By Fayaz Kabli

On a cold autumn morning Abdul Rashid Mir and his 7-year-old daughter Ishrat, wearing traditional attire and carrying small baskets, arrive in a field in the Konibal area of Pampore to collect saffron flowers. Rashid and Ishrat are happy to see their field covered with saffron flowers in full bloom. As the temperatures warm through the morning the saffron fields are abuzz with activity.

Saffron has been grown in Kashmir since the Mughal period, which began in the 16th century when saffron bulbs — a species of crocus — were brought from Iran. The bulbs of the Crocus sativa flower are sown on an estimated 3785 hectares (9352 acres) of well drained clay loam land in May and June and the flower is harvested in November.

Ishrat started plucking flowers with her henna-adorned hands. Rashid kept a close eye on his daughter to ensure that the flowers, or the stigmas, were not damaged by the young girl.

Cultivation is an elaborate and painstaking process: The flower’s reddish three-part stigmas are hand-picked and sun-dried before they find their way to the market. It takes some 170,000 flowers to get one kilogram (2.25lbs) of saffron, a precious spice. One gram of saffron is sold for 200 rupees ($3.64).

Kashmiri saffron, known in old Kashmiri texts as lover’s spice, was once the toast of every gourmet kitchen in the country. The spice is used extensively in Mediterranean, Mexican and Indian cuisine. Though saffron is grown in other parts of the world, the growers say Kashmiri saffron costs more because of its superior quality and the labor-intensive process of picking, drying and packing.

Rashid and other growers expect a bumper harvest this year but are also concerned that some people may be selling fake saffron labelled as Kashmir saffron.

Though I have had Kahwa (a traditional Kashmiri sweet tea) made with almonds and saffron many times before, I had never imagined the saffron making process. This time, while drinking saffron Kahwa, the small hands of Ishrat came to mind. The Kahwa felt tastier and the aroma of saffron stronger.

By Fayaz Kabli

When I saw four young Kashmiri boys at a music contest perform English and Urdu tunes in Srinagar, I could not believe my ears and eyes that it was really happening in Kashmir.

Kashmir’s centuries-old music was silenced by the sounds of bomb explosions and booming guns after a bloody revolt against Indian rule broke out in this disputed region over two decades ago. Music schools, liquor shops, beauty parlors and cinemas were closed in the Valley in 1989 and conservative Islamic ideas were propagated by armed militant groups.

The sounds of drums and guitars and the singer’s voice caught my attention, driving me to want to meet them after the performance. I met them back stage and found myself wanting to know more about them. So, I planned to do a story on the youths. I received a call telling me they were planning a jam session in their house. Excitedly, I went to met them immediately. I was received warmly and taken into an old building in an uptown locality of Srinagar. There was little light in the room with just two lamps that weren’t working properly. As I tried to help fix the lights, the music began to get louder and I started taking pictures.

“Sign – the signature of music” is a four-member rock band of Kashmir’s new generation, aged between 17 and 18 years, who grew up amid the conflict and now want to spread the “message of love and peace”.

The violence, involving security forces and militants, killed tens of thousands of people and left nothing untouched across Kashmir, a scenic region and once the heart of Sufi Islam in the subcontinent.

It took almost 15 days for the band to find a sponsor for a live concert as the boys perform between their studies and don’t have money to perform on their own dime. Finally the day came and they were scheduled to perform at a music show in a Srinagar college. The audience was mesmerized.

These days, as violence has decreased significantly since India and Pakistan began a peace process in 2004, the militants’ hold over daily life in the valley has eased. The sound of a rock band is soothing in Kashmir, which was otherwise an easy going society but has been blighted by decades of violence. Traditional theater and music are also being revived. Until recently the roar of guns and bombs drowned out all sounds but now a cacophony of melodies from guitar and drums is sweeping Kashmir’s war-weary youngsters with a message of love and peace.

Dressed in Western outfits, the musicians and singers say the purpose of their band is to try to erase the scars of violence. The band began performing four years ago but now more people are confident enough to attend its shows.

The multilingual band — which performs in English, Hindi, Urdu and Punjabi — continue to hold music concerts and also continue their studies.

But the question remains – will the young boys who were born at the peak of a bloody conflict help heal the wounds of Kashmiris?

As I started my journey from Srinagar to cover the aftermath of a heavy snowfall along the 300km (186 mile) Srinagar-Jammu highway, the early morning chill was bone biting. Though I had a heater in my hired taxi, it still could not cope with the outside cold but as we drove along, the heat started to pick up.

A recent heavy snowfall across the Kashmir region had snapped electricity transmission lines, telephone lines and internet services plunging the region into darkness and cutting it off from the rest of the world; compounding the misery of around seven million people who live in the valley. The mountainous Srinagar-Jammu highway, which connects Kashmir with the rest of India, remained shut for a fifth day on Tuesday after heavy snowfall.

As we approached Qazigund, the main town in south Kashmir, I could see long lines of stranded trucks on the left side of the road. Some drivers were busy trying to keep the engines and fuel tanks of their trucks warm with bonfires. Some tried to remove snow from around their trucks and others prepared late breakfasts inside empty trucks. Many told me about the problems they faced while being stranded and wanted me to highlight them in the media.

