The Peace Seekers

 

The Hindu, Sunday Magazine, January 24, 2021

I grew up in the small town of Senapati in north Manipur. This was in the 1980s. The busy shops on a 200-yard stretch parallel to National Highway 39 (now renamed NH 2) were all that marked it as a town. But Senapati was abuzz, and was even made district headquarters in 1983.

Change was fast-paced then. Looking back, life was like flipping through the pages of one of the magazines my uncle subscribed to. As they came from some faraway city, the news was quite stale by the time it reached us. But he would nevertheless enjoy reading the magazines. The enigma of Uganda’s Idi Amin and the notoriety of Cambodia’s Pol Pot fascinated the media, even though their stories were from the previous decade. I still recall the cover of one mag that had Pakistan’s General Zia-ul-Haq with a forced smile à la Mona Lisa! One day, all the sensational international news was suddenly overshadowed by the assassination of Indira Gandhi. I scanned the pages for news on the Delhi riots. But such stories still seemed very distant to me — after all, the Centre was very far away.

Closer to home, harsher realities were beginning to unsettle the normality of life. The long shadow of the conflict between the Naga underground forces and the Indian armed forces kept common people on the edge. A shadow that continues to haunt us today, as we still wait for that elusive peace to arrive.

In this chequered pattern of unease and calm that we lived through, a sudden twist would sometimes shake it all up. One such deeply troubling occurrence that I encountered at close quarters was the Oinam incident, or the infamous Operation Bluebird.

Fear of the Army

Launched by the Assam Rifles as a counter-insurgency operation to recover the arms and ammunition they had lost when the Naga Socialist Council of Nagaland (NSCN) raided their Oinam Hill camp on July 9, 1987, Operation Bluebird took an ugly turn when civilians came into the firing line. For the next three months, some 30 villages close to Oinam Hill village were cordoned off for a combing operation. Even the district administration and political representatives were barred from reaching the people. Churches and community halls became makeshift interrogation camps. Men were questioned and torture was alleged, as were rape and molestation. The fear was such that crying children would be hushed with just the word ‘soldiers’. Indeed, even today, just uttering the words ‘soldiers are coming’ is enough to quieten a child.

The events of the 80s and 90s made me seriously question the impunity that is allowed to the armed forces, especially by the Armed Forces Special Powers Act of 1958. AFSPA gives them the licence to arrest without warrants, and deaths and injuries don’t have to be explained; they are able to exercise brute force. The irony is that they were there to provide the people ‘security’, but that was the last thing we experienced. Their patrols and speeding convoys leaving behind giant dust trails only further distorted the discomforting realities of my home town. I’ve tried to capture those years in my debut novel, Waiting for the Dust to Settle (Speaking Tiger, 2020).

AFSPA’s shadow was darkest in the early years of the insurgency. In the 1960s, when socialist leader Jayaprakash Narayan, along with British missionary Michael Scott, helped broker the first peace deal, JP referred to the government’s handling of the Naga problem as ‘India’s Vietnam’. He was referring to the ruthlessness and widespread violation of human rights perpetrated on the Naga people. The horrifying scenes of entire villages burnt down, the humiliation of people running for cover in their own land, the pain of living in the jungles during the torrential rains, the trauma of seeing loved ones dying before one’s eyes — these have largely gone undocumented. But these experiences live on in the memories of the people. It is no wonder that these generations are affected with post-traumatic stress disorder.

The enemy within

Unfortunately, the Naga struggle took an ugly turn when the people found themselves up against each other. The ideological differences that had cropped up along the way led to factionalism among the nationalist underground groups. And, once again, the common people bore the brunt. This time in the form of factional fights that brought more bloodshed and trauma. While the early years saw the enemy as an outside force, midway through the movement, the enemy within grew terrifyingly large.

Today, this protracted conflict has not only become an impediment to progress in the region, it has extracted a huge human cost. While the Centre is pushing the government’s agenda in the Northeast, including its much-hyped ‘Look East Policy’ and its sequel ‘Act East Policy’, without political peace the economic packages will remain merely a gimmick to enrich the rising gangs of corrupt politicians and bureaucrats. And one of the biggest obstacles to arriving at a political solution is the continuing enforcement of AFSPA. As long as a sense of political injustice pervades the psyche of the people, comfort and peace will remain distant dreams.

I would like to believe that it is in this light that the government has taken initiatives to bring about an ‘honourable solution’. In 2015, when the Framework Agreement was signed with the NSCN, it heightened expectations of a possible end to the Naga problem. The media flashed photographs of Prime Minister Modi and Thuingaleng Muivah, the NSCN leader, both smiling after signing what was called a ‘historic peace deal’. The government issued a press release saying it hoped to “end the oldest insurgency in the country”. The government’s keenness to arrive at a solution was driven by the understanding that peace in the Northeast is not quite imaginable without the NSCN on board. The 2015 accord was seen as a culmination of the ceasefire agreement brokered in 1997.

But it’s been five years now, and peace is as elusive as ever. In fact, the 2015 agreement is on the verge of breaking down, with the negotiating parties again at loggerheads. After several missed deadlines, we now await yet another. And again, the question looming in the minds of many is this: will the agreement really end one of South Asia’s longest armed struggles? Or will it turn out to be just another agreement that fails the test of time? After all, over the past several decades, many such accords have been signed and have since bitten the dust.

