New Delhi: In an hour-long conversation over the phone, Kashmiri journalist Fahad Shah made it clear that he did not want to talk about journalism, the State or his work as an editor and reporter and asked that since he was not answering any of those questions, we leave out the questions from the published interview. 

Such are the apprehensions of the 35-year-old editor, who used to run an independent media outlet called The Kashmir Walla, even after the High Court of Jammu & Kashmir and Ladakh not only granted him bail but demolished most of the case investigated by the State Investigation Agency. 

The same fear of retribution is echoed in the silence of other Kashmiri journalists who spoke little of a significant victory, not just for Shah but another Kashmiri journalist, Sajad Gul, whose preventive detention was also quashed by the High Court this month. Instead, Shah spoke about the trauma and pain of his 21 months in jail, saying the ordeal had broken him mentally and physically, and it would be a long road to recovery. 

“Every hour was a struggle. Every breath was a battle. Every day was like a mighty hilltop. It is like you are chained to a stone that has been thrown into the sea and going down. You are trying to swim but can’t get out because you are tied to a stone. It was very heavy,” said Shah. 

“Mentally, you are just torn apart into bits and pieces. You have to stitch yourself. You are in tears. It feels strange,” he said. 

Shah, arrested on 4 February 2022 and subsequently booked in four cases, three under the Unlawful Activities Prevention Act, 1967, had received bail in three and, on 17 November, was granted it in the fourth one, where he was charged with conspiracy to commit a terrorist act in April 2022 for an article published more than ten years earlier in the digital magazine he had launched as a 21-year-old. 

Two judges, Justice Mohan Lal and Justice Atul Sreedharan, found no laws were broken by the allegedly “highly provocative” and “seditious” article, The shackles of slavery will break, written by a then research scholar, Abdul Ala Fazili, who remains incarcerated, and no evidence it had caused young men to join the Pakistan backed insurgency that had been raging in Kashmir since the early nineties.

Having received interim bail shortly after his arrest in February 2022 but then arrested in three more cases and slapped with a preventive detention order allowing for incarceration for up to two years without charge, which was quashed in March this year, Shah said he did not know if he was walking out until he stepped out of the gates Kot Bhalwal prison in Jammu and sat in the car. 

“When the prison guard signed that diary, the last words he said to me were, ‘Now, don’t come back again.’ I said, ‘Never again.’ Then, I went outside the gate, saw the road, got into the car, and thought, ‘Finally, I’m out,’” said Shah. 

“It was until I sat in the car–until then, there was no surety of getting out,” he said. 

The Indian government’s scrutiny of the media in Kashmir intensified after Prime Minister Narendra Modi and the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) won a second term in May 2019 by a huge majority in Parliament and three months later rammed through the rescinding of Jammu & Kashmir’s semi-autonomous status and demoted the country’s only Muslim majority state to a union territory bringing it under the control of the Centre. 

What followed was a seven-month-long internet shutdown and a concerted effort to rein in reporters in a region, which, even as it suffered through a long-running conflict and became one of the world's most heavily militarised zones, had a fairly robust media reporting on its embattled people and the issues of human rights, governance, and livelihood.  

But after 2019, journalists started getting summoned and interrogated for their stories more and more frequently. Homes were raided. Some reporters were accused of grave crimes against the State and arrested. Others were stopped from flying out of the country. Long-running dailies dependent on government advertisements were forced into submission. 

India’s ranking on the world press freedom index has steadily declined in the nine years since the BJP came to power in 2014, and it is currently 161th out of 180 countries. 

Journalists in other states were targeted, but nowhere more so in Kashmir, swarming with young reporters, many of whom freelance or join the local newspapers and work for very little money in the absence of other employment. Their reports in foreign publications that pay more were particularly irksome to the government, which has built a narrative of “anti-national” reporting. 

Shah, too, was freelancing while trying to run The Kashmir Walla on an international grant and appealing for subscriptions. A year before Kashmir was thrown into tumult in August 2019, he was accused in the MeToo movement but denied the allegations. As the intimidation of journalists in Kashmir intensified, Shah grew more vocal on social media and continued publishing stories for which the police were interrogating him and registering cases. He was nominated for the RSF (Reporters Without Borders) Prize For Courage in 2020 and awarded the 25th Human Rights Press Awards 2021 for reporting on the Delhi riots. 

