A Naga Odyssey : Visier's Long Way Home 9781925495836, 9781925495829

Citation preview

A NAGA ODYSSEY

Visier Meyasetsu Sanyü c.2000

A NAGA ODYSSEY Visier’s L ong Way Home VISIER MEYASET SU SANYÜ WITH RICHARD BROOME

A Naga Odyssey: Visier's Long Way Home © Copyright 2017 Visier Meyasetsu Sanyü and Richard Broome All rights reserved. Apart from any uses permitted by Australia’s Copyright Act 1968, no part of this book may be reproduced by any process without prior written permission from the copyright owners. Inquiries should be directed to the publisher. Monash University Publishing Matheson Library and Information Services Building 40 Exhibition Walk Monash University Clayton, Victoria 3800, Australia www.publishing.monash.edu Monash University Publishing brings to the world publications which advance the best traditions of humane and enlightened thought. Monash University Publishing titles pass through a rigorous process of independent peer review. www.publishing.monash.edu/books/no-9781925495829.html ISBN: 978-1-925495-82-9 (paperback) ISBN: 978-1-925495-83-6 (ePDF) ISBN: 978-1-925495-84-3 (ePub) Series: Investigating Power Series Editor: Clinton Fernandes Design: Les Thomas Cover image: Visier Meyasetsu Sanyü at Tromso Samiland, Norway with Hans Ragnar Mathisen 1975 National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Creator:

Sanyü, Visier, author.

ISBN:

9781925495829 (paperback)

Title:

Subjects:

A naga odyssey : Visier’s long way home / Visier Sanyü; with Richard Broome. Sanyü, Visier.

Sanyü, Visier--Childhood and youth.

Refugees--Australia--Biography.

Refugees--Nagaland--Khonoma----Biography.

East Indians--Australia--Biography.



Broome, Richard, 1948- author.

Other Creators/Contributors:

C ON T E N T S Image of Visier Meyasetsu Sanyü. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii About the Authors. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi

Foreword by Rajmohan Gandhi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Foreword by Rev. Tim Costello. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

Prelude: 1956. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Land, People and the Fight for Independence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

The Village World of Khonoma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Flight to the Jungle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Transitions from Traditional Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64

Sainik Military School . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84

Student Days. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 Touring with ‘Song of Asia’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130

The Academic Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152

Interlude – Meeting Pari. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171

Fratricide and Resilience. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176

Escape to Australia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192 Working with Refugees. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211

Naga Connections. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 224 Where is Home?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252

Return . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 Postscript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283

Glossary of Tenyidie Words. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288

Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 290 Further Reading. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294

Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297

Back Cover . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318

A BOU T T H E AU T HOR S Visier Meyasetsu Sanyü is an Elder of the Meyasetsu clan of the Angami tribe, Khonoma, Nagaland. He has a Batchelor of Theology,

a PhD in History, and was the inaugural Head of the Depart­ment of

History and Archaeology at the University of Nagaland. He has add­ ressed many forums across the world, including the United Nat­ions. He is the current President of the Overseas Naga Association, an Inter­

national Elder of Initiatives of Change, head­quartered in Caux, Switz­ erland, and is a Board member of the Melbourne Interfaith Centre.

Richard Broome is Emeritus Professor of History at La Trobe University in Melbourne, Australia, and the author of twelve books,

including three on Indigenous Australians, notably Aboriginal Aus­

tralians 4th edition (2010). He is a Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities, a Fellow and vice president of the Royal Historical Society of Victoria, Melbourne, and Patron of the History Teachers’ Association of Victoria.

Visier Meyasetsu Sanyü (left) and Richard Broome June 2015

F OR E WOR D Rajmohan Gandhi It has been my good fortune to have had Visier as a friend, and I feel

honoured to be asked to write a foreword to his story. The borders,

physical as well as cultural and political, that Visier Meyasetsu Sanyü has crossed in his life are numerous.

Visier has been able to cross the border between his own proud

Angami Naga clan, which sees Sakhrie (killed in a jungle in 1956 by fellow Nagas) as its hero, and another Angami Naga clan that

produced the legendary Phizo, who died in exile in London in 1990.

He crossed the border between a Naga world of rites hallowed by

tradition and a Naga world of Christian beliefs and practices. He has managed to traverse pride in the gallant history of his village,

Khonoma, and the trauma at its destruction. He has crossed tribal

borders to understand other Naga groups, including those in India and Myanmar separated by borders drawn on a postcolonial map. He has crossed a border between the gifted Nagas and their talented

neighbours the Mizos, one of whose women, Pari, Visier married.

He has traversed the gap between Nagas and the people of the rest of the Indian subcontinent, many of whom Visier has come to know

extremely well. He has crossed the education divide between a cut-

off mountain village and the world of academia, where he became Professor Visier Sanyü to add to our knowledge. He crossed the large ocean between the landmass that contains South and Southeast Asia

and the even bigger landmass of Australia, where Visier and Pari spent many years raising their three children. Through his friendships

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

there he crossed the border between Indigenous Australians and

non-Indigenous Australians: Visier is an indigenous non-Australian who became a non-indigenous Australian.