Final solution

When things come to a standstill like this, I feel sorry most of all for the older generations, the ones who have waited so long for a lasting resolution. I belong to the third generation. I too wait for an ‘honourable solution’. Far too many lives have been lost, too much blood shed. How much longer must we wait?

There is a persistent yearning for peace among Nagas. Civil organisations and the church are actively involved in bringing rapport among the various Naga groups. But the wounds run deep and healing will take time. The emergence of the Forum for Naga Reconciliation and its call for forgiveness and unity among all Naga factions under the banner ‘A Journey of Common Hope’ is one positive sign. Another is the Naga Mothers’ Association, whose campaign ‘Shed No More Blood’ is also brokering peace among Nagas. Such movements are the real ‘peacemakers’.

I want to see harmony again in the land I grew up in. The people and the place, both need healing. The small town of Senapati has transformed in geography and population. The old photographs are unrecognisable today. I feel like a stranger every time I visit. Even the old highway has been buried to make way for an elevated road. The old rickety metal bridge across the Barak river no longer exists.

Does this modernity mean peace? A closer look tells me that the expansion of the town has happened because of the displacement of thousands of people from the various ethnic conflicts that flared up in the 1990s and at the turn of the millennium. These people certainly seek an end to the bitter past. I join them in their quest. And in their hope that peace will not forever elude us.

Reading Literature from India’s Northeast as Peace Literature

Muse India: a literary journal - Issue 92 (Jul-Aug 2020)

The projection of the Northeastern region as a “conflict zone” is deeply planted in the minds of most Indians that it has become quite difficult to imagine otherwise. Besides this, there is also the other image that captivates their imagination – an exotic place – almost mystical to them that they like to imagine it, as a ‘land lost in time’! An ordinary scene and everyday mundane situation doesn’t seem to permeate the minds of many. Whenever I get opportunities, especially to address young minds, I have stated categorically that unless we imagine the region beyond the images of “conflict” and “exotic”, one would not see the real Northeast. It is this twin effect that has unfortunately done more damage to the image of the region. Somehow, despite several pleas against such projections, nothing substantial has changed. It is this much obsessed issue of conflict in the region that becomes “newsworthy” to the “mainstream” media.

Moreover, it is with the same breath that even literature originating from the region has been branded as “conflict literature”, as if the writer from the Northeast does not know how to write any other subject or genre. Yes, they do write about their own experiences of conflict and violence because many have gone through some terrible times in the recent past. But the same is also true of many other writers from different regions in the country or the world. We live in a broken world with broken people, so what more can we expect than to read and write about the lived reality. It is time, however, that we move beyond the boxes that define and limit creativity. I would like to suggest that we re-imagine the region through literature, and hereby, propose to redefine the writings from the region as “peace literature” because many of these works are so much about hope and the desire to move on from the broken realities of the present.

The idea of peace literature, as Antony Adolf argues, should “evoke empathy” upon realising the complexities and actualities of life, while at the same time possess universal appeal (13). Niall Munro also postulates, “A literature of peace must challenge. However recent the conflict, it must insist on its role in the safeguarding of memory and commemoration and it must highlight the need for citizens to acknowledge personal responsibility for their actions” (2016).

A glance at the writings from the Northeast will draw the reader to the rich imagination that is fed by a long tradition of storytelling. Within the larger themes, a close reading would also enable one to see the complexities of social and political realities, whereby the reader could also empathize with the narratives that are brought alive. Just as social and political peace is desired within the context of conflict or violence, the literature of peace offers hope of a better future without antagonism.

This idea can be traced in Easterine Kire’s Bitter Wormwood (2011) which gives a historical account of the Naga political struggle over the last six decades. Tracing the life of a person named Mose (short for Moselie) from his birth in 1937 to his fatal death in 2007; the novel gives us a glimpse of what it meant to live through one of the longest conflicts in modern history. But the author neither indulges in self-pitying nor laments the plight her people are forced to undergo. Instead of the much-hyped Indo-Naga conflict, forgiveness is the underlying theme of the novel. It focuses on healing to the political abrasions caused by enmity and looks forward to the future with hope and peace.

As a believer in her Christian doctrine of forgiveness, Easterine Kire firmly holds that it is this virtue that can only lead the way forward in the relationship between Indians and Nagas. This perspective should appeal more to the Nagas who are largely Christian and forgiveness is an essential virtue to reach God. In one of the poignant moments in the narrative, she demonstrates this principle when Mose’s grandson and his friend (grandson of a retired Indian army officer who was posted in Nagaland in the turbulent periods) learn about each other better and discover a more humane way to end misunderstanding. They thereby see life beyond conflict. Talking about how this change of perspective came along, she states:

As a believer in her Christian doctrine of forgiveness, Easterine Kire firmly holds that it is this virtue that can only lead the way forward in the relationship between Indians and Nagas. This perspective should appeal more to the Nagas who are largely Christian and forgiveness is an essential virtue to reach God. In one of the poignant moments in the narrative, she demonstrates this principle when Mose’s grandson and his friend (grandson of a retired Indian army officer who was posted in Nagaland in the turbulent periods) learn about each other better and discover a more humane way to end misunderstanding. They thereby see life beyond conflict. Talking about how this change of perspective came along, she states:

I began to understand very clearly that the problems did not lie in laws and government policies alone, but the problems of the Northeast, and all human problems for that matter, had their origins in human sources. Thereby, the solutions could come only through human solutions. I know many say this is an idealist view to take, but the fact that the laws of the land have been made by humans at some stage in history and therefore, can be undone by humans. I have addressed this in my book, Bitter Wormwood where the grandson of the protagonist and his best friend, who is the grandson of an Indian soldier, discuss the concept of deconstructing history to rescue the present. Their friendship demonstrates that when people come together, they learn to understand each other, and this human understanding can be the biggest stepping stone to a future without conflict. [emphasis added] (2014).

This concept of “deconstructing history to rescue the present” is an apt idea to understand that the conflict of the past should not continue to dictate the present as well as a vision of the future. Unfortunately, this has been a difficult step to tread upon. What is more daunting is the fact that the prolonged projection of conflict in the region has resulted in the internalization of a victimhood mindset in the people. Easterine deals with this issue when she aserts, “The trouble with us Nagas is that we have allowed the conflict to define us for too long. It has overtaken our lives so much that we have been colonized by it and its demands on us” (236). This truth is also applicable to the other communities of the region – that there is a sense of being colonised by a conflict mentality. Perhaps, to some extent, the fact of having lived through conflicting times has made many to be defined by conflict. But allowing conflict to define our lives is also to let the past have a grip on us to a point of crippling our present. The way to overcome this is to let go of the bitterness of the past by adopting the attitude of forgiveness to heal the souls of the people.

Added to that is the metaphor of “bitter wormwood” in the novel, which has also been adopted for the title of the book. The herb which has long been traditionally valued for its medicinal components and also believed by the people to keep bad spirits away, stands for the possibility of healing the wounds of the past. Perhaps, the novel appeals to the larger Indian population to understand the people of the Northeast and its multiple problems. Often, the rest of the country sits back at a safe distance and comment on the happenings in the Northeast, but that does not really help build relationships. But a mutual understanding and honest effort to connect, like the two friends in the novel, would do a good deal in respecting each other’s culture and past. This is the challenge for the reader, which Munro talks about. Easterine’s novel is an example of peace literature as it plays the “role in the safeguarding of memory and commemoration and it must highlight the need for citizens to acknowledge personal responsibility for their actions”. The action required here being that of a step to heal the wounds of the past through forgiveness.

We see this form of writing emerging from other states of the Northeast. Mention may be made of Malsawmi Jacob's Zorami – A Redemption Song (2015) which also talks of healing from the trauma of the past. The Mizos too, like the Nagas, have undergone tremendous sufferings in the 1950s and 60s which led to the rise of the MNF (Mizo National Front) who took arms against India. Just as the protagonist of the novel needed inner healing to let her move forward, the people too required a spiritual healing through forgiveness to see healing in the land.

There is power in stories – the power to let the still clear voice emerge to speak what has not been uttered by the maddening crowd. Far more than what politicians or bureaucrats blabber about peace in the chaos around us, it is the voice of the writers who speak sense. The political peace will continue to remain an illusion for the Nagas as long as a spirit of forgiveness is not given primary focus. This is true of not just peace with the larger Indian state or the neighbouring people groups but also within their own fold which has been marred by factional conflicts. The Forum for Reconciliation (FNR) initiated in 2008 by well-intended Naga public leaders is driven by the need for reconciliation among different warring groups through forgiveness for the sake of the future.

I think it is this truth expressed through literary works that needs consideration for peace and hope to be perceivable. In these times of uncertainty, it is the voice of the writers that speaks volume loud and clear, as Easterine Kire mentions.

There is power in stories – the power to let the still clear voice emerge to speak what has not been uttered by the maddening crowd. Far more than what politicians or bureaucrats blabber about peace in the chaos around us, it is the voice of the writers who speak sense. The political peace will continue to remain an illusion for the Nagas as long as a spirit of forgiveness is not given primary focus. This is true of not just peace with the larger Indian state or the neighbouring people groups but also within their own fold which has been marred by factional conflicts. The Forum for Reconciliation (FNR) initiated in 2008 by well-intended Naga public leaders is driven by the need for reconciliation among different warring groups through forgiveness for the sake of the future.

I think it is this truth expressed through literary works that needs consideration for peace and hope to be perceivable. In these times of uncertainty, it is the voice of the writers that speaks volume loud and clear, as Easterine Kire mentions.

I believe that stories are powerful

they have the power to transform lives

the magic to work peace.