His arrest in 2020 precipitated the demise of critical coverage in Kashmir. In August 2023, the skeletal staff remaining at The Kashmir Walla said the government blocked their website, and they could no longer access their social media accounts. While granting bail to Shah, the High Court judges said they did not find anything illegal about the compilation of articles submitted by the prosecution to them. 

The judges removed the charges of conspiracy to commit a terrorist act (section 18 of the UAPA), the offence of waging war against the Government of India (section 121 of the Indian Penal Code, 1860), and assertions prejudicial to national integration (153-B IPC), but retained section 13 of the UAPA (unlawful activities) without giving any reason. They also charged him under the Foreign Contribution (Regulation) Act, 2010, taking a prima facie view that the appellant had received remittances from overseas without intimating the authorities about it. 

When we asked him if he knew he was risking arrest by speaking so vociferously against the government, Shah said he was too caught up in the moment, and while he may have contemplated, nothing had prepared him for how difficult it would be mentally and physically.  

“I don’t know. I was getting called for two years. There was a lot of pressure. I don’t know what was going on mentally with me,” he said. “I was just into it. I was just doing, doing, doing, doing. Mentally, you may be prepared, but when it happens to you, you are like, oh my god.”

Have you read the order? What did you think?

There were some pretty heavy sections. It is a relief that the judgement has come, and the court has given me bail, which I had been waiting for for a very long time. I haven’t read the whole thing yet. Even when I got the chargesheet, I didn’t read it. I didn’t want to read it. I didn’t want to see it. I got it in the prison and just kept it there on the side. I was scared about what was written. 

How are you feeling? 

It is a very big question. It’s been difficult. I’m trying my best to get back to where I was mentally and physically. It will take time. It is very hard. Things have changed. People are loving and caring, and they are all around. That has been helpful. But once you are away from them for a long time, there is a lot of detachment. One moment, you are here, and another moment, you are there. Suddenly, you feel what is going on. Why am I at home? I picked up habits that are still there, like taking a restless walk in the middle of the night and sitting in very odd positions. I’m struggling with the food situation. My stomach can’t take normal food, but it will eventually. Mentally, you are just torn apart into bits and pieces. You have to stitch yourself. You are in tears. It feels strange. I felt okay, but now something is strange. I didn’t feel so worn out, exhausted and tired. I forget things. 

But it’s just been a few days since you’ve been out. 

Three or four days. Yes, things will be fine in a week or two. 

Are you saying you are more uncomfortable out than in? 

It’s not uncomfortable; there are just too many things that you are trying to focus on.

Did you think this was going to happen? You were being very vocal. Were you mentally prepared for it? 

I don’t know. I was getting called for two years. There was a lot of pressure. I don’t know what was going on mentally with me. I was just into it. I was just doing, doing, doing, doing. Mentally, you may be prepared, but when it happens to you, you are like, oh my god. Then you get the realisation. Somebody asked me if I knew what it would be like. What I know is from books and movies. What else would I know? I didn’t know anything. Anybody who has not gone to prison doesn’t know what it does to you. When you go inside, you know what it does to you mentally and physically, how it makes you feel. Every hour was a struggle. Every breath was a battle. Every day was like a mighty hilltop. It is like you are chained to a stone that has been thrown into the sea and going down. You are trying to swim but can’t get out because you are tied to a stone. It was very heavy. 

It must have been terrifying when it happened. How did you begin to cope?

It was too many things. It was one case and then another. I was being picked from one place and taken to another and another. Sometimes, I didn’t know where they were taking me, what was happening, or where I had to go. It was a continuous relapse of trauma. I would come out of one trauma, and then a second would happen, a third would happen, and a fourth would happen. Something was breaking you again and again. You were not able to get up. If you got up a little, something would happen, and you would fall down again. 

How did you begin to cope?

It was very painful to deal with at the start. When you are in custody, you are alone. But when you go to prison, there are a lot of people—a community forms. You hear them. They hear you. A lot of legal discussions happen—‘my lawyer is saying this. Should I write another application?’ You start doing all the jail stuff. Priorities change. You get busy with all that and your books and faith. Things change. I got busy studying, reading and praying. You feel better. 