And more. One after another, Visier’s challenging border-crossings

come alive in this autobiography. The reader can feel the author’s

emotions at different transitions: pride, wonderment, quandary, anger, forgiveness, grief, hope, despair, longing …. The author recalls these transitions honestly – we get to know his mind and heart. And the scenes around him at successive points are vividly painted.

Many Indians see Nagas as Indian. Many Nagas do not know

think of themselves as Indian. Whether a close link is asserted or denied, knowledge of one another is scanty or close to zero. Those in India or elsewhere who would like to get to know Nagas and their

history cannot do much better than to read Visier’s remarkable, if in places thorn-filled, story.

In a crucial sense, every human in the world is like each of us.

In another equally significant sense, every human in the world is

different from all of us. Visier’s human, universal story is also a

unique odyssey, unlike any other, which is also true of the journey of the Nagas as a people. There is much to be sad about, much to marvel

at, much to be grateful for, and much to learn in this account of his

life, his family, his clan, and his people. May there be many blessings in the story that remains!

Gandhinagar, Gujarat

– viii –

F OR E WOR D Rev. Tim Costello, Chief Advocate, World Vision Australia This is a remarkable story.

Not many people’s lives move from an early childhood hiding with

family from armed forces in the jungles of Nagaland to being on a performance tour across European cities some fifteen years later, to work and residency in Australia while concurrently being made a chief in a tribal Naga village in Burma. But such is the life of Visier Meyasetsu Sanyü.

I met Visier and his lovely wife Pari and their three children when

they were first living in Melbourne. At the time I was a Baptist minister serving in a church-based mission in the centre of my home

city of Melbourne. I remember a welcoming night at ‘Armagh’, the

gracious house in Toorak where they were living and working as part of what was then known as Moral Rearmament, now Initiatives for

Change. It was the first time I had met Nagas, indeed the first time I heard a little of the struggle of the Naga people.

It immediately grabbed my imagination. Nagaland they told me

is a landlocked place, where head-hunters had roamed and in some places one would still see skulls hanging from roof edges. Baptists had

been the prime missionaries and Baptist churches remained strong.

It had years of struggling for independence from India. A year or

two later when I was President of the Baptist Union of Australia I

made a point of seeking to visit this place they had told me about.

It wasn’t easy getting in there! I recall the trouble Visier and Pari’s friend Neichü had to go to, in order to procure a visa for me – with

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

strict Indian military conditions it must be four people in the visiting party. As I left Australia I heard the news that the other three had

pulled out. I expected to be sent home on arrival. But Neichü had talked her way through immigration to meet me and surreptitiously whispered the new strategy lines. The Indian immigration authori­ ties asked if I would be speaking to any groups, and Neichü inter­

jected before I could answer by saying, ‘Absolutely not’! A few days later I was addressing 2,000 Nagas at a church convention that had

pal­pable political tensions in the struggle for independence bubbling up. As we drove around, if an Indian military vehicle was seen, I was

pushed down onto the floor of the car and covered. But the sermons and speeches from me continued every day!

What greeted me on arrival was one of the most breathtakingly

beautiful countries I have ever seen. Here I was in January – in what felt like the top of the world, freezing in the near zero temperatures,

surrounded by spectacular mountains and seeing dense forests no matter where I looked. Wherever I went, I was treated like royalty.

The people were tribal and life was tough, but I was also inspired by

the rigour of intellectual debate as it was translated for me. People really cared about their land, their traditions, politics and history.

I remember being ‘mind-blown’ turning a corner on a mountain­

ous dirt road and seeing ahead of me a magnificent building whose

columns and grandeur looked like my Collins Street Baptist Church in Melbourne. But unlike the Paris end of Collins Street, it was

jutting out from a remote cliff top. It was a Baptist Church I was told, and as I gasped incredulously I asked how on earth did it get there – did it just drop out of heaven? I needed sleep but reluctantly agreed

to be woken for the 4.30am daily prayer meeting. I cringed at the thought because I expected a few elderly faithful praying eternally x

F oreword

long prayers in a language I could not understand. Next morning in

the chilly dark and yawning with jetlag I was taken to the church prayer meeting. It was packed with hundreds of people of all ages expectantly awaiting my visit.

It was on this trip that I saw the first rich tapestried cloak with

gold in it that piqued my interest. It was a cloak given to the person who had given a Feast of Merit for his village. This rich tradition was

explained to me and took my imagination. Fancy living in a culture where wealth could be redistributed in such a way by a wealthy per­

son (by village standards), throwing a feast that liquidated all their assets so that the whole community would benefit. A person would

be honoured for their merit but have to start again from scratch. I

wrote about this some years later in my book Hope. It caught the imagination of my son and his friends who were about to start a

social enterprise restaurant in Melbourne. They called it ‘Feast of Merit’. It was Visier, decked in one of his grandfather’s own Feast of Merit Cloaks, who came to the launch of the restaurant and provided

a Naga blessing for the staff and the many good causes in developing countries the profits would go to support.

So Nagaland has been a source of fascination and inspiration for me

over the years. This story, so well told by Visier and Richard, gives the full picture of what it has meant for him to grow up with Nagaland in

his blood: to survive many threats such as childhood diseases, army insurgencies, civil unrest and yet to emerge as a thoughtful analyser of the political and social currents that coalesce in this corner of East India – in a land that would rather be independent Nagaland.

