by Muslim children.
Dewan Mohammed Salman studied in the 7th standard at the Pragati English Primary School in the Anupam area of Gomtipur. The school in the ‘all Hindu’ area had a considerable number of Muslim students. After the carnage, Hindu students started boasting about how Hindus had killed Muslims. Muslim children started moving around in groups to avoid individual harassment.
"That was when we first counted how many Muslims there were in the school. We were 150. In spite of this large number, we were physically attacked by fellow students. The teachers were reluctant to help us," explains Salman. His father lost his embroidery shop but they escaped the attacks.
Embarrassing questions and gestures left deep scars on the little mind of Maaz, a 5th standard student at Navyug Shishu Niketan. He says, "Not only fellow students, even several teachers were asking if we were hiding weapons in our school bags and uniforms. The humiliating interrogation usually ended with remarks like ‘you people deserved it’."
Ubaidulla and four other Muslim children studying at the Nutan High School in Visanagar, 80 km from Ahmedabad, were determined to write their exams in spite of the trauma they were undergoing. But the Hindu children senior to them seemed equally determined to prevent them from doing so.
After the initial verbal abuse, they started beating up the five children. When one of the Muslim students was beaten to unconsciousness, there was retaliation. The next day, Ubaidulla’s classmate Akhib brought a knife to school and stabbed a Hindu student, injuring his hand. His parents came to the school and accused the Muslim students of violence.
"Though they started it all, they only blamed us. My friend would not have stabbed if another friend of ours was not hit so badly. Together, we all refuted the allegations. But still we were always suspected." Ubaidulla says the computer teacher was the worst. "She was a new teacher. She was very, very bad to us." In spite of all these disturbances, Ubaidulla scored 83% marks in the 7th standard examination.
Avas Nazir Hussain’s experience shows how the school management shirked their responsibilities. "I was studying in a Hindu–managed school. There were no problems there. But suddenly the principal refused to let me write the exam. We were asked to produce a doctor’s certificate to justify absence from the exam, and they issued us transfer certificates with promotion to the next class. My parents then admitted me to a Muslim–managed school but I did not like it much," says Avas.
The experience of Talha Imtiaz, a 6th standard student, was somewhat similar. He was thrown out of the school by the principal, Ms. Vanna Ben. "My younger sister and I were studying at the Chekku Bai Balmandir, in Vasnagar, near Ahmedabad. After the schools reopened, the principal told all the Muslim students that she could not keep us any more." This has separated the siblings. "My sister has been sent to a girl’s hostel in Hansot in Bharuch district," adds Imtiaz.
For Mirza Nazir Baig, the trauma is still not over. Having escaped death in spite of a bullet wound on the neck, he continues to visit Ahmedabad to give evidence in an incident where the police shot at Muslims even as they were running to escape from the mobs. He was a student of Aroma School in Kalupur area.
Their suffering has sowed new dreams in the young ones. To be a doctor could be any child’s dream. Sadly, for these Muslim children, it is the experience of the carnage that has provided the impetus. "I want to be a doctor. My Abba and Ammi also want me to be a doctor," says Mohammed Asim of Jamalpur, near Visabad. The 4th standard student innocently adds that his aspiration is a fallout of the negligence shown by the Hindu doctors to the Muslim victims during the carnage.
FG Mansoori, the parent of one of the children, nods in agreement. "No Hindu doctor helped Muslims. This experience has taught us to educate our children better to help ourselves in future."
His wife, Salma Firoz Mansoori’s remarks are a pointer to the deep division between the two communities in Gujarat. She says coldly, "Now people don’t look towards other human beings for help. Instead, a Hindu looks for a Hindu and a Muslim looks for a Muslim."
This is the probably the sole reason why the parents of these children have sent them to such a distant place though none of them had seen Mangalapady before.
This faith in fellow Muslims reminds me of the Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan (RAWA)’s determination not to part with their children irrespective of all the hardships they face. Zoya, a RAWA activist says there were many inquiries for the adoption of Afghan children from refugee camps in Peshawar but they were all turned down. "These children are the future of Afghanistan… If we concentrate so many efforts on their education, it is because we want our children to build Afghanistan’s future. We cannot afford to lose a generation." If for RAWA it was a question of building their country, here it is the question of their very survival in their own country.
The Shihabul Uloom School is very modest about the responsibility it has assumed to preserve and nurture the dreams of the future generation of Gujarat. Children in the age group of 8–16 years have been admitted to various classes following a test. Children from Gujarati medium schools are given special coaching in English. Established in 1994, the school runs on charity. "I go around places during Ramadan, to beg for money. During that period people are more generous, religious and god fearing," says Sheikh Abdullah.
Religious sentiments were used to set Gujarat ablaze and devastated an entire community. But Abdullah is counting on religious sentiments for a worthy cause.
Archived from Communalism Combat, February 2003. Year 9 No, 84, Peacemakers