The killing of famous Hizb Commander Burhan Muzaffar Wani on 8 July 2016 had triggered the major clashes between protesters and security persons, civilian killings, brutalities and mourning across the Kashmir valley. The normal life derailed from the track after years and the valley witnessed another phase of bloody, brutal and summer of 'Dead Eyes'.

Every pulverized and boiled cranny of the Kashmir valley, people were mourning and lamenting over every unarmed innocent killing who were demonstrating against the state perpetrators, who time and again shook and shattered the political aspirations and social norms of the people with their repressive and shameless tact. In nutshell it was one of the worst, deadly and bloody histories of modern Kashmir and as noted columnist A.G Noorani termed it as “Revolt”. Indeed with each passing day there was the daily dance of death in every blood soaked and teargas - smoked streets of Kashmir Valley. Perhaps it would not be wrong to say that the Indian federal forces had left their barracks and occupied scores of town, village and desolate hamlets of Kashmir valley to kill, maim and blind each and every Kashmiri who poses threat to them.

It was 21st of July in 2016 - 12th day of that bloody and palpable uprising, curfew, clashes and deaths in every street of Kashmir; toll had mounted to 44 with tens and thousands injured either by bullet or lethal pellets. I was numb, horrified and imprisoned in my lodge at South Kashmir’s Awantipora town. I was very far from my home town Hajin in Bandipora district of North Kashmir, was hapless and overpowered while witnessing the daily innocent killings. My shattered and horrified soul was confined into four walls of my room. With each passing day I was getting impatient, on several occasions I was planning to go back home but every plan was half as the situation outside was tragic and gruesome. I was afraid because on one hand my pocket money was getting low and on the other, my every plan on how to reach home was also getting failed again and again, as travelling for more than 80 kilometers was not possible and conducive for any Kashmiri and I was no exceptional. The situation outside the four walls of my room was grim and flattering, with no signs of traffic even the dogs who were always barking were missing from the roads.

Without thinking about anything else, I started my journey during these dreadful scary days. It was 22nd July, I got a boost from my next door neighbour - thanks to him he was going to Srinagar to meet his son and daughter in law who both were at Srinagar hospital. Yes, on one hand I was feeling well and good because I was repeatedly thinking that reaching Srinagar for me in the few hours of the morning will ease my long journey; but on the other hand there was acurfew, heavy presence of troops with guns in hand and threat to be killed as gun from both sides had always snatched the life of the people in Kashmir.

Everything was closed, there was hardly movement of traffic on roads, shops were shut down, everything looked deserted; only big iron poles, burning tyres, red broken bricks, big rough stones were on the roads with the heavy arms - wielding soldiers looking with fierce eyes. Some were making jokes, even laughing with each other. Perhaps they were celebrating the killings of Kashmiris, or perhaps not.

However, It was 9 am, when We reached Pampore - a volatile area, there was heavy stone pelting on the forces which later was stopped, security forces with bamboo sticks in one hand and guns in the other were looking angry - watching us, suddenly a stone hit our car. At first, I thought it might be an angry stone pelt somewhere in lane who would have been thinking that people were enjoying and roaming in their cars. It was not him, but a gun - wielding soldier who had hurled a big stone on the back side of the car. To stop the car in such a condition was dangerous as many people were beaten and tortured by the forces, my uncle further accelerated the car and started the journey.

Moreover, freedom slogans and hatred words against Indian security forces were visible on roads and shops. Yes, every closed shutter was silently protesting against the federal forces. “Go India Go Back, We Want Freedom, Burhan our commander, fight till victory and Burhan our brother”, were some visible slogans on closed shutters and fences coming in our way. After my neighbour dropped me in Srinagar, fear and threat gradually increased in my mind, my heart was continuously throbbing and hands were trembling because I was the only Kashmiri walking through Hari Singh High Street between heavy deployments of the security forces. One of a security person stopped me and said, “Aap Kahan se aye hain aur bag mai Kya hai?” I answered “Main Awantipora se aya hoon, bag mai kitabain aur kapray hain”. “Zara dikhaive, okay chalo chalo”, he said.

However, there were check points, barricades, armored cars, poking of guns, gun wielding soldiers, ugly razor wire. There was a poor civilian moment and traffic was completely off from Srinagar roads. A person gave me a ride from Batmaloo to Shalteng. Hailing from Lawaypora, while waiting for an hour at Hotel Bagdadi, Shalteng, nobody was there, only the armored cars were moving here and there. Undoubtedly, my fear arose whenever a white police gipsy would come. Finally, I started my journey by walking without vehicle. On reaching Maloora Petrol pump station, an armored car was attacked with heavy stones by angry youth, shouting Azadi slogans and wrath on Indian forces.

Certainly, the valley with score of villages and towns was boiling, festering and swelling in deep pain. More than a hundred unarmed civilians were killed, tens and thousands were wounded, about one thousand lost their eye sight with pellets and more than five thousand were booked under draconian public safety act. There was a nonstop ball of death across the whole Kashmir. People were mourning, mothers were weeping, sisters were slapping their faces and fathers were helplessly crying on the graves of their sons who were murdered by Indian security forces.

Indeed, every soul of Kashmir was in a deep pain, knavery and hate for security forces as well as the selfish political vultures who time and again ruled this trouble torn land with the dead bodies of Kashmiri's and failed to bring peace and security to their people. Really, it was their responsibility to provide a salubrious atmosphere to their people and shun their cheap and poor politics which only fills their pockets.

Thanks to Almighty Allah, I reached my home when Azadi slogans had already occupied the Masjid loudspeakers of my home town Hajin in North Kashmiri's Bandipora district. My parents kissed and hugged me. Yes, my parents were beyond happy to see my face again but unfortunately, there were other parents who received their dear ones in coffins.