This book has given me a much better appreciation of the personal

cost of the journey Visier has undertaken: the losses of opportunity

because of the instability in Nagaland, the experience of being a xi

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

refugee in his own homeland, and, most importantly, the constant

depth of his desire to be there on the ground at ‘home’, contributing in some measure to the healing and future of the Naga people.

Visier, my friend, may this book serve you well in spreading the

story and help to achieve your dreams for your homeland. I wish you God’s protection and blessing on your Healing Garden, and hope in God’s magnificent land called Nagaland.

Melbourne, Australia

xii

Cha pte r 1

PR E LU DE: 1956 ‘Visier’, ‘Visier’, ‘Visier, wake up!’ I heard my mother Niditono calling me through my dreams. I roused and remembered: this was a special

day on which I would begin my journey into manhood. Six months later these old certainties were thrown into chaos when the Indian Army invaded our village. As the year 1956 unfolded, traditional life

gave way to calamity and violence, which sixty years later led to the telling of my story in faraway Melbourne.

I went to bed excited on that chilly winter’s night in early 1956.

Weeks of preparation that seemed to last an eternity were finalised.

Tomorrow was a key day in my life as a five-year-old Naga boy. I would perform sekre and be welcomed into the men’s long house, the morung of my clan, with all its rights and responsibilities. As I stirred, the intoxicating smell of fermented soya beans wafted through our

bamboo and thatch house, instantly filling my nostrils. My village of Khonoma in Nagaland was already in motion. Cockerels were

crowing and dogs were barking, anticipating the excitement to come, and the village pigs and cows were already scouring the earthen

paths and filling their stomachs. This was the beginning of the ten-

day Sekrenyi, the Festival of War, the most important celebration of the Naga year, during which a new crop of boys began their odyssey to become men.

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

My father came for me at first light to begin a round of ceremonies

over the coming days, during which the women prepared food and performed their own rituals. We went first to the village well and

washed ourselves in the icy pre-dawn water, chanting ‘I wash all that is unclean and impure in me, and with this cleansing good health

will be upon me’. Entering the world of men, who had been head hunters just a generation or two back, involved a blood sacrifice. My father, Theyievizo, took a chicken on that first morning, wrung its

neck, and when it hung lifeless in his hands he proceeded to pull its intestines out through its anus. I was not alarmed, as we killed our meat regularly for our sustenance. As he did this, my father broke into a chant sung annually from when he was a sekre himself, but rehearsed

in his head many more times than that. He droned: ‘Protect me from my enemies and let me live till I perform this feast again next year. I

pray that I will defeat my enemies in war. My enemy will be drowsy as I attack and pierce his heart with my spear’. My father bid me do the same as I screwed the neck of a chicken into lifelessness. With

some difficulty I managed the task of disembowelling, delving my

hand into the warm lifeless flesh, with pride not revulsion. I then repeated the chant as did my uncles who watched on.

A special breakfast was prepared with the chicken we had sac­

rificed, as well as pork and dog meat. The men drank rice wine and

many were merry by nightfall, but the women only partook of the

smallest sips from their mugs, as it was shameful for them to empty their mugs before evening. Before we ate, I had to carry meat and wine to my maternal uncle for his blessing, and then other relatives. The whole clan exchanged food during Sekrenyi, being bound more

tightly to each other for so doing. Those less well-off ate as well as

anyone during that festive season. Sekrenyi in 1956 was not about 2

P relude: 1956

maintaining the blood sacrifices of headhunting, but rather affirming the power of kinship.

We engaged in ritual that day, and over succeeding days others

were performed, interspersed with food gathering to keep the pots

boiling. All the boys were dressed in new shawls of their clan’s design, and colourful sashes with beads, earrings and little ponytails. After breakfast men of the clan processed outside the village gates

to engage in archery, the work of men whose task it was to provide meat. Months of preparing special reed arrows were now put to the test. A priest mounted a target in the form of a dragon drawn with

charcoal. He took up his bow and before loosening his arrow he chanted: ‘Oh ancestors bless us. This land shall have no famine and no bushfire. We shall have plenty of rice and wine this year and we shall

be victorious in war’. He gave a loud war cry and shot the arrow. All the men exhaled ‘waoooo’. Then the target was peppered with arrows

as the men fired to slay the dragon. The novitiates had little bows and arrows, mine being made by my father. We all tried to hit the dragon, but failed, experiencing the humiliation that lay on the path to victory

as a man. My much practised older brother Niyiehu, who was sixteen, shot the dragon through its eye, as did many other men.

The Sekrenyi became a blur of cooking, visiting, feasting, and all

the while I slept in the morung with the men. Each day the novitiates

rose early to collect wood to keep the all-night fires burning. I recall bringing a large piece one morning, but as the festival continued I became more tired, and one day missed the collection detail. I was

told to eat more meat to build my stamina – to the amusement of the men. I felt humiliated.