It is so important that they be told

in any possible way, even in ways that we have not thought of before

as pictures, as gestures, as dance, as song

in any way they can be told

reborn, breathing life in new shapes

so that they can work their transforming magic. (“Barcelona Dreamtime”)

Works Cited (For details please see www.museindia.com)

The Naga #MeToo Moment – A Review of Love. Lust. And Loyalty

 

Author: Yuimi Vashum

Publisher: Penthrill Publication House

Year of publication: 2018

Pages/ Price: 105/ 299/-

It is quite unusual to start a book review on an apologetic note, but I want to put on record that this is a long pending one. But I write this not so much to please the author and publisher, but to bring to fore the subject child sexual abuse, or sexual exploitation in general, which the book so powerfully articulates, and it has too long been silenced in the Naga society, as also in many societies across the world. It was only at a recent launch of the book, The Marys of the Bible: The Original #MeToo Movement by Boaz Johnson cum a panel discussion on sexual exploitation, in Delhi that I got prompted to the immediacy of talking about the subject. The Marys of the Bible argues that the Bible started the #MeToo movement because it does not hide the sexual abuses in the historical/biblical times, and that in fact, Jesus came to redeem the broken people and the world we live in.

The book's title Love. Lust. And Loyalty sums up pretty much what most poets write about. Those three words are what most people juggle with in relationships. But what more appealing to me of this book of poetry is the section on “Forgiveness” that didn't find its way to the title. Divided into two parts, the first section on “Forgiveness” deals with the struggles of the poet in coming to terms with the memory of the menacing past of being sexually abused. The second section on “Love. Lust. And Loyalty” shades light on the poet's encounters of love, heartbreaks and all that most lovers sing of! However, what captivates me is not just that it upsets the usual style of poetry by having the title at the end but also the brutally honest experiences of what poet as a young girl goes through.

Telling one's life story is not an easy task, especially when that part of life is a traumatic one. Yet, narrating them can be a therapeutic experience, as psychologists/psychiatrists would say. In a “bare it all” way, Yuimi confronted the demons that haunted her since the time she was “seven years old”. “It all started with Robinhood / A tiny illustrated book he brought with him that summer” she recounted in the poem “waves of abuse”. As excited as a seven years old would be to be read bedtime stories, she fell into the bait, easily becoming his victim - “He fucked me over and over again / Until he finished the book”. She tells of how for years she would still “have my haunted dark days” and even driven to the brink of life wishing to “jump of a tall building” or “throw myself at a running train” (“childhood to adulthood”). Her pain was even made worse when the society wouldn't come to defend the defenseless - “And parents, aunties, uncles, sirs, madam, / All of them lecturing Your virginity is your virtue / Do they know? Do they think about girls like me?” (“the problem with virtues”).

But the true strength of the poet lies in the fact that she was able to “brave the demons” - “I gave my nightmares a closure fifteen years later; / For my freedom, / From the fear, the beast(s) and society” (“waves of abuse”). The sarcasm on the society's indifference is subtle here. And yet, greater still is the poet's ability to forgive the perpetrators/demons - “Because, Forgiveness, / It liberates you” (“let go and let God”). I think this is the highest virtue one can hope for from victims of abuse of any kind. This is true Christ-likeness. And the largely Christian communities like the Nagas need to take this as a way forward to find healing from the wounds of the past.

Love. Lust. And Loyalty is a daring book of poetry that is utterly honest on the part of the young poet to pour out the trauma of sexual abuse she experienced as a child. It is universally accepted that many children suffer sexual abuse but remained silent because of fear or are usually silenced by elders in the family and the society. Recognizing the need to deal with this issue, the United Nations declared 19th November as the World Day for the Prevention of Child Abuse, and 20th November as the International Day for the Rights of the Child. Yet, despite these recognitions many cases go unreported or many children still suffer abuse because they are not aware of their rights, or are silenced, and many people live in denial.

By telling her own story, Yuimi Vashum does not simply fascinates in poetic experiences, but she does set an agenda that the wave of abuses would be confronted:

Today, as I sit here and write this,

Recalling feelings I never wanted to;

I weep for the little children (like me) who suffered,

Alone.

I hope they get to read this,

and in their lowest moments,

I hope they remember-

We moved past the abuse;

We can move past anything.

(“childhood to adulthood”).

I hope Love. Lust. And Loyalty would not just be another book of poetry that is shelved in your collection and forgotten after a while, but that it would spark off the #MeToo movement in the Naga society or the society you find yourself fitted to. Silence make the victims suffer over and over again, and the demons grow bigger and fiercer. Let's stand for those who have been wronged, especially the little ones!

Published on 18 June, 2019, Morung Express

https://morungexpress.com/the-naga-metoo-moment-a-review-of-love-lust-and-loyalty/

Of Love and Loss – A review of A Respectable Woman

Author: Easterine Kire

Publisher: Zubaan

Year/pages: 2019/184

The opening line of the new novel by Easterine Kire, A Respectable Woman, resonates with the popular passage of Ecclesiastes chapter 3 where the wise king Solomon articulates that there is a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven. In verse 7 of the passage we read of “a time to be silent and a time to speak.”The narrator and protagonist of the novel, Kevinuo, says, “It took my mother, Khunuo, exactly forty-five years before she could bring herself to talk about the war.” The statement indicates a period of silence on the subject. And interestingly, silence is not about forgetting but a process of letting matter, the trauma or tragedy in this case, sink in until one can be strong again to talk about it. Most cultures, in a sense, share this truth.

