Read an excerpt from ‘But I Am One of You: Northeast India and the Struggle to Belong’ edited by Samrat Choudhury and Preeti Gill
But I Am One of You: Northeast India and the Struggle to Belong
Edited by Samrat Choudhury and Preeti Gill
HarperCollins, xxviii+282 pages, Rs 599
The questions of who belongs and who does not, who is an insider and who is an outsider have sparked severe friction in Northeast India for decades now. From the frequent characterisation of Bengal-origin Muslims in Assam as illegal Bangladeshi immigrants to the ethnic battles between the Meiteis and Kuki-Zo tribals of Manipur, from the Naga and Mizo separatist insurgencies to the prejudice the tribal minorities face in the mainland—negotiating identity has always been a complex issue. In recent years the National Register of Citizens and the Citizenship Amendment Act have added to that complexity.
Amidst sweeping political and social changes in the Northeast and the rest of the country, have things changed for the ‘Northeasterner’? How do the tribals and the old settlers find a way to coexist in the region?
A new anthology, edited by Samrat Choudhury and Preeti Gill, addresses these pressing questions by bringing together a variety of voices from different communities across the Northeast. Each essay offers a unique perspective, reflecting the distinctive micro-history of diverse groups and the multiplicity of stories within every state. ‘But I Am One of You’ sheds light on the complex fabric of identity in Northeast India.
One of the editors, Samrat Choudhury a.k.a. Samrat X, only recently published ‘Northeast India: A Political History’ (HarperCollins in India and Hurst in the UK). Preeti Gill is an independent literary agent and the editor of ‘The Peripheral Centre: Voices from India’s Northeast’ and ‘Bearing Witness: A Report on the Impact of Conflict on Women in Nagaland and Assam’.
The contributors to this anthology are: Indira Laisram, Makepeace Sitlhou, Veio Pou, Teresa Rehman, Margaret Ch. Zama, Pratap Chhetri, Hamari Jamatia, Subir Bhaumik, Ramona M. Sangma, Patricia Mukhim, Vatsala Tibrewalla, Abhishek Saha, Sangeeta Barooah Pisharoty, Rashmi Narzary, Easterine Kire, Nona Arhe, Ranju Dodum, Karma Paljor and Naresh Agarwal.
Here is an excerpt from a personal and evocative essay by Margaret Ch. Zama, who retired as professor of English at Mizoram University, Aizawl, in 2020.
The journey home, 1966
My journey home from school in 1966 was very different and unlike any of the previous ones. Back then, I was an eleven-year-old who had just passed class six. My mind draws a complete blank now as to who escorted me back home that year and how. Our usual group had been escorted by their families to other destinations, having left Aizawl temporarily to take up residence elsewhere due to the outbreak of the
Mizo National Front (MNF) uprising in Mizoram on 1 March that year. Since us kids were away from home at boarding school when ‘Rambuai’ (the land’s troubles) started, none of us really understood the insurgency issue. Nor did we realize the extent of the damage and human suffering that ensued because of the conflict. I vaguely remember being told about it by some of the senior Mizo girls at school and being shown a newspaper that carried a photo of my father on the front page, who had gone to meet with the Central government in Delhi. I was young, puzzled and also somewhat frightened; I felt shy and, therefore, suppressed my curiosity to know more. My father Lawrence Ch. Chhunga was an MLA in the Assam state government and President of the Mizo Union Party, the first political party of Mizoram established in 1946. He was one of the more prominent political leaders at the time who played a crucial role on all fronts during that dark period, negotiating between the Central government and the underground.
Though I can’t recall the first part of the two-day journey from Haflong to Silchar, what I remember very clearly about my homecoming that year was my arrival in Aizawl by bus. It was already evening and very quiet, with no one to be seen out on the streets. There was probably a curfew in effect though I wouldn’t have known about that anyway. As the bus entered the commercial hub of the town, Dawrpui
Veng, I looked out of the bus window and immediately noticed that things were no longer the same—I saw all the shops and houses along the main street were burned to the ground and there were blackened remnants and pieces of debris strewn around everywhere. As we drew near our family shop, my eyes saw only blackened remains of what was once a thriving pharmacy that used to be manned by no less than seven to eight salespersons at a time. As for the family-run printing press on the ground floor below the pharmacy, all I saw were the two large printing machines, dark and sooty. That press was a part of my childhood years, a place where I used to stand in fascination, gawking at the printing process and listening to the steady clanking of the machines, watching the round plates move back and forth receiving blank paper and bringing back printed ones, the black grease that fed the machine paddles, the young men and women crouched over their tables with their fingers deftly picking out and arranging the tiny letters and numerals, or khawl ha (teeth of the machine) as it was called, and placing them on trays. Though I did not know it at the time, the model of the press we owned was what used to be called a letterpress, which was manual and very laborious.
The bus kept driving on as I continued to look over my shoulder until the sad scene disappeared out of sight. Looking back today at that particular experience of mine as an eleven-year-old adolescent, it can best be described as something strangely surreal and tragic. It drew no tears from me at the time. I was alone and the impact of the shock and pain was probably internalized by me, due to which it remained unshared for a long time. The unfamiliar address that I clutched in my hand was ‘Pu Hrangaia, E.M., Khatla Veng’. When we finally arrived at that destination, the bus driver dropped me by the side of the road and continued on his way. As I waited in the quiet dusk with my school trunk and holdall beside me, looking at the house situated some distance downhill from the road, I noticed a curtain move inside the house and soon its door opened as my father came running up, followed by my younger brother. As my father put his arms around me, I heard him softly say, ‘You have arrived home safely.’
Pu Hrangaia, though not related by blood, was more than a close friend and political colleague of my father. He was also an executive member (EM) of the then Mizo District Council. He offered shelter to our large family because we had become homeless overnight after our home at Sarawn Veng was burnt to the ground by a man identified as belonging to the Assam Rifles paramilitary force, whose barracks were not too far away from our home.
A mass exodus of families from Aizawl had taken place in the initial days following the first sounds of gunfire and swirling rumours that bombs, too, would be dropped soon. Families had panicked and fled town haphazardly to the outlying villages and forests. Others with more resources had loaded their vehicles with whatever they could carry and fled to places outside Mizoram such as Silchar, Shillong, Kohima and even Haflong, to name a few. Our family, too, had fled town without any fixed destination at first. My mother recounts how the family made their way by foot downhill towards Chite rivulet, then uphill to Zemabawk on the outskirts of Aizawl to the east and further on uphill to the adjoining village of Beraw, where they spent a couple of nights.
[The excerpt reproduced with the permission of the publishers.]