Each night as wine was imbibed around a large warming fire, I

heard stories of the Naga, about great ancestors and great deeds. 3

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

These were captured in songs and chants. My brother Niyiehu was

expert at these and was often called on by elders to perform them.

Many were graphic as befitted head-hunters, being about killings,

and how the blood would flow from the enemy’s hearts. As the nights deepened and the novitiates fell asleep, laughter and merriment

was interspersed with arguments about the prowess of this man or that, or this clan or another. Sometimes fights would follow as the

grudges, grievances and resentments of the past year were let loose in

the safety of a ritualised space, the morung. My father and my uncle engaged in shouting matches about things held back for months.

For more than a week Khonoma was a cacophony of noise and

endless bustling activity, as tradition was acted out by kinsfolk through rituals and the consumption of food and rice wine. Our clan

was one of three in our khel, a super-clan group, and there were three khels in our village. Each clan initiated about fifteen or twenty boys

in 1956, so the ten days involved everyone in Khonoma. Morungs

across the village, perhaps ten of them, hummed with chants, shouts and revelry. In 1956, few saw clearly, certainly none of us wide-eyed

boys did, that Sekrenyi was in a death spiral in the face of modernity.

* * * Within weeks of my Sekrenyi our village was gripped by another momentous event, not unrelated to modernity. This time it was not

an event steeped in tradition, but one that rode the shock waves of foreign intervention, which engulfed the Naga ever since the British first invaded Nagaland in the 1830s. Two important men of the

village, who were leading figures in Naga politics and the Naga National Council, fell out. This was not a dispute acted out in the 4

P relude: 1956

Theyiechüthie Sakhrie, General Secretary of the Naga National Council, 1954 and Angami Zapu Phizo, President Naga National Council, while exiled in London, 1985.

confines and protections of tradition, but one rooted in the politics

of Nagaland’s destiny, which is still the question of today. How were

the Naga to live into the future in this age of nations; especially in the presence of heavy-handed Indian domination?

The two men of Khonoma in dispute were my mother’s clansman

Theyiechüthie Sakhrie, General Secretary of the National Naga

Council, and Angami Zapu Phizo, its President. These two giants nurtured the idea of the Naga nation and strengthened the ideology

of the Naga National Council, but fell out over how to achieve Naga independence. They and their followers disputed how the Naga should handle their new colonial problem. Sakhrie and his

supporters sought an independent Naga destiny though gradualism and peaceful negotiations with India over time, while Phizo and his

followers sought independence now, by violence if necessary. Phizo

had supported the Japanese during the Second World War because of impatience; so strong did independence burn within him that he declared Nagaland independence on 14 August 1947. In September 5

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

1954 he established the Free Naga Government, declaring Nagaland a ‘free and independent nation’. This led to military occupation by the Indian Army and a reign of terror on Naga villages. The question of what to do split the village, and other villages as well across the

Naga ‘nation’. Naga unity of purpose fractured and those wanting to

fight and seek immediate and total independence gained the upper

hand. Some began to join the armed resistance and this attracted the attention of the police.

An Assam police unit was stationed in the village. My father,

Theyievizo, felt the full brunt of its force, as he was a kambura or village chief, and thus was responsible for good order. He was sum­ moned by the police and questioned by an officer named Baruah

about his knowledge of nationalist groups and why he had not stopped young men from joining them. Officer Baruah beat my

father with a lathi or police cane. Fortunately, Theyievizo was a tall man of six feet. Baruah, being short, could not beat him about the head very effectively. However, he thrashed his body mercilessly,

causing my father to lose control of his bowels before fainting in

agony. He was found by the caretaker of the old British guesthouse next door. Villagers carried him home covered in welts and bruising,

his faced swollen from blows his hands could not parry. To hide his shame, my mother announced to all within earshot that he had fallen from a tree while hunting for a bird’s nest. Even I did not believe this:

my father, being agile, could not fall! But I did not know the truth for the next fifty years, until my father confessed his humiliation in his old age.

Soon after these disturbances, Sakhrie was found murdered in the

bush. His body was carried into the village, and as a clan member my mother donned her best shawl and sat with him through the 6

P relude: 1956

night. Fear struck the village. People wept and wailed for this political murder was outside tradition. It fractured the villagers and

as a consequence divided the Naga for a generation. However, the immediate outcome was that the Indian Army rushed to end the

disturbances and combat any insurgency. Terror gripped our hearts

and rumours spread that the army’s Sikh Regiment was being sent in. The Sikhs were renowned as the toughest, battle hardened unit of the Indian Army – they would show no mercy.

Calamity was all around. As the Sikh regiment neared the village,

almost 2,000 villagers fled with what they could carry for an un­

certain future. Only one clan stayed behind as its members chose

to negotiate with the Indian Government and opt for autonomy within India. Mayhem split my village asunder. The majority who left watched from a distance as the army fired Khonoma – then they

scattered. Our home village burned for twelve days and was totally consumed.

That is how I – a boy of five – came to live in the jungle for over

two years. But before I tell that story, and what followed, I must

reveal the pertinent history of my country that led to the sorrows

of 1956. My boyhood was ending and I was becoming a man, but I faced this future without a home.