A Respectable Woman (ARW henceforth) is woven around the story of a mother telling her experiences of growing up at a defining moment of Kohima and people who lived through the Second World War. Divided into three parts, the novel chronicles the memories of the mother and traces the family relations in Part One. Part Two begins with the birth of the protagonist-narrator and her growing up “to witness different happenings, some of them good, some much worse…” Part Three is largely a continuation of the narratives from the previous one but focused on personal battles the protagonist had to confront mainly with the tragic death of her closest friend, Beinuo, due to abuse by her husband and taking custody of the orphaned girl. While the plot of the novel is centred on the stories of Kevi and her mother, it is interwoven with the memories of the grandmother and other elders of the community about certain aspects of the past, and in this case the times around the war.

Memory of the period is important because it was a time of tremendous changes, not just for people living in and around Kohima, the centre of the action, but also for the Nagas as a whole as there was a paradigm shift in the political and social dynamics. So significant is the war in the novel that there is repeated use of the phrase “before the war” to demarcate a historical timeline. Just like different seasons mark the timeline of the year, “the war” became an important historical reference point for the Nagas. Though the war was not of their making, the Nagas were caught in the war and were forced into bear the brunt of it. In the recent times there has been few works by Nagas narrating their accounts of the war. Notable ones include The Battle of Kohima (2007) by Mekhrie Khate, Aphriilie Iralu, et al. (Eds.), The Road to Kohima: The Naga Experience of the 2nd World War (2017) by Charles Chasie and Harry Fecitt, and Easterine Kire’s bestselling semi-fictional novel titled Mari (2010). These narratives help us assess the impact of the war on the Nagas. The brutality of the battle of Kohima led the military historian Robert Lyman to remark that the war fought in the Naga Hills was “[t]he most desperate and bloody struggle in the entire war in the south Asian land mass” (Japan’s Last Bid for Victory: The Invasion of India 1944 (2011), p. 215). The centrality of the war is also depicted in the novel wherein Amo, the narrator’s maternal uncle, became a war hero after he survived the Japanese bullets, but couldn’t live long for the same reason.

ARW holds an important place in this regard as it documents a lot of what has been side-lined in the current discourses of the Nagas. In an interesting way, the book even becomes a historical source of Kohima’s past because it mentions of when and who set up the first book shop, the first pharmacy, and the famed Kohima Bakery, among others. Also, by mentioning many of the first among Nagas in various fields, Easterine Kire makes a conscious attempt to credit those who contributed to the building of the society, especially in the formative period. As one reads the novel, one gets a feeling that Kohima becomes a character in the novel with all its liveliness, be it bearing the brunt of the war destructions or the makeover it got after it or the restructuring of the township in the 50s and 60s. Certainly, there is a sense nostalgia in the author’s tone as she recounts a lot of what was a part of her growing up years in Kohima. Written in the first person narrative, the autobiographical mode of writing gives a perfect blend of facts and fiction. Though Kevi may not be Easterine in to-to, the reader can nevertheless draw the semblance in various aspects. But in the fine hand of the master-artiste-novelist, the line is nevertheless drawn clearly.

There are also other issues of the society that the author tries to address through the novel. Alcoholism, which had become a byword of the largely frustrated young Nagas, remains an issue which both the church and the state have not contained till today. While critiquing the state for treating alcoholism as a mere crime of the few misfits, the novel also unveils the fact that there is a huge contribution of the “political environment” and the harsh governmental actions on the public which contributed to the social problem. Added to the whole challenging situation is the lackadaisical approach of the church as well as the society. What should bother the reader is the silence of larger society in the issue of alcoholism and its related issue of domestic violence. The twin belong to some of those devils that the Nagas still count ignorable but has eaten into the marrows of the society. The narrator’s shock at learning about his best friend’s marital woes at a much later stage is something to be grasped.

ARW is a book that gives a critical insight into some of the challenges confronting the Naga society today. And in the hand of a commendable writer and ‘insider’ like Easterine Kire the stories she construct powerfully captivates the readers with her own style of narration which is deeply rooted to the storytelling tradition of the Nagas. Even in this novel, her effort to reconstruct the memory of the past is in true spirit of the Naga oral culture wherein there is a conscious passing down of stories of the people to the younger generation. Though the mother finds telling some of her life stories hurting at times she felt the importance of telling about the family because those are the legacies that should be passed on. Every generation’s experience is unique and telling them can be a learning experience for the next generation. As a foremost writer among Nagas there are so much that the younger generation of storytellers can find inspiration in Easterine Kire. Besides the national and international recognitions, the award just endowed on her, The Gordon Graham Prize for Naga Literature, is truly a recognition of her contribution to literary wealth of the Nagas.

Published in Morung Express on 9th April, 2019

http://morungexpress.com/of-love-and-loss-a-review-of-a-respectable-woman/ 

A Resilient Spirit: Remains of Spring - A Naga Village in the No Man’s Land

Author: Jibon Krishna Goswami

Translator: Manjeet Baruah (from Assamese)

Publisher: Oxford University PressPages: 238Price: 695/-

The Book Review, Vol. XLI, No. 3, March 2017, p. 74.

