Biased security agencies and the anger in Azamgarh on being labled 'atankgarh'

The Times of India

Escape from Azamgarh

Shobhan Saxena, TNN | Jul 24, 2011, 01.23am IST

Security agencies call it a "terror hub". But Azamgarh's children simply see it as the place they want to leave. Shobhan Saxena travels to the eastern UP town where education is the only way out

It's a sodden morning. As rain comes down in thick sheets, the road quickly turns into a muddy track. Drains clogged with garbage are overflowing on dug-up streets. A bunch of travellers, whose jeep is stuck in mud, sit under a tree for shelter. The town's bus stand is slowly sinking into a pool of sludge. The sprawling campus of the main college is empty and the schools are shut. The mosques, too, are desolate. The shops are open but there are no customers. In cubbyhole boxes near the bus stand, men sit amid their unsold goods. It seems the whole of Azamgarh has retreated into a shell to save itself from the downpour.

Azamgarh town has a population of two lakh. It has just two main roads, which run parallel to each other and are connected by a maze of narrow alleys and streets. The city, which has no centre and no periphery, is located around these streets. It's actually a jumble of half-broken, half-built houses and shops. On sunny days, the town is a stark picture of chaos. Now, with dark clouds thundering over it, the town's palpitating motion is in suspension mode. But the town has been quiet since July 13, the day three blasts ripped Mumbai's streets and left a heap of bodies. The very next day, a Rapid Action Force contingent — men in blue fatigues and bulletproof vests — did a flag march on Azamgarh's main roads. Then somebody claimed to have "spotted" special police teams in vehicles with dark glass. As rumours of anti-terrorist squads (ATS) from Lucknow and Mumbai looking for " Indian Mujahideen modules" hiding in Azamgarh spread like wildfire, the usual suspects — pickpockets, bike snatchers and other "bad characters" — quietly left town. The madrassas asked their students to stay indoors.

Azamgarh, tucked in an impoverished corner of eastern UP, may be quiet but it's seething with anger and revolting against the tag of 'atankgarh' (terror centre). "Why are they looking for suspects here? We don't produce terrorists," says Rafiq Ahmed, a shopkeeper in the Chowk area. The same sentiment is voiced in bazaars, streets and homes — there are no terrorists, no sleeper cells in this town or the villages around it. "Our boys just want to study and do well in life," says Dr Javed Akhtar, who runs a hospital on Faizabad Road.

In its packed alleys and pigeon-hole houses, education is everything and the hunger for it is visible everywhere. Every second wall in the town is covered with posters of "IIT/PMT/UPSC coaching centre". Huge billboards towering over the dysfunctional bus station display two young men in suits who "want to be engineers". On every electricity and telephone pole hangs a hoarding of an institution that claims to teach "how to speak English with confidence in 90 days". As you enter the town, big boards of "Dust to Crown Public School" — yes, that's the name — with photos of smiling children holding trophies welcome you. There are "computer training centres" operating out of decrepit garages and "national finance institutes" running from shiny shops in new, upcoming markets. And there are "mobile repairing centres" in ramshackle kiosks sitting under huge trees.

"Everybody wants a professional degree or skill because that's the only way they can get a job. There are no opportunities here and no industries either. The young are interested in pursuing courses that help them get some work outside this town," says Ghyas Asad, principal of Shibli National College where more than 10,000 students study.

It's admission season here. A few boys and girls are anxiously hanging around Shibli's beautiful green campus, seeking admission in various courses offered by the college. But their dreams lie elsewhere. "We need a graduation degree to appear in various competitive exams, but it's not enough to get out of this town. I want to get a professional degree and leave Azamgarh. There is no future here and now we are being called terrorists," says Shahid Mohammad, 18, who has joined a coaching class for the engineering entrance exams.

Coaching is big business in this small town. Every day, boys and girls from neighbouring villages come here on their bicycles to attend classes at various tuition and training centres. Rafiya, 20, takes a bus from Sarai Mir to Azamgarh five days a week. She's taking spoken English lessons. The girl has heard about an aviation training academy in Varanasi and she hopes to join it one day. Her friends have been talking about a call centre coming up in Varanasi. Like the boys, they also dream of economic freedom. "I want a better life for myself and my family. I also want a job which brings us self-respect and decent money," says the student, who lives in an area from where many young men have been picked up for suspected terror activities.

Interestingly, people of this town have been going out for more than 100 years. Initially, they travelled to places like Malaysia and Singapore. In the 1960s and 70s, they went to Bombay. Then came the great Gulf rush. Those who managed to get out of the ghettos not only made a life for themselves, but also pumped money into the town. With the state almost absent from all spheres of life, even construction of a road divider becomes an event. It's the remittances from migrants which are sustaining and fuelling growth here. This money is the local people's lifeline.

Every street here has a Western Union money transfer counter; there is an STD/ISD booth in the remotest corners of the district, and even fruitsellers in the local market carry recharge coupons for mobile phones. "Almost every family has someone working outside. It's because of money sent by them that the Muslim community has made some progress in education and jobs," says Umair Siddique, a researcher at Shibli Academy. "Now our boys go out for professional education and good jobs and not for menial work as they did earlier."

The money is visible in certain pockets here and there. In a town where every government building, except the deputy commissioner's colonial bungalow, looks like a relic, there are some swanky new ones. Most of these are private schools, hospitals, and madrassas. Local intelligence officials talk of Salafi winds sweeping the area because of financial and moral support from the Gulf. But the people see the madrassas as educational institutes, particularly those which also provide some vocational training. "There are only a few local boys in these madrassas. Most of them are from Bihar, Bengal and other states," says Asad. Deprived of education and food in their villages, these boys have made the madrassas of Azamgarh their home.

Azamgarh is a lost town. Nothing works here. The power supply trips several times in a day. Running water in taps is not guaranteed. Government schools are falling apart. There is no government college here. And there are no jobs for the young.

But they have plenty of time and energy. Even on a rainy day, some young men in saffron shorts and T-shirts are having a party on the road. They are a group of Kanwariyas on their way to Varanasi to collect Gangajal.With "Ishq ka manjan" from the film "Yamla Pagla Deewana" blaring from loudspeakers mounted on a truck sponsored by Pinku DJ, the men dance provocatively at Chowk, a Muslim area. A few boys in white skull caps watch the procession nervously from a window. Tension runs high every year during the Kanwariya season here. There have also been clashes with followers of BJP leader Yogi Adityanath, who has been spitting venom against the minority community.

For those who want to avoid trouble and a mention in the police records, there is only one shot at redemption: the escape from Azamgarh.