7

Cha pte r 2

L A N D, PE OPL E A N D T H E F IGH T F OR I N DE PE N DE NCE My family and other Naga, forced into the jungle by the Indian Army, entered a dramatic landscape, beautiful, familiar, but also wild. Nagaland is hill country straddling the region where India, China

and Myanmar meet. Myanmar was called Burma before 1989, and the Naga and overseas Burmese still call it Burma, by which name it will be referred to here in this book. To its west is the Indian state of Assam, to the north are the Indian states of Arunachal Pradesh

and Assam, with Tibet and China further north. Myanmar is to the east; Manipur to the south. Currently a state of India, Nagaland and

the rest of North East India is separated from mainland India by Bangladesh, a new nation created in 1972.

The Naga Hills nestle on a high plateau towering from 600 to

1,800 metres, the result of tectonic forces deep below the Earth’s

surface, forcing the Great Himalayan Range ever higher. Mount Saramati (3,841 metres) near the border with Myanmar is the highest

peak. The Naga Hills are covered by dense forests and jungle-like

vegetation, which from a distance look like a sea of deep green. From thousands of metres in a plane the deeply folded land resembles the crinkled bark of an oak or European elm tree, but green. Over 700

years ago the land was cleared for cultivation around the hill top

L and, P eople and the F ight for I ndependence

villages. Terraces cascaded down the hillsides, each yearning for the

planting of the next rice harvest. Since my youth, timber-getting and development in villages have scarred this ancient landscape and reduced its forests to less than half Nagaland’s landmass of about 16,500 square kilometres. Growing towns like Kohima and Dimapur

further scarify the land. Valleys lay squeezed between the hill tops affording easier passage, but much travel through the hills, from village to village, is predictably up and down.

Nagaland’s climate is monsoonal. It is drenched by massive rain­

fall between 2,000 to 2,500 millimetres annually, which largely

falls from May to September. Its summer temperatures can reach 35 degrees Celsius on the plains, and while winter can be bitter

in the hills, the average temperature is 24 degrees Celsius. Such a climate produces tropical and subtropical forests, containing bamboo

and many broad leaved plants that direct the rain to their roots. Streams abound as do alder forests. With such forests it is little wonder that Amur falcons are ubiquitous and the Great Indian Horn­bills are among the most spectacular of the many birds of this

region. The Nagaland state bird is Blyth’s Tragopan, a beautiful

coloured pheasant. With such dense forests, animal life from tigers, elephants and bears to smaller ground animals like porcupines

thrived in former times. Monkeys of all varieties still inhabit the tree canopy and the mithun, the sacred buffalo-like beast of the

Naga, has roamed these forests from ancient times.

Into this lush world came the Naga, probably an ancient westward

migration of people from Indo-China living to the east. However,

some have speculated they might have been related to the people who settled Oceania or the First Nations peoples of the Americas. Once

in the region from ancient times, the Naga fought many wars with 9

The State of Nagaland formed in 1963 showing its relationship with its neighbouring states, with inset showing the wider region. (Drawn by Icon Inc. Melbourne)

L and, P eople and the F ight for I ndependence

the Assamese and the people of Manipur. Naga villagers also raided

other Naga as well, an expression of their fierce localism. Indeed, the Naga’s hilly homeland developed as a society of isolated and auton­o­mous villages, some run by chiefs, others more democratically

by a council of elders. The ‘Naga’, as the people came to be known to themselves and outsiders, developed great cultural and ritual diversity, although all were animist in belief.

By the time of the British incursion in the 1830s, over thirty

languages and many more dialects descended from Tibetan–Burman

languages were spoken, in three large language groups. Over sixty-six

known tribal groups developed to recent times, each speaking several dialects. These languages and dialects were mostly unintelligible to

distant neighbours. Intermittent contact with the West, which occurred in the eighteenth century, finally brought Christianity, the

English language and a need for a common Naga language. The Naga developed a trade language, a pidgin, known as Nagamese.

It developed into the lingua franca of Nagaland. Nagamese became a colourful language, a mixture of Assamese, Naga and English. Today, it is used by over three million Naga living in both Indian and Burmese jurisdictions, to communicate with each other. It is still

developing, with new words for food or common everyday talk being

invented each year. It has the potential to become a poetic, sophisticated and complex language that could translate Shakespeare’s plays. Already movies are made in Nagamese.

The British Government expanded their control of India in the

early nineteenth century and took control of Assam in 1826. The

British first ventured into the dense jungles of the Naga Hills in 1832, where they clashed with Naga warriors. Despite further ex­ peditions, few serious efforts were made to exert control until a road 11

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

was planned from Manipur and Assam to British possessions in Burma. To achieve this, the British Raj had to subdue the tribes in the Naga Hills. In 1851 a British force clashed with Angami warriors

at Khonoma, killing 300 before burning the village. The Angami adopted flintlock weapons, where and when they could purchase them, or fought the British with bow, arrows and the forest blade, dao. The British gradually penetrated Naga territory, despite hard-fought

Naga resistance. Political officers were placed at various villages in what became the Naga Hills District administered from Assam.