The idea of a novel based on a no man's land, a stretch of land between two nation states, can quickly draw the attention of the reader for it instantly hints at a possible political conflict situation. But Remains of Spring: A Naga Village in the No Man’s Land (2016) by Jibon Krishna Goswami is more than the story of a village caught in a war-like situation that prevails everyday. It powerfully portrays the hope of a people to rebuild their homes and their lives again despite several attempts by adversaries to destroy them. Translated from its Assamese title Aoleangar Jui (2007) to Remains of Spring by Manjeet Baruah, the novel questions the politics of space-making or cartography at large. Most of the action of the story is set in the village of Hoyat, the no man's land that lie between India and Burma (Myanmar).

The plot centers around Atanu, an Assamese “Teacher”, who was brought to the village by Anyam, a “spirited young man full of hope”, to start a school with the hope that someday their world would change “through the gift of education” (41). But while Atanu was looked upon as a harbinger of change by the villagers, it was also for him an escape from his dark past and the “burden of failure”. When offered to become a teacher in a village nestled in the hills, he “accepted the beckoning of life” and became “a traveller into the future” (39). The long journey through the rough terrains became a test for him and the in the end it was him who learned more about life, love and sacrifice from the people whom he had hoped to educate. Even the hope of setting a school was dashed as the Burmese army invaded the village and sets it on fire.The interesting narrative strategy is supplemented by some forceful stories of other characters that run parallel to the main plot. For instance, the pure love between the Laipa and Amung is symbolic of a sacrificial relationship and not so much a romantic one. Though they could not see the fruition of their love into marriage because of the brutal reality that Laipa had to undergo despite his innocence and which also eventually led his death, in their relationship the novelist projects the enduring love of Amung and pain that the people had to endure only because they belong in no man's land. In essence, the novel is the story of the people, their resilient spirit to rise again like the phoenix rising from the ashes. It was the fourth time, Anyam told Atanu, that the village had been burnt down completely, but the people do not give up: “Rebuilding their houses and their village was like a cycle” (93). 

The Assamese title Aoleangar Jui, derived from the Konyak Naga Spring festival, is more symbolic to the hope that people look forward to, just like spring rejuvenates nature and signals another cycle of life.However, one may wonder what is in the village that the people would go back to when everything is burnt down. It sounds even irrational. But therein lies a central theme of the novel: land as a symbol of identity. And this is pertinent to every Naga imagination. The attachment to land is time and again brought to the fore by Jibon Krishna Goswami. In fact, the theme that powerfully pulls people's attachment to the village is also woven together with the story of Naga national movement, the undercurrent motif. And Naga nationalism is largely hinged on their desire to free their land from foreign control. The novel finely connects the two themes through a man named Imli Apa. Except for the information that he was a retired intelligence officer in the Naga army, everything else about him is shrouded in mystery. Perhaps, that mystery is also important in the narrative because his story is also the story of the Naga movement. 

Each of the characters in the novel stood out powerfully on their own but the image of Imli Apa is an enduring one. The enigma that surrounds Imli Apa is phenomenal. He is like the backbone of the village, the one that unites the people. His farsightedness and wisdom weaves the story of the village together. Atanu could never fully understand the man that he had to conclude at the end in amazement: “when alive or even after death, Imli Apa was truly extraordinary, someone who was always capable of controlling the minds of other people” (229).When Atanu first met him, Imli Apa confronted him with a riddle: “Have you come here to be cut into two pieces?” What rattled Atanu's heart all the more was that the aged man “swung his dao cutting through the air” (77). The imagery of violence in that question was deeply disturbing to the young protagonist. While it took sometime for Atanu to realize that Imli Apa's question was rather a hint that living in no man's land was like being torn between two countries, he also understood the fact that life and death were nothing extraordinary to the people. Death has to be embraced as much as a birth is. Atanu learned this hard reality of life when he confronted those with severe illnesses and the desperation of a people who are denied modern medical facility. His close encounter with the sufferings of Tempu, the autistic brother of Laipa and with whom he also found some psychological semblance, utterly shocked him.Another interesting feature of the novel is the idea of freedom or independence. While it may seem contradictory that the people of Hoyat should go back to rebuild their homes and start their lives again from the scratch, the people see it otherwise: “If there's life, it is only in this No Man's Land. Beyond this, there's only death” (193). Such a projection is not just metaphoric but an assertion of their superiority over those who are under the rule of some undesired government. The reader, at this point, may also find the novelist Jibon Krishna Goswami an interesting personality. 

In the author's note, he mentions how the novel was partly his own experience of living in the No Man's Land in the 1990s “as a middle-ranking leader of an armed revolutionary organization of Assam that was fighting to free the state from India” (vii-viii). An interesting insight, perhaps, as an ex-revolutionary [of ULFA], though the story is not his story as “revolutionary” but of the people with whom he had some unforgettable experience.By telling the story of no man's land, the novelist an imaginary boundary line drawn by an external force can change the lives of people who have been living there for ages. The situation is even worsened by the factionalism in the Naga underground organization as the people are compelled to take sides without complete knowledge. Rather than liberating the people, they became suspects from all quarters. And I think this is where the novel strikes a universal theme; that often one becomes a victim of situation not created by the self. Towards that end, the translation by Manjeet Baruah was “to make it available in a language that is widely accessed by people interested in such themes” (xii-xiii). Of late, there also has emerged an interest on studying the Northeastern region of India as a borderland because of its topography. Hopefully this novel will contribute to the engagement of literatures that deal with narrative of space, borderland and frontier studies, as well as studies on resistance literature.

