SRINAGAR, 24 October 2007 — For Kashmiris, the International Day of the Disappeared has special symbolism.

While Asia accounts for the most number of disappeared persons in the world; Kashmir has recorded some of the highest numbers in the continent.

Not surprising, then, that the day was marked with a meeting and a demonstration, carried out by activists and family members of those gone missing in the last 17 years of the conflict that has ravaged this beautiful land.

Predictably, many of those were women — mothers, wives, and sisters of those who have gone missing.

However, in the labyrinths of the old city of Srinagar, there are some families who prefer to remain in the privacy of their homes on this day.

It’s not because the day, marked every year on Aug.

30, holds no significance for them nor that they are impervious to the pain of those that congregate to protest.

But, on this day at least, they prefer anonymity because they are fighting a different battle. Shamima, 48, sits cleaning rice in the tiny courtyard of her small but clean home, tucked away in one of the alleys of the old city.

In 1997, her husband went missing.

Shamima suspected that he had been a sympathizer of one of the many militant groups operating in the city.

Initially, she waited.

But after the days turned into months and the months into years, she gave up hope. Though reluctant to speak about it, there seems to be a silent acknowledgement that the authorities are not to blame for her husband’s disappearance.

Shamima has not even approached any of the human rights groups for help.

She knows uncomfortable questions will be raised and she does not want her family to become a subject for gossip.

News spreads easy and fast here in the old city and she has two daughters to be married off. A short distance away in Zeinakadal, Rifat, 25, seldom ventures out of her home — except to buy necessities or to visit the doctor.

She rarely entertains; the only visitors are a close relative and a local activist who brings her clothes to stitch, which sustains her.

Rifat says, “Four years ago my husband was killed by unidentified gunmen. ” In the local parlance “unidentified gunmen” are militants.

According to the Public Commission of Human Rights, there are approximately 8,000 to 10,000 persons in Kashmir whose whereabouts are unknown to their kin.

Of them, at least 40 percent are believed to have been abducted or killed by militants.

Though there are no independent figures available, Human Rights Watch believes that militant attacks have resulted in the loss of thousands of civilian lives over the years.

Losses include both abductions and deaths.

One such death was that of Farzana’s husband.

He had been a foot soldier of the Jammu and Kashmir Liberation Front (JKLF).

One evening in 1995, he was shot dead near their house by an “unidentified gunman. ” Left with two small daughters, Farzana felt it was only logical to turn to the JKLF for help.

But relief was not forthcoming.

Today, Farzana has a modest shawl business, but that has only been possible because a private organization came to her aid. This is not just Farzana’s story.

Farida’s brother, Javed, too, was part of a militant organization and the family was proud of him.

One day he disappeared.

They discovered his body a few days later in the bushes, riddled with wounds from bullets fired by a rival faction.

The family approached Javed’s mentor for help but, again, none was forthcoming.

A year later, Javed’s widow found herself another husband — rare for widows in Kashmir — and walked out.

Farida was left with Javed’s two sons and her aged parents.

She now supports the family single-handedly, doing odd jobs. According to Hafiza Muzaffar, a member of the Kashmir State Women’s Commission, though there are no official numbers, the estimated number of widows whose husbands have been killed in “militancy-related activities” stands at 40,000.

Of them, at least a quarter are those whose husbands were militants and were killed by rival militants.

These women, unlike the widows of civilians or members of the armed forces, are not eligible for any government relief. Human Rights Watch notes that despite their scale and frequency, abuses by militants in Jammu and Kashmir are seldom documented.

While there are multiple causes for this — sympathy, and also the fact that militants are ‘nonstate actors’ and so their actions are difficult to document — the overlying reason for the silence is fear. Abdul Rashid Hangura, a member of the State Rehabilitation Council and Chairman of Yateem Trust, that works to help women and children who are victims of militancy in the Valley, points out that families of youth who have joined the ranks of the militants live in constant fear.

“From some of the cases we have handled, we can say that the disappeared people have certainly crossed the border into Pakistan to undergo arms training. ” He cites a case where a “disappeared person” returned after 12 years, citing vague reasons to explain his absence.

While interacting with him, it became evident that he was hiding a great deal — he had joined a militant group but later wanted to escape and had managed it at the first opportunity. There are many others, who were lured into militancy, underwent training but became disillusioned midway and decided to return.

The Salvation Movement has many such youth in its folds.

In fact, it was established in 2002 as a support system for “surrendered or returning militants. ” Many, however, are abducted or killed by “unidentified gunmen” once they part ways with the militant outfits. Their families are the worst hit.

They have no recourse to justice on one hand, and on the other, they live in mortal fear that if they were to narrate their experience they might simply be eliminated.

They don’t approach the authorities for fear of being branded as the “family of militants. ” They can’t seek help from organizations like the Association of Parents of Disappeared Persons — it deals only with those who have been victims of state violence.

And for other activists it’s risky business to get involved. With the men gone, women like Shamima, Rifat and Farida have to attend to the more pressing needs of immediate survival. There is no government dole for them — the state does not want to “encourage militancy,” and the nonstate groups that claimed the lives of their menfolk have no time for them.

And even as the women understand the true nature of those who had been promising them azadi (freedom) for so long, self-respect prevents them from seeking charity or alms.

They are dependent on the kindness of some individuals who bring them some work like embroidery or weaving or cutting and stitching, or help them by paying for their children’s fees.

The rest of the time they prefer to remain within the comforting privacy of their small claustrophobic homes.

(The names of the individuals mentioned in the article have been changed to protect their identity and to maintain confidentiality.)