The struggle to control the Naga Hills culminated in the Battle of

Khonoma in November 1879, where my forebears the Angami tribe

lived. The decisive battle followed the killing by Khonoma villagers

of G.H. Damant, the political officer of the Naga Hills, along with dozens of his Assamese troops. A British force of ten officers, three

rank-and-file British soldiers, and over 550 Indian infantry and

frontier police from Assam, marched on Khonoma on 22 November

to exact revenge. They hauled two 7-pounder mountain guns. It took them four hours to travel ten kilometres, so steep was the terrain.

The British force surrounded the village and began their assault in

the late morning. Their rocket attack to burn the village failed, and

the infantry were forced to make a frontal assault. However, the steep terracing of the hillside, the three-metre high stone walls and the

narrow paths funnelled the invading force into a narrow front, and they were cut down by withering fire by the Angami. The terracing,

walls and stone fortifications were such that the defenders had a clean field of fire for their arrows and muskets, from rifle slits in the higher

forts. The British and their Indian troops advanced through a third

of the earthworks over the next four hours, by enduring unrelenting fire from the Angami muzzle-loading muskets, and hand to hand 12

L and, P eople and the F ight for I ndependence

fighting – bayonets versus dao. The 7-pounder cannons were brought into the village, but their fire, even at less than fifty metres at the

stone walls of the Naga fortifications, were ineffective. The Angami warriors quickly repaired any damage.

My forebears certainly put up a brave resistance. As the daylight

was fading, the British made a final push, but lost a quarter of the

forward assault force in so doing. At 10.00pm that night, the Naga warriors whooped and yelled, flames engulfed the village, and then silence descended. Next morning the village was deserted: the vil­ lagers had left for higher ground. The Naga reputedly lost over

seventy, while the British force lost twenty dead, including three

officers, with another twenty-four wounded. The villagers were

forced to abandon their rice harvest, the British estimating several thousand large containers were left, promising much hardship for

the Angami in the coming winter. The Naga built a new base higher in the mountains, which the British called Chaka fort. The British never attacked this fort, fearing large British casualties, and soon made peace with the Angami living there.

Brigadier General J.L. Nation, who led the British force, wrote in

his report published in the London Gazette, 27 April 1880, that the assault and capture of Khonoma was ‘one of the most brilliant feats of

arms’ in recent times by British officers. This was, he acknowledged,

because they overcame with valour the ingenuity and strength of

Khonoma’s fortifications. These were built by Angami villagers on traditional lines, but modified to suit rifles, increasingly used in

warfare since contact with the British. Brigadier General Nation lamented that there was no military photographer attached to his unit to record the impressive strength of the Naga fortifications. He

resorted to detailed drawings made by a military engineer after the 13

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

battle. He reported that the Khonoma military engagement was a decisive battle that would pacify the Naga Hills. The Angami were the

strongest, boldest tribe, and no other village in the region matched Khonoma’s defences.

Although skirmishes continued for some months, Brigadier

General Nation’s prediction proved to be the case. Various Naga vil­

lage heads or groups of elders made peace with the British, bring­ing their lands under effective British control. For instance, Pelhu the

Khonoma warrior, developed amity with the British, and allowed

them to establish a military post in the village, but no peace treaty was ever signed. The new colonial control was exerted at the village

level, through indirect rule, and this was in keeping with the tradi­

tional Naga village political unit. This indirect rule allowed the Naga to maintain significant parts of their political and social structures, their cultural practices, and especially their languages. So British col­ onialism for my people was not as destructive as it might have been.

In the late nineteenth century Christianity was slowly introduced

by missionaries, especially American Baptists, and mission schools

began to appear. This brought changes to those Naga who became Christian. Western dress which was thought more modest was

introduced. The drinking of rice wine and dancing were also dis­ couraged. Men were enjoined to have only one wife and to enter

Christian marriages. Many rituals and ceremonies were opposed, such as the Feast of Merit. The young boys were warned not to

attend the morung, the centre of men’s traditions, and of course headhunting was banned. Over time more became Christian, especially

as the Naga began to proselytise themselves. By the time of my early

manhood, 95 per cent of the population were Christian, most of them Baptist. The Naga are now the most Baptist people in the world! 14

L and, P eople and the F ight for I ndependence

But the Naga kept their spirit of fierce resistance alive while

under British colonialism, and with it grew a spirit of independence. The roots of Naga nationalism are to be found in the traditional connections of the Naga people. Despite their strong localism, Naga

had interconnections though tribal affiliations and some federal for­

ma­tions across villages. Traditionally, the Naga had a strong sense of being different from those peoples on the Plains, with whom they

often fought. The British colonial presence also aided the growth of Naga nationalism by forging common resentments. Besides, for

administrative convenience the British termed the Hill people of this region as a whole, ‘Naga’, as did ethnographers who came to study us. This helped to consolidate our common identity as Naga,

alongside of our loyalty to tribe, clan and khel. For instance, my khel is the Merhüma, my clan is Meyasetsu, and my tribe Angami – but

I am also proudly Naga. The colonial presence imposed a common language, English, which allowed an educated mission-school elite to

talk more easily across villages and tribes. Eventually they engaged with Indians about independence.