Did you begin to get used to being inside? 

You have to make peace with your life there, but you are always on your toes. I remember a few days after bail, people said, ‘Now you have to leave. Have you packed? Have you packed?’ I was thinking that I don’t have anything to pack. I would take clothes out of my bag, wash them and put them back in the bag. Just my books and my pen and diary. There was such a thing about the packing. It wasn’t like I had rented a room there. I kept thinking I would get out today. I will get out tomorrow. Everyone has this hope that one day I will be out, one day I will be out, one day I will be out. And when you see people leave, you get happy. You think if he has gone then one day I will get out. If he has got bail, then I will also get bail. Everyone feels like that. You feel like that one day, the same feeling we will also live. When someone gets out, everyone goes to the gate with that person. When I got out, everyone came and hugged me twice or thrice. It was really nice. Those bonds you make inside make you survive and get through the struggle. 

Were there other journalists? 

I was the one journalist there, and because this was covered so much in the news, people in the jail would know I was coming. I went to Kupwara jail, and people called my name as I walked and said, “Oh, you have come. We thought you were coming yesterday.” And I had to say, “No, well, I’ve come today.” The same thing happened in Jammu. People knew everything. 

Who were the other inmates? 

They were from all walks of life: a shopkeeper, labourers, a student, someone teaching, someone doing a private job. 

What were they accused of?

Every kind of crime: murder, drug cases, militancy-related issues, the Public Safety Act, and a lot of UAPA cases. A lot of different cases from a lot of different places.

Did you know there was a conversation about you outside? Were you hoping for one?

Not really. When you are in jail, even if there is a story on the front page about you, you feel nothing is happening until a judge says you are free to go. But you don’t really know what is going on outside. You just have a sense of it. It came in the Express, the Hindu, and one or two times, it came in Frontline, but I didn’t really know if it would help or make things more difficult. You can’t really say. In the end, what matters is what happens inside the court.

Are you happy to be out? 

I’m happy. I want to read. I did read a lot. I would say the Hindu is one newspaper that should be sent to every jail in the country. The Hindu played a huge role in my prison life. I would read it so religiously. On Sunday, there would be an eight-page literary magazine. That was my thing. They had big features, profiles, and snippets about books. I read a lot of book reviews, took down their names and thought I would go out and read these books. I would do the Hindu Sudoku every day. I became a Sudoku master in prison. 

Did you get the English newspapers every day? 

We got the Hindu, Indian Express, Times of India, and the Hindustan Times in Kot Bhalwal every day. 

Did you meet people from outside, or was it mostly family?

Not really. I had told my parents not to come. It was very far. The road is not good. There is a glass, then a mesh, and you have to pick up a receiver like in the movie Shawshank Redemption: hello, yes, how are you? It is very tragic. You can’t even touch them. You can’t hug them. It is very mechanical. It doesn’t have that essence or feeling. So, I told my parents not to come. My brother came twice. Someone else came once. And that’s it. And you feel very bad when you are behind a mesh and you see someone leave, and then you have to go back inside. I found the whole experience very traumatic. So, I didn’t want to go through that. 

Did you have any very dark moments when you thought you may never come out?

There were a lot of weak and dark moments. You know, I had this condition where I couldn’t cry, and my doctor said your eyes don’t get cleaned because you don’t cry, and you will have to use these drops. I used to joke with my friends that I had to cry. But when I went inside, I cried so many times. When you have no connection with the world outside, you imagine very dark things, especially when your parents are old, and you are very close to them. You think of too many things, all of which are very bad. Multiple times, I have broken down. I have cried, sometimes in front of others. Once, I collapsed because I heard my mother was not well, and I had palpitations. They had to give me medicine. Suddenly, I was crying in front of 17 people in the barracks. I thought, ‘What am I doing?’ but you saw other people having these moments too. Someone is going to the washroom and crying. Someone is harming himself. It is a very dark situation. There are so many things that happen in this place that everyone fails to explain even to their own family what is happening with me, what am I feeling. Even your family doesn’t understand what you are going through. When you are there, it is just you and the inmates because they are fighting the same battle. They are your family. They help you cope. 