Book Review: People and Articulations in Naga Literatures

February 2, 2016, Morung Express

Manjeet Baruah

Literary Cultures of India’s Northeast: Naga Writings in English by K.B. Veio Pou
Publisher: Heritage Publishing House
Pages: 213, Price: Rs. 300/-

K.B. Veio Pou’s book Literary Cultures of India’s Northeast: Naga Writings in English is an important contribution to the study of literature and culture of Northeast India. It is important because it is an extensive study of Naga literatures, especially since the twentieth century. It is also important because it provides a nuanced view of literatures in English that have emerged from the region during the period. Divided into five chapters, the book covers themes which are as historical and political as they are literary and cultural. Therefore, it makes the study not only one on literature, but also a socio-cultural history of the Nagas, possibly one of the few in this field.

Issues such as modernisation, religion and orality; political experiences and shaping of ideological apparatuses; genres of texts; memory and social experience; and notions or practices of political geography, these issues have figured in different ways in some of the other works on the Nagas too. Then what makes the present book distinct? A reading of Literary Cultures of India’s Northeast highlights a difference which entering such issues through the vantage point of literature can make. For example, the book shows how literary works construct characters. The characters are drawn from the social world, and their experiences and perspectives, as provided with, are important in the making of the narratives. The characters may be of the urban world, or they may be rural. They may be male or female, and could be of different ages. They could speak or imagine in different forms, whether in oral genres or in the written ones. They could be part of events which occur in different locations such as market places, domestic confines, roads, camps, churches, graveyards and many more.

In other words, what is shown in the book is how literature allow us to see the people, the common people, and acquire a sense of how they view their own locations in history and politics. Therefore, what we see is how people being historical and political beings is also closely connected to they being human beings. And it is this relation which the characters and the narratives illustrate. Perhaps, it is this visibility of the common people and their lived worlds which often remain in the shadows of discourses. Therefore, Veio Pou’s book is importantly positioned, wherein the common people become humanly tangible, and it is the tangibility of human life which gives concreteness to discourses or their understanding in research work.

However, one may argue that literatures being fictional narratives, are the characters too only imagined realities? Perhaps not. One can support Veio Pou’s contention through other illustrations as well. For example, when one goes through the tour diaries, reports and brief life narratives of the 1950s from the erstwhile Tuensang Frontier Division, one gets to see how agrarian and guerrilla existences, landscape, objects, building roads, rituals and customs, and firearms were inextricably connected in the lives of the people. There were instances when land was exchanged for rifles and problems that could arise thereof. There were instances when disputes over ownership of agrarian resources were connected to the vicissitudes between agrarian and guerrilla existences. From growing rice to finding wireless sets in the rice fields were part of people’s experiences. There were instances when the focus was not Zapu Phizo per se, but his Tommy gun, and how it changed hands through several people until one day it was found in a field in the village outskirts.

To borrow an insight from Veio Pou’s book, perhaps one can say that what these archival narratives highlighted was the world of those Nagas who were common but tangible people. They were concrete in the materiality and thoughts of their lives. And as his book shows, people in this sense of reality abound as different characters in Naga literatures too. The people who figured in the archival texts were engaged in living their socio-economic lives and also had their political convictions for the Naga movement. After all, they entered the archival narratives because the state encountered them, at times accidentally, while looking for camps and leaders, and did not appreciate their political convictions. Similarly, many important Naga literary works bring out the inextricable totality of the human and political existence, or the historicity of life that comprises both the everyday and the political of the landscape.

Thus, characters from the archives and literatures appear to express a common point. Veio Pou’s book has numerous discussions on how culture, politics and history are contained in the very materiality of people’s existence and thoughts. We get to hear them, see them, and find how the vividness of their past and present can come alive if only we make that little effort. Naga literature abounds representing and manifesting such reality. Genres, languages, or styles in literature are also part of such conditions of reality. The nature or choice of genres and styles cannot be isolated from how they articulate such reality, and also seek to shape the making of reality. As the book shows, folk and written, human and political, state and organisations, body and gender, peoples and nation, these dimensions converge in Naga literary narratives, transforming literature into rich and complex narratives of a national life.

Veio Pou’s book, through exploration of these dimensions, is not only a work of literary studies but also one of socio-cultural history. And it stands as an important contribution towards a nuanced understanding of people, landscape and articulations from this part of the world.

Manjeet Baruah teaches in North East India Studies Programme,

Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi

http://morungexpress.com/book-review-people-and-articulations-in-naga-literatures/

Nagas' Wait for Godot

For more than 60 years now Nagas have been waiting for Sovereignty as it would come tomorrow. The first generation passed on 'waiting'. Will this generation also pass on 'waiting'? The uncertainty is deadening. While this wait continues I'm forced to see an uncanny resemblance of the Naga situation with that of two tramps in Samuel Beckett's most famous play Waiting for Godot. In the play two tramps waits for somebody called Godot whom they have never met nor are they sure of why they are waiting for him. So, while they wait, they decided to play some games and talk some nonsense to pass their time. At the end of each act (the play has two acts), a boy comes to announce that Mr. Godot will not be able to come that day but will certainly come tomorrow. Categorized as a “tragi-comedy”, the play has elements of both tragic and comic blended together very well. While the audience would laugh at the actions of the two men on the stage do all the funny things, the use of language perforce the underlying meaning of the helplessness of tramps to improve their predicament. The only consolation for them was the hope that Mr. Godot's arrival will certainly bring the end to the suffering of their wait. But waiting can be miserable.