However, the enrolling of two thousand Naga men as part of a

labour corps for the British Army in France in the First World War

was also decisive in our making as Naga. While on active service overseas, these men developed a greater sense of being Naga. Upon their return they formed a Naga Club in 1918, which was part

servicemen’s association, part nationalist expression to lobby the British Government. While little survives of this club’s activities,

there is little doubt that these men, some of whom were educated, talked politics.

Their activity led to a long line of memoranda issued by Naga

leaders about their rights and sovereignty. Indeed, in their struggle 15

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

for independence, the Naga leaders issued a string of declarations, proclamations, memoranda, and petitions, all closely argued in English and supported by evidence. Their number was sufficient to

match, indeed surpass, most other independence movements in the world. They were sent to the British Government, British politicians,

the Indian Government, the United Nations, and people of influ­ ence: whoever might listen. The plethora of written documents issued

by Naga activists emerged from the Naga’s situation. A small group challenging an empire, indeed two empires in succession, initially had to try talk and moral persuasion. When that failed, an insur­

gency lasting over sixty years emerged. Many of these proclamations happened before my birth. I have drawn on the works of my friends: Abraham Lotha, who wrote The Hornbill Spirit: Nagas Living Their

Nationalism (2015) and Zapuvisie Lhousa’s Strange Country: My

Experience in Naga Nationalism (2015).

In 1919, a new Government of India Act was proclaimed. This

granted limited Indian participation in the government of the British Raj. In 1927, Sir John Simon was commissioned to report on these

administrative arrangements in British India. On 10 January 1929, Simon and his fellow commissioners visited Kohima. The Naga Club

selected one of their educated members, Rüzhükhrie Sekhose, to

draft a memorandum of their views for the commission. In 1975,

Sekhose recalled: ‘It was truly the hand of God that moved my hand to write the memorandum’. Twenty members of the Club signed it on

behalf of seven Naga tribes. Did Sekhose realise that he was creating a foundation document of Naga nationalism and independence?

The memorandum outlines Naga history, including their wars

with the Assamese of the Assam Valley to the north and west, and

also the Manipuri to the south, neither of which it declared had con­ 16

L and, P eople and the F ight for I ndependence

quered the Naga. The British occupation was recent it proclaimed,

and had so far led to few advances in Naga education. The signatories feared that if the Naga were placed in a Reformed Scheme of Gov­ern­ ment with the Assamese, their voice would be lost on any governing

council. Their language and culture were different to these people and they had ‘no social affinities with the Hindus or Mussalmans.

We are looked down upon by one for our “beef ” and the other for our “pork”, and by both, for our want of education, [which] is not

due to any fault of ours’. The signatories feared being taxed heavily and eventually losing their lands. They requested to be left out of the

Reformed Scheme and instead placed under direct British rule and protection. If the British did not want this, they requested not to be under those ‘who could never subjugate us, but to leave us alone to determine ourselves as in ancient times’.

The British ignored this plea for self-determination and incor­

porated the Naga into the Province of Assam. However, in 1937

the Naga Hills District was made an ‘Excluded Area’, that is, it was placed under special protection, like some other underdeveloped

areas of India. As the moves for the Independence of India grew stronger, a British official Sir Robert Reid, Deputy Commissioner

of the Naga Hills District, advised that the area should be kept free of the Hindu–Muslim turmoil, and instead governed as a trust territory, by both a future India and Burma. However, the idea faded,

not least as the Naga did not welcome it – they were dreaming of independence, not trusteeship.

Besides, the Second World War intruded, with the invasion of

the region by Japanese forces from March to July 1944. Many Naga fled to the jungle during this time and suffered much hardship. In

the military campaigns that followed, the British and Indian forces 17

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

won decisive victories over the Japanese at the battles of Kohima and Imphal. In a poll run by the British National Army Museum in 2013,

Kohima was voted as the British Army’s greatest victory, triumph­ ing over the Battle of Waterloo and D Day. The Japanese Imperial

Forces had smashed the British Army in 1942 and driven them from Burma. British India then lay exposed to a Japanese thrust. Lt General William Slim regrouped the British Army and dug into positions along the Imphal Valley. However, a force of 15,000

Japanese soldiers struggled over the Naga Hills and confronted just 1,500 British and Indian troops of the 2nd Division around Kohima.

In desperate fighting, the British with their Indian allies fought

off repeated Japanese assaults aided by Naga support. Most Naga assisted the British with food and labour, their knowledge of country,

and intelligence on Japanese movements. However, some like Phizo saw Britain’s difficulty as the Naga’s opportunity for freedom, and allied themselves with the Japanese. The long Japanese supply lines

failed, forcing their retreat. The campaign from Kohima to Imphal

raged for ten weeks, during which the Allies halted the Japanese thrust, routing the 15th Japanese Army of 85,000 men. The Japanese

lost over 53,000 men dead and missing, while British and Indian casualties were 16,500. The Japanese military expansion in Asia and the thrust into India were stopped!

The Second World War broke the British and French Empires

in Asia, and finalised the Indian push for independence, which

had been building for decades under Mahatma Gandhi and others.

