(Suhasini Haidar's Blog @ IBN)
The Face of Fear
Sunday , February 11, 2007
"Come quickly" he whispered, "Or it may be too late."
It wasn't the way he said it that froze my blood, and made me want to do what he said- it was the look on his face. But even so I knew I couldn't.
I was in Ahmedabad covering a second round of rioting in Gujarat post Godhra. That particular morning in the end of April 2002, my cameraman Sanjiv Talreja and I were out filming a story about how riots were started by rumours. A Gujarati newspaper carried the news that Muslims were gathering arms from across the border- and two sophisticated rocket launchers had been found in Gomtipur, a riot-scarred neighbourhood in Ahmedabad. The police opened its armoury to show us the "haul"- and what emerged were two metallic pea-shooters.
Nevertheless, the news had set off another night of violence. More people were killed, and at the mortuary we visited in the morning, more bodies piled up.
I wanted to go back and file my story that morning- and perhaps sleep again as we geared up to cover what could be more rioting. And then this middle-aged man came up. He had been waiting patiently for us to finish our work- so he could make his request. He lived in a chaali, or colony nearby- and he had heard a mob was coming to burn his factory. Could we please come and see - maybe our presence would ward off the mob. The man was clearly not used to pleading, he had his dignity, but the fear on his face said what he couldn't.
Gruesome sights are something a journalist is able to bolster the guts to face. Bodies, blood, wrecked homes - they all leave an impact, but as you see them, your mind learns to soften their blow. My cameraman used to tell me that he didn't have as much trouble filming disturbing scenes, because he saw everything in 'black and white' through his viewfinder. Red just shows up as dark grey. In a weird way that holds true for the rest of us. It's what you have to do.
So the charred bogies of the Sabarmati express still smouldering on the rail tracks in Godhra, two days after they were burned, looks black,white and smoky grey, the riot victims bodies that are brought in for a mass burial on day 3 in Ahmedabad are just small and large parcels covered in white. And the Shahpura camp, by far the largest refuge for families fleeing the violence are a grey gridmap: each square denotes the space taken by one family as it demarcates its new home, neatly piling up what belongings its members can muster around them.
It's also easier to deal with grief in the aftermath of the violence- you pull out your paper and pen, or camera and mike, and find out- what's your name, what happened, who died, what did the police say etc. You feel sad, you feel pain, but then there's someone else's story to record.
But fear, fear is the premonition of something terrible. The sort of gut wrenching emotion evoked by that photograph of Qutubuddin Ansari, the Ahmedabad tailor who pleaded for his family's safety and became immortalized as the face of Gujarat in 2002. It's the imminence of danger that he faces, and that of this man who was now pleading with me, that confuses and sickens you at the same time.
Sanjiv and I looked at each other. Do we go to help, risk making the situation worse, possibly risk our own safety, and worst of all- risk becoming a part of the story itself? Do we look away, tell the man we can't help him, and neglect our consciences? We weren't the only people who faced that choice, and I will never really know what the correct thing to do was.
Eventually, we went with him into the police station, identified ourselves, and asked them to escort him back to his factory, hoping (but not convinced of it) that our presence may make the police officer accountable. And then without looking at the man, or exchanging a word the entire ride home, we headed back to our hotel to file the story we had originally set out to do.
But, as I said earlier, the face of fear does not go away- and some hours later, Sanjiv and I found ourselves going back to the area of the city the man had told us about. It turned out the police had succeeded in turning the mob away, but not before the mob left a dire warning - all Muslims must leave the chaali, one of the few that still had a mixed population, or face the consequences. When we reached therefore, the sight that greeted us was of trucks standing at the entrance of the colony, as men, women and children worked like a wrecking crew, packing furniture, dismantling coolers, and bundling their memories in.
They worked fast, very fast, with the same look of fear I had seen earlier that day, because who knows when the mob would return. And as they padlocked their doors, their neighbours watched silently. They gave them no words of support, no assurances they would look after their homes. They just watched them leave. And if I am not mistaken, the fear on their faces, was the fear of losing their own souls to hatred.
Five years later, it's the memory of all those faces that just doesn't fade.
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