My driver, Ghulam Rasool, had a tough time giving way to vehicles approaching in the opposite direction after the light vehicles were returned back to Srinagar when police informed them the road was closed.

I met a senior police officer, Farooq Ahmad, in Qazigund town who told me that “we are trying our best to throw the road open but it seems the weather god is against us”. The officer was polite and offered me a cup of tea which I politely refused because I wanted to cover as much distance as I could and take pictures of snow being cleared and other activities. The officer allowed us to only travel up to the Jawahar Tunnel and return back as soon possible as the weather kept on changing every moment in the area. He advised me not to stop for long in the tunnel area.

I told Ghulam to drive very carefully on icy, slippery roads and keep honking his car horn at every sharp bend of the mountainous road. Though we were sure no vehicles were coming from the opposite direction there were many stranded people carrying their belongings walking on the icy road as they tried to cross the Jawahar tunnel by foot to reach Banihal town. Many people pleaded for a lift but we could not stop the car as it was too dangerous to stop on the icy road.

Finally we reached Jawahar Tunnel where we could stop for a while. There, I saw a Kashmiri man carrying his daughter as he tried to cross the 2.5 km (1.5 mile)-long tunnel on foot.

Seeing both father and daughter in pain as the wind blew at dangerous speeds, I took them in my car, crossed through the tunnel and dropped them on the other side. The father praised us for the lift, it was then that I could feel the warmth of duas (blessing) coming from inside. We returned back along the highway and I kept taking pictures of laborers surrounding the fire during their break and people crossing the treacherous path on foot.

From 2008 to 2010, Kashmir saw its worst period of unrest which claimed hundreds of lives and destroyed much of its economy.

This year, the scenic valley has been relatively peaceful. Although residents who witnessed the previous three years of violence were apprehensive at the beginning of this year, the trouble they had expected didn’t materialize.

After a 15 year career with Reuters, I was able to take my days off without abrupt violence interfering. It was amazing to spend quality time with my family. In previous years my colleagues and I spent many days and nights in the office due to the violence outside and the curfews imposed.

My workload this year has been moderate in comparison to previous years. Mostly I photographed daily life pictures; people busy at weddings, farmers in their fields, tourists enjoying the beauty of Kashmir and the streets abuzz with business activities.

This year the weddings took place in a calm and charming atmosphere. People were seeing bursting crackers during the weddings and guests could enjoy the traditional feasts. This was in stark contrast to previous years when people were compelled to either hold a low key wedding or cancel it all together due to continued clashes between Indian security forces and protesters and subsequent government curfews.

2011 was a bright tourist season for Kashmir. A large number of tourists, the majority from various parts of India, came to Kashmir and are still pouring in for the winter season.

But as the saying goes “never trust the weather or the situation in Kashmir, both can change abruptly”. So I keep my fingers crossed. A neglected spark can burn a neighbor’s house.

But the question that always comes to mind is “what is the hardest to shoot?’

I always remember protests or riots, clashes between stone throwing protesters and gun-toting Indian troops. Stress levels quickly rise as me and my text colleague, Sheikh Mushtaq, realize that our assignment will not be easy whenever we go out, mostly on Fridays, the day when Muslims offer congregational weekly prayers, which turn into weekly protests against Indian rule in Kashmir.

There is literally no place to hide and shooting is nearly impossible when angry protesters take to the streets and rocks rain down; Indian troops retaliate with tear gas shells, rubber bullets and many times with live ammunition. Most of the time we, with protective gear and camera equipment strapped to our shoulders in backpacks, are stuck in the narrow streets of downtown Srinagar as impatient crowds and ruthless troops battle for hours.

Blood is always spilled in the streets of Kashmir where tens of thousands of people have been killed in two decades of an anti-India insurgency.

It was a pleasant and beautiful day in Srinagar, a city of over one million ringed by snow-capped Himalayan mountains, but tear gas brings bittersweet tears to my eyes and rocks sometime make me bleed. I clutch my camera, adjust the focus and aperture and keep on shooting masked rioters and police replying with slingshots, teargas shells and bullets. A rock came towards me, I ducked but it hit another cameraman. He was bleeding lying beside me. On many occasions, I had to drop my camera and take care of injured reporters and photojournalists. Several times even I was not lucky.

Years back I was hit by a tear gas shell and then enveloped by a cloud of dust and tear gas smoke. As the tear gas shell exploded between my legs and tore my calf muscle badly. Mushtaq from a distance was looking at me helplessly as the rattle of gun fire followed screams and cries for help. I was bleeding and fell unconscious. After hours I found myself in a hospital and later spent months in bed missing the thrill of photography.

When Kashmir last year faced some of the biggest anti-India protests in nearly 20 years, photojournalists faced the wrath of security forces and angry protesters.  Many of us were beaten up by riot police and demonstrators, protesting Indian rule in the disputed region. They break our cameras and sometimes beat us with batons and gun butts.

It is painful and disturbing but when I see people writhing in blood and dying with bullet wounds, my pain disappears and I feel guilty when police do not allow us to photograph the tragedy. I feel disappointed when they stop us after ambulances and hospitals are attacked.
People often ask “what is the most difficult to shoot in a conflict zone?”  I always say “protests or rioting.”