The Naga saw this as their opportunity. The events that followed

occurred before I was born, but they became a part of my own life. I have heard the story of the Naga struggle many, many times from my elders, at family gatherings when older people have talked of the 18

L and, P eople and the F ight for I ndependence

past, and at meetings. I have also read much over the years about the struggle with India that soon followed the Second World War.

In 1945 a tribal council was called by a British administrator to aid

in postwar reconstruction. However, it was quickly reformed by the

Naga at a meeting at Wokha in February 1946. It was renamed the Naga National Council and aimed to further ‘the welfare and social

aspirations of the Naga’. It initially sought local autonomy within the

Province of Assam as a training period to Naga self-government. This aspiration was expressed in a four point memorandum presented to a British Mission in June 1946, which was investigating the transition

to Indian independence. And so began a sustained period of the

issuing of declarations and memorandum advocating Naga indepen­ dence. All were expressed in English and with a deep thoughtfulness and sense of rights.

Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, the President of the Indian National

Congress, replied to the Naga plan for an interim tutelage period,

arguing the British could not hold onto the Naga Hills District once India was independent, as it would be ‘isolated there between

India and China. Inevitably, therefore, this Naga territory must form part of India and of Assam, with which it has developed such close

associations’. Nehru expressed support for the protection of tribal

areas from outside exploitation. However, Nehru’s vision of Naga incorporation into Assam and India, as opposed to a transition into

self-government from Assam, did not sit well with the Naga National

Council. It declared in April 1946 that the Naga refused to be bound by British decisions or the decisions of others.

The Naga National Council proposed a ten-year Guardian Power

agreement with the British administration’s last Governor of Assam, Sir Akbar Hydari. The Council stated that Nagaland belonged to 19

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

the Naga by inalienable right, and the proposed interim government

would be ‘by the Naga people over the Naga people’, controlling local affairs, including power over land, taxation, law and the courts. After

a decade, the Council demanded the Naga should be free ‘to choose any form of Government under which they themselves choose to live’. The Council’s bid for such an agreement failed in the face of

British resistance and furious British preparations to wind up a two hundred-year-old empire in India on 15 August 1947.

A Naga National Council delegation met with Mahatma Gandhi

on 19 July 1947, and presented him with a document signed by its

secretary T. Sakhrie, which stated that ‘Nagas will declare their inde­

pendence on 14 August, 1947’. Gandhi replied, ‘Nagas have every right to be independent. Why wait for 14th August, do declare your independence even today or tomorrow’. On 14 August 1947 tele­ grams were sent out by the Council including to the United Nations,

declaring that the Nagas ‘will be independent’ and do not accept the new Indian Constitution. Shawls were hoisted as nationalist flags in

Naga villages and towns to celebrate. But the Indian Government,

which gained its own independence the next day, was silent. Partly it

was consumed by the breakup of British India into Hindu India and Muslim Pakistan, with all the turmoil and violence surrounding this.

A fallout from the partition of the country was the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi on 30 January 1948, by a Hindu nationalist, who

thought Gandhi was too accommodating of Muslim demands. The Naga lost their best friend in India.

India made no response to Naga moves. For instance, when the

first President of the Republic of India Dr Rajendra Prasad visited Shillong, the capital of Assam, on 27 October 1950, the Naga

National Council issued a statement of sovereignty: claiming that the 20

L and, P eople and the F ight for I ndependence

‘Government of India has to this day maintained a studied silence

on the question of the Naga Independence’. This silence was despite beginning to drill for oil in Nagaland without Naga permission. A meeting with President Prasad was refused, maintaining the silence.

Anxiety mounted among the Naga concerning India’s intentions.

The Naga National Council through its General Secretary, Sakhrie, issued a series of statements about Naga aspirations, some of which were recorded by Verrier Elwin in his book Nagaland (1961). Sakhrie

wrote, no doubt drawing a distinction with India: ‘Truly we are a peculiar people. We are all equals. Men and women have an equal

social status. We have no caste distinctions; no high or low class of people. There is no communal feeling, neither are there religious

differences to disturb our harmony with our conditions. There is no minority problem’. He stressed the ability of the Naga to govern

themselves, and lightly so: ‘We believe in that form of democratic government which permits the rule, not of the majority, but of the

people as a whole. We govern ourselves by a government which does not govern at all’. Above all, the Naga stressed they were a free

people, Sakhrie writing: ‘We talk freely, live freely and often fight

freely too. We have no inhibitions of any kind. Wild? Yes. But free. There is order in this chaos; law in this freedom. If I were to choose a

country, it would be Nagaland, my fair Nagaland – again and again’. The Nagas were anxious that their culture and freedoms would be

compromised under Indian control, a feeling Elwin recorded. The threat of imminent change in the postwar world weighed heavily on

them. Tradition might be attacked as it was under the missionaries; taxation might come to the hills; their land ownership might be

threatened; and the power of traditional leaders eroded. Fears arose too: that beef-eating might be banned under Hindu Indian rule, 21

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

and Indian violence might occur, even against Naga women. These anxieties spread like wildfire. Sakhrie encapsulated the fears of ordinary Naga, writing: ‘villagers had felt a threat to their old way of living, their freedom, their valued traditions, their customary laws,

their land and their very existence. They wanted to preserve their

race, their land, their