Just like the two tramps the Nagas have also being 'waiting'. Another sunrise, another full-moon, another season, another year. Will Naga's Mr. Godot ever come? Just recently, somebody I know traveled to some villages in the Naga areas for a research project and told me how old people in the villages are still waiting for 'Naga independence' to come anytime soon. What a life! What a tragedy! It is still the ones who are too little educated and living in the remote villages that are easily beguiled. Simple as they are they believe anything told them. When I was growing up many years back, I also had the same dream, like most Nagas. But then, everything has changed. Who is to blame? That's a difficult question. While the Nagas love to blame India for all the mess (of course, India has contributed to it in many ways), can we turn a blind eye to what we've done to each other? The irony is, since the announcement of ceasefire with the UG groups the Naga public has been waiting for a big announcement. Every year there's always a teaser to keep the game going. And the boy (read the interlocutor) comes to announce the deal has been delayed for some reason. And the ceasefire gets extended. The people kept hoping for another year to see a better day. How many years must the lie be told? How many more Nagas must die waiting for freedom? Only Mr. Godot knows!

As it now stands, one group has severed the ceasefire with the GOI, another is still hanging on but only on a thread. But this one is likely to hang on, because the lost will be too much on their part, not so much the larger Naga public. Yes, the ceasefire brought some respite for the tired Naga commoners, tired of being caught in the crossfire. But the bigger beneficiary of the ceasefire has been the UGs themselves. Look at what they've become since the ceasefire - business tycoons, lakhpatis/crorepatis, etc. who drives the fanciest vehicles, lives in mansions, has stakes in the biggest businesses, gotten high paying 'Indian' government services for their relatives, gadgets and guns swung around their shoulders. To break the ceasefire and give up all that? No, they will certainly not end the ceasefire with GOI. Who would want to give up such luxuries? They already have their 'freedom', who cares about others. Have Naga leaders finally playing into the hands of some Indian bureaucrats who wants a whimpering end to the Naga problem? That's a million dollar question. Nagas are the tramps whose seriousness is a comedy for a larger audience.

They deal is closing in, they said. But mind you that's just he voice of the boy announcing that Mr. Godot will come the next day for sure. Is there anything left to deal with, anyway? Sovereignty, Greater Nagalim, Alternative Arrangement, Autonomy, etc. are all phased out from the vocabulary of 'the struggle'. The only deal left, perhaps, is to request the GOI to let them (UGs) enjoy the status they have now once 'the solution' is brokered. Meanwhile, the rest of the people keeps waiting for Godot. Will he ever come?

Published in Morung Express, 5 July (Sunday), 2015 
http://morungexpress.com/nagas-wait-for-godot/ 

How to be a 'Normal' Indian

At a recently concluded conference on the Northeast of India (btw, I'm a little baffled by the sudden attention paid on the Northeast, though I'm one of the 'unashamed' beneficiaries) organized by a well-known government agency, an old lady made a comment which refused to leave my mind. After a paper presentation by a scholar from Assam she said, “I couldn't get much of your presentation because your pronunciations. You didn't speak like a 'normal' Indian.” I was like, 'did I hear that right?' Thankfully, the members in the conference hall were gracious enough to not react to her ignorance, else a war of language would have begun. Anyway, my mind wandered off...

I began to ask, “Who's a 'normal' Indian?” Living in Delhi for almost half my lifetime now I've realized how hard it is to fit into the larger society if one is not originally of North India. Harder still when you have a different racial orientation. What's even more daunting is when even the language you speak becomes the point of discrimination. Often I've heard young people from the Northeast seeking BPO jobs in Delhi/NCR being rejected at interviews because of heavy “mother-tongue influence”. Ironically though, and over the period of time, these Northeastern youths seem to have sustained and dominated the workforce in BPOs, for whatever reason. Naturally, everyone has “mother-tongue influence”. But seemingly even in the language scenario the culture of the dominant community is considered the “correct” spoken language. Take for example, most people in North India interchange their 'W' and 'V' as if it is normal (ve are going to vatch a wery nice mowie!). Yet, you wouldn't find such spoken languages being laughed at because most people speak that way.

On the other hand, I have often been 'un-understood' of my English because of my accent. I realize that I am a bit influenced by the Hollywood movies in my English that I got a bit Americanized in my English. For instance, the use of the narrower (American) 'a' rather than the rounder (British) as in 'cǝn't'/'cAn't'. (I've not studied in an American school, fyi.) English, anyway, is only a second language to every (or almost all) Indians. Yet, ironically, in a country with such wide linguistic plurality like ours it is difficult to understand when one's English is categorically stated that it is accented! It is truly difficult to be 'normal' in India.