Kashmiris are the lost tribe of Hebrews

Osho - Pahalgam is one of the most beautiful places in the world. That is where Jesus died, and he died at the age of one hundred and twelve. But he got so fed up with his own people that he simply spread the story that he had died on the cross.

Of course he was crucified -- but you have to understand that the Jewish way of crucifixion was not the American way. It was not sitting in a chair, and with just a push of a button you were no more; not even time to say, "God forgive these people who are pushing the button, they don't know what they are doing." They know what they are doing! They are pushing the button! And you don't know what they are doing!

Jesus would not have had any time if he had been crucified in the scientific way. No, it is a very crude way that the Jews followed. Naturally, it sometimes even took twenty-four hours or more to die. There have been cases of people having survived for three days on the cross, the Jewish cross I mean, because they simply nailed the man by his hands and his feet.

The blood has the capacity to clot; it flows for a while, then it clots. The man is, of course, in immense pain, in fact he prays to God, "Please let it be finished." Perhaps that is what Jesus was saying when he said, "They don't know what they are doing. Why have you forsaken me?" But the pain must have been too much, for he finally said, "Let thy will be done."

I don't think that he died on the cross. No, I should not say that "I don't think..." I know that he didn't die on the cross. He had said, "Let thy will be done"; that's his freedom. He could say anything he wanted to say. In fact, the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, had fallen in love with the man. Who would not? It is irresistible if you have eyes.

But Jesus' own people were busy counting money; they had no time to look into the eyes of this man who had no money at all. Pontius Pilate for one moment had even thought to release Jesus. It was in his power to order his release, but he was afraid of the crowd. Pilate said, "It is better that I should keep out of their business. He is a Jew, they are Jews -- let them decide for themselves. But if they cannot decide in his favor then I will find a way."

And he found a way, politicians always do. Their ways are always roundabout; they never go directly. If they want to go to A, they first go to B; that's how politics works. And it really works. Only once in a while it does not work. I mean, only when there is a non-political man, then it does not work. In Jesus' case also, Pontius Pilate managed perfectly well without getting involved.

Jesus was crucified on the afternoon of Friday, hence "Good Friday." Strange world! Such a good man is crucified, and you call it "Good Friday." But there was a reason, because Jews have... I think Devageet, you can help me again -- not with a sneeze, of course! Is Saturday their religious day?
"Yes, Osho."

Right... because on Saturday nothing is done. Saturday is a holiday for the Jews; all action has to be stopped. That's why the Friday was chosen... and late afternoon, so by the time the sun sets the body has to be brought down, because to keep it hanging on Saturday would be "action." That's how politics functions, not religion. During that night, a rich follower of Jesus removed the body from the cave. Of course, then comes Sunday, a holiday for everybody. By the time Monday comes, Jesus is very far away.

Israel is a small country; you can cross it on foot in twenty-four hours very easily. Jesus escaped, and there was no better place than the Himalayas. Pahalgam is just a small village, just a few cottages. He must have chosen it for its beauty. Jesus chose a place which I would have loved myself.

I tried continuously for twenty years to get into Kashmir. But Kashmir has a strange law: only Kashmiris can live there, not even other Indians. That is strange. But I know ninety percent of Kashmiris are Mohammedan and they are afraid that once Indians are allowed to live there, then Hindus would soon become the majority, because it is part of India. So now it is a game of votes just to prevent the Hindus.

I am not a Hindu, but bureaucrats everywhere are delinquents. They really need to be in mental hospitals. They would not allow me to live there. I even met the chief minister of Kashmir, who was known before as the prime minister of Kashmir.

It was such a great struggle to bring him down from prime ministership to chief ministership. And naturally, in one country how could there be two prime ministers? But he was a very reluctant man, this Sheikh Abdullah. He had to be imprisoned for years. Meanwhile the whole constitution of Kashmir was changed, but that strange clause remained in it. Perhaps all the committee members were Mohammedans and none of them wanted anybody else to enter Kashmir.

