What Does Genocide Mean?

My daughter asked me the meaning of Genocide today, which I dutifully explained. This was followed by another question on whether 1984 riots would come in this category. I thought for a moment before answering in affirmative.

The subsequent conversation with her made me think about our own insignificant (thank God!) experiences during 1984 riots. I was 10 year old in Kanpur, when riots against Sikhs broke out in the northern part of the country. I still vividly recall how I had just taken bath and my mother was combing my hair on the morning of November 1, 1984 in the winter sun when we heard strange noises. It sounded as if a group of people were chanting something. What they were saying was unclear but it certainly was not the usual procession. It sounded very aggressive and threatening because it was very loud. I recall how my mother’s hand tightened around my hair as she continued to braid my hair while at the same time becoming very agitated as the noise grew. Our neighbors had also come out by that time and somebody said that riots had broken out in the entire country and that Sikhs were massacred.

Now my mother was clearly scared, frightened and anxious. Her anxiety was heightened by the fact that my father was not in town. He was travelling to Germany for an official visit. This was also a blessing in disguise because we were sure that he was safe. Nevertheless our neighbors advised us to move inside. “What is dange (a word I had heard the neighbours mention)?” I asked her as she went about putting education qualifications and investment papers in one bag. She didn’t bother to answer me. My five-year old sister and I were solemnly sitting in one corner trying to figure out what exactly the matter was. 

With the bags packed she took out aluminum trunk from under the bed and was still packing some stuff in it, when the door bell rang. My mother almost froze and told us not to open the door. She opened the bedroom window just enough to find out who was outside. It was my father’s close friend, KApoor uncle. My mother left the trunk unpacked and opened the door. I don’t recall the exact conversation but basically we moved in their house for a few days. In spite of staying with my friends (both my sister and I were close to Kapoor uncle's daughter and son), I cannot recall much happiness because of the circumstances. To begin with my sister was suffering from Chicken pox. It is to Kapoor uncle’s credit that this fact did not stop him from welcoming us in his house. We stayed there for almost two weeks I think. During this period I also contracted chicken pox and later both his children got chicken pox.

It was a pretty traumatic period for all of us in spite of the fact that we were not really the victims. After I joined school I recall, not just classmates but also teachers looking at me with questions in their eyes. Long absence from school of anybody belonging to my community during that period only meant one thing. Some of them openly asked me, “Kya hua?” and were disappointed that I didn’t have any tale of suffering to share. “Kuch nahi. Chicken pox hua tha,” I would answer.

The two trunks, which my mother was packing on the first day, were transferred to our two neighbors houses and remained there for a very long period. For a long time my parents believed we might have to run to save our lives in the middle of night, so she kept the boxes at our neighbours place, which could be claimed later. I was very scared for a long time though my parents tried to help me in whatever way they could. The word riots had entered our dictionary. The discussions at home about riots and some victims we knew and how they were coping up didn't help matters. One particular instance was when we were planning to travel to Delhi the first time after the riots. Of course all of us were scared and shaken since a lot of violence had taken place in the trains. What can a ten year old to combat violence in train? Fill her bag with stones and other assorted things to fight with. That's what I did. I would pick up any sharp stone and put it in my pocket. Sometimes I even carried stones in my school bags. 

As our country gets ready to welcome the new Prime Minister, who has a history of presiding over 2002 genocide, I along with many other members of minority community hope and pray that we never ever have to go through this suffering again. We hope that lessons have been learned from history so that it is never repeated.