What did you think about most of the time? Getting out?

You think about your case, your bail, your hearings. You also think about what you are doing with your time inside. You can’t just sleep 24 hours. You get busy with things. You put your energy into something. As a Muslim, you pray five times a day. You learn more about your faith. You recite the Koran. It helps you feel better mentally. I was writing and reading. I would think about things in academia, things I had studied in my university college. I was trying to make sense of what prison does to you and others. 

You spoke about how badly affected your parents were. Did you regret doing the work you did? There must have been conversations before where they may have told you to stop, and you didn’t.

I don’t want to say anything about work, but there were moments when I felt really bad about what my parents had to go through. My parents did not deserve this. I don’t know what I deserve or don’t deserve, but my parents, in this old age, didn’t deserve to go through this. It was really bad, and I felt really bad that they felt this pain because of me. The reason was me. I would always want them to be happy. I would want to be the reason for their happiness. When I became the reason for their pain, that really affected me very badly. 

Are you a different person from the person who went in?

Completely. There are some things that I don’t want to talk about, perhaps ever. Maybe someday, but not now. I don’t have the capacity to repeat those things you go through—a lot of perspectives change. I think Albert Camus writes this: struggle humanises you. I think that happens to some extent. When you go through this recurring struggle, and you go through this battle every day, it changes you. You lose your ego, your desires become very less, and you don’t want too many things. You are content with the limited things you have. You see people differently. You treat people differently. I may have been a person who hurt a lot of people by my behaviour, actions or work. You think about those things, and jail is where you have too much time to reflect on your whole life. When you go closer to faith, pray five times a day for 21 months. Many things vanish in you as a person, and many new things come in you as a person. I think that struggle makes you a better person. You become more kind. You don’t have that arrogance. Arrogance completely goes away because, at the end of the day, you are nobody in this huge world. Just be kind to 1o people because, at the end of the day, you are going to die, and that’s it. That’s the end of the story. People inside would say think about why god has sent you here. It makes you see things you didn't see before. This just makes you pause and see things in a very magnified way. 

Do you have trauma? Will you seek help for it? 

Yes, already I was going to see a psychologist. There are a lot of mental health issues. There is trauma. I feel like I say a lot of things don’t make sense because of the trauma. Many things don’t make sense. They feel very strange. In the period of 21 months, you see a lot of things. You see violence, you see people breaking and tearing up, you see people losing hope. This one inmate found out his mother had passed away, and he couldn’t do anything, so he was screaming and crying and falling unconscious again and again. All of us were crying. Everyone was reminded that it could happen to us. Those moments are very dangerous. It breaks you. It is not a blunt trauma that hits you once. It hits you slowly, slowly, slowly. It decays you slowly, slowly, slowly. That is why it takes time to get out of it. It’s not that you get home, and it’s so great. Like I said, there are some things that I may never say, but those things stay with you forever.

Tell us about the moment you got bail and left the prison. 

I heard on the 17th that they had given bail and dropped the charges. I didn’t know any details. I told everyone, and they were all very happy and asked when I would leave. When the order came, I thought it might be happening this time. I might be walking out. But there was no surety. This was my fourth bail. I had been there before also. I didn’t know whether I was walking out or not. It was a big relief when it happened. There was a big weight on my shoulders because my bail was reserved for 2.5 months. Those were really long months. I felt they may have rejected it. Then, I was called and told my pass had come, and I had to leave. I packed my bags, and I bid farewell to everyone. I went out and had to wait for about an hour for some formalities. When the prison guard signed that diary, the last words he said to me were, “Now, don’t come back again”. I said, “Never again.” Then, I went outside the gate, saw the road, got into the car, and thought “Finally I’m out”.

What was it like meeting your parents? 

It was amazing. My father cried. My mother cried. They were affected by how I was looking. It was slowly sinking in that I could sit down and talk to them. Everyone was getting blankets and the kangri (for heat). It was the first time I had tea at home with everyone looking at me. That moment hit. I was finally free and with my family. 

(Betwa Sharma is the managing editor of Article 14). 

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