I tried hard, but there was no way. You cannot enter into the thick skulls of politicians.
 

I said to the sheikh, "Are you mad? I am not a Hindu; you need not be afraid of me. And my people come from all over the world -- they will not influence your politics in any way, for or against."
 

He said, "One has to be cautious."
I said, "Okay, be cautious and lose me and my people."

Poor Kashmir could have gained so much, but politicians are born deaf. He listened, or at least pretended to, but he did not hear.

I said to him, "You know that I have known you for many years, and I love Kashmir."
He said, "I know you, that's why I am even more afraid. You are not a politician, you belong to a totally different category. We always distrust such people as you." He used this word, distrust -- and I was talking to you about trust.

At this moment I cannot forget Masto. It was he who introduced me to Sheikh Abdullah, a very long time before. Later on, when I wanted to enter Kashmir, particularly Pahalgam, I reminded the sheikh of this introduction.

The sheikh said, "I remember that this man was also dangerous, and you are even more so. In fact it is because you were introduced to me by Masta Baba that I cannot allow you to become a permanent resident in this valley."

Masto introduced me to many people. He thought perhaps I might need them; and I certainly did need them -- not for myself but for my work. But except for very few people, the majority turned out to be very cowardly. They all said, "We know you are enlightened...."

I said, "Stop, then and there. That word, from your mouth, immediately becomes unenlightened. Either you do what I say, or simply say no, but don't talk any nonsense to me."

They were very polite. They remembered Masta Baba, and a few of them even remembered Pagal Baba, but they were not ready to do anything at all for me. I am talking about the majority. Yes, a few were helpful, perhaps one percent of the hundreds of people that Masto introduced me to. Poor Masto -- his desire was that I should never be in any difficulty or need, and that I could always depend on the people he had introduced me to.

I said to him, "Masto, you are trying your best, and I am even doing better than that by keeping quiet when you introduce me to these fools. If you were not there I would have caused real trouble. That man for instance, would never have forgotten me. I control myself just because of you, although I don't believe in control, but I do it just for your sake."

Masto laughed and said, "I know. When I look at you as I am introducing you to a bigwig, I laugh inside myself thinking, `My God, how much effort you must be making not to hit that idiot.'"

Sheikh Abdullah took so much effort, and yet he said to me, "I would have even allowed you to live in Kashmir if you had not been introduced to me by Masta Baba."

I asked the sheikh, "Why?... when you appeared to be such an admirer."
He said, "We are no one's admirer, we admire only ourselves, but because he had a following -- particularly among rich people in Kashmir -- I had to admire him. I used to receive him at the airport, and give him a send-off, put all my work aside and just run after him. But that man was dangerous. And if he introduced you to me, then you cannot live in Kashmir, at least while I am in power. Yes, you can come and go, but only as a visitor."

It is good that Jesus entered Kashmir before Sheikh Abdullah. He did well by coming two thousand years before. He must have been really afraid of Sheikh Abdullah. Jesus' grave is still there, preserved by the descendants of those who had followed him from Israel. Of course men like me cannot go alone, you can understand. A few people must have followed him there. Even though he went far away from Israel, they must have gone with him.

In fact the Kashmiris are the lost tribe of Hebrews of which the Jews and Christians both talk so much. The Kashmiris are not Hindu, nor of Indian origin. They are Jewish. You can see by looking at Indira Gandhi's nose; she is a Kashmiri.

She is imposing emergency rule in India -- not in name but in fact. Hundreds of political leaders are behind bars. I had been telling her from the very beginning that those people should not be in parliament or assemblies or in the legislature.

There are many kinds of idiots, but politicians are the worst, because they also have power. Journalists are number two. In fact they are even worse than politicians, but because they have no power, they can only write, and who cares what they write? Without power in your hands then you may have as much idiocy as possible, it cannot do anything.

