With the morning cold gradually fading, my wife Gyurmed and I wait impatiently in front of the US Immigration Office in California. Conversations and occasional laughter become louder as more excited applicants and their families arrive. Children are running around, unaware of the importance of this day for their parents. "Cuidado hijo!" a Mexican woman yells at her son, when he runs too close to the road. The old Indian couple behind Gyurmed move to sit on a roadside bench while their daughter holds their place in line. Every passing moment brings me tantalisingly closer to my destination. Today I, Temur Baghdur, will become a citizen of the United States of America.
I run a business in Los Angeles. But my roots are in Baltistan, a remote corner of Kashmir where stark, jagged Himalayan mountains tower over cold green glacial rivers. Part of Ladakh province until 1948, today Baltistan is under Pakistani occupation. Seven years ago, I was forced into exile after being tortured for sedition.
I owe my ideological upbringing to my father, Haji Ata Baghdur. Our house was the rendezvous point for my father's friends, who would debate national issues while smoking chu-chilam and drinking gurgur cha. As a boy, I used to lean against the closed door and eavesdrop on their hushed conversations. From these visits, I came to know that Uncle Hincho's elder brother, Ka Tughral, was stranded across the frontier in Leh. After forty years of separation, Uncle Hincho now wanted to meet Ka Tughral before it was too late. For thousands of aging people like Uncle Hincho, that hope was fast waning, as the Pakistan government categorically refused to open the Ladakh-Baltistan border, even on a humanitarian basis.
Uncle Skarma talked about his days as a youth at Aligarh Muslim University. The famous Ghalib tea stall, in front of the Jama Masjid, was a gathering place for all of the young scholars. There they sipped milk tea and challenged each other with poetic verse. And then there were Uncle Hamza and Uncle Gholmad, reminiscing about their trading trips to Simla and Purang. They spoke of travelling with dzo caravans for several arduous months over snowy mountains to trade turquoise, dzi beads and pashmina wool for salt, bricks of tea and silver. All these memories kept my father's heart young and full of hope at seeing his land regain its former glory by reuniting with Ladakh. The conversations provided fuel for my passion for Baltistan as well, and for its destiny as a nation.