Source - Osho Book "Glimpses of a Golden Childhood"

Extracts: http://www.messagefrommasters.com/Osho/osho/Osho-on-Sheikh-Abdullah.html

Father of Jahad-e-Kashmir Sheikh Abdul Aziz

FIRST PERSON

A March For History : August 11, 2008 will remain ingrained in Kashmir’s psyche, the day Kashmiris responded to the blatant economic blockade by right-wing Hindu nationalists in Jammu to break the resolve of a people. Showkat Nanda offers a first person account of how lakhs marched towards Muzzafarabad braving bullets.

The ‘other’ side never seemed so close before. For some, who had left home early that day, coming back didn’t really matter. To reach Muzzafarabad was a ‘matter of minutes’ only if they were given a safe passage. If not, they could face death and they knew it.

In Baramulla the journey began in trucks, buses, cars  and motor bikes. Hundreds marched on foot too. Vehicles were honking. Everyone was celebrating. It was a truly popular rebellion, mobilizing the entire society to protest and build a parallel leadership - the leadership of the people. For the first time in my life, I could see people in control of their own destiny.

Women and children lined the sides of the road; some throwing food packets, water bottles, fruits and biscuits at the marchers, some praying for their safety and a few others trying to synchronize with the roaring slogans of Pindi Pindi, Rawalpindi.

A long serpentine line of about 1000 buses and trucks spread over almost five kilometers, driving through the mountainous terrain near Khadinyar, looked as if people were on a pilgrimage. Faces were jubilant, people were screaming with excitement overtaking each other impatiently.

The moment we took a the blind turn near Chahal,  a small township nearly 20 kms from Baramulla, I could see a crowd of paramilitary soldiers sitting in a similar manner we would sit for a group photograph in our school- the first row resting on their bellies in a typical firing position, their guns pointing directly towards the anticipated marchers. The second row stood on one of their knees using the other one as a resting stand for their guns. The third line of soldiers confidently stood in a standing position as a backup, I suppose.

The road behind them had been dug deep with bulldozers making a big rectangular crater across it. A couple of huge tree trunks had also been placed across the road to prevent vehicles from going further.

The vehicles drove slowly towards the soldiers. People had absolutely no idea what was going to happen. Their sheer number had given them an unshakable confidence.

After all, from Sopore fruit Mandi to this village of Chahl, people had already dared half a dozen paramilitary camps, even braved bullets and cleared hundreds of meters of concertina wire spread at a distance of every five minutes as road blockades. As vehicles and marchers moved forward, a blast on a hill on left side of the highway created a huge ball of cloud ripping off the leaves from the trees. It looked like an IED blast that had already been planted by the forces apparently to intimidate the crowds.

Suddenly, teargas shells  and gunfire rained into the crowd. A bus that was leading the huge procession got hit several times. People fell out of it and scrambled, crawling towards its tyres. They ran for cover amid a dense mixture of tear smoke and dust which almost blocked the sunlight making the whole atmosphere somber and ghostly.

 Some climbed up the hill on the left side of the highway hoping to hide themselves behind huge pine and deodar trees while some others jumped off the road on the right side down the river banks. The atmosphere had turned foggy and there was anger everywhere. The drivers drove backwards but there was hardly anything they could do. It was too difficult to negotiate through an unimaginably long line of vehicles spread over almost five kilometers. They had already crossed the last turn and were straight into the firing line of the soldiers.

A few young men were trying to pull the wounded towards the bus that had already been targeted. People were screaming. Gunfire rattled on.

Inside the buses that stood behind the first one, frightened faces were pressed against the windows. They remained cuddled in their seats. Anyone stepping off the bus risked being shot.

A group of people I was a part of were in the middle of the road trying to look for a cover. We had really no place to hide. The two sides on our left or right were too steep to either climb the hill or jump down the paddy fields near the river banks. But a huge rock on one side of the road stood between us and the soldiers; it actually stood between our survival and death.

There were two of us left of the group - me and a boy who hunkered down behind me sharing the cover of the rock. I don’t know how long we stood there. But we could continuously listen to the rattle of gunfire. Many a time he would try to leave the place lured by his anger to throw stones at the government forces, but every time I held him back . There was no point in trying to be bold. We were, at the most, 30 meters away from the spot where several people had already been hit; bullets tearing though their bellies and chests.

When the firing stopped, I, along with dozens of other people, tried to get close to the spot where the firing had actually taken place. Nobody knew how many marchers had been hit. There was no count really. I could only see a trail of blood and a few pairs of shoes lying on the ground. On the other side, the soldiers remorselessly looked at the protestors collecting the dead and the wounded.

People, while carrying the injured, from the crowd were screaming, “this is my cousin,”…”that’s my friend’s brother”. It looked like a massacre. One of the young men who was hit several times was lying on the floor of a truck. He  shouted, “I want to go home,”. His brother who sat next to him repeated, with tears rolling down his cheeks. “I want to go home too. We will. You just bet we will,”. Half an hour later, on way to Baramulla hospital,  he lost both - the bet and his brother.

Between 2 and 3 p.m, nearly 15 people had been hit with bullets. By the time the dead and the injured had been evacuated, people again decided to march ahead. It was surprising that despite three men already shot dead and dozens wounded, people just didn’t stop. In my life I had never seen people marching directly into a hail of gunfire.

The slogans began roaring again, this time even louder. I could see fearless faces all around me. As hundreds started marching ahead, I heard a series of teargas blasts in quick succession. While I was running for cover, I found people behind me glued to the ground. They didn’t budge an inch. Suddenly, a rumble of gunshots followed. I scanned my body to see if I had been hit. My body was trembling. “This time it’s definitely a massacre”, I thought, because the intensity of the gunfire was enormous.

Minutes later, someone shouted from the crowd, “Sheikh Aziz has been hit with a bullet,”. All of a sudden, hundreds of people stepped out of the vehicles and began shouting “ shaheed ki jo mout hai, woh qaum ki hayat hai’, not knowing that Sheikh was still alive, and talking. Amid a dense cloud of dust and tear smoke, I could faintly see an injured Shiekh Aziz being lifted up into a truck that began racing towards me, dozens clinging to its sides and hundreds chasing it shouting “Sheikh Aziz ka kya farmaan, Kashmir banega Pakistan”.

I couldn’t believe myself. Moments earlier, I had seen him grabbing the hands of two young protestors each on either of his side and heard him saying, “We will march on. Let’s  see how many more will they kill”. Honestly, I hadn’t seen him from so close ever before that. I could see no fear on his face. There was a strange seriousness on it.

What I could hear that moment was the cries of people carrying the dead and the injured. Yells, screams and slogans resonated in the air. Ambulances and trucks carrying the dead and injured raced away from the scene.

Till 5 p.m ,four sessions of targeted firing had passed. Four people had already died. And many more were injured. But still people didn’t give up. As the death toll reached five, rest of the valley was already on fire. In Baramulla town where the injured were initially referred for treatment, the rumors of more than a hundred marchers being killed had already broken backs. The situation had turned riot-like. Bunkers were flattened, vehicles burnt, and every single symbol that even remotely represented the idea of India was razed to the ground.

VEDIO OF 11th August: Muzaffarabad Challo (Come to Muzaffarabad

http://www.kbcchannel.tv/index.php?option=com_hwdvideoshare&task=viewvideo&Itemid=125&video_id=95
I came home that day. Emotionally exhausted but grateful - I had survived.

As I sit in my office writing this, I am haunted by a question. How could they shoot people like that. Just watch a crowd march on; sit in a firing position, wait, watch and fire.

About the author: Showkat Nanda is an Assistant Editor with Kashmir Life
More details: Kashmir Life : 
http://www.kashmirlife.net/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=1862:a-march-for-history&catid=69:history&Itemid=211:Vol. No: 3, Issue No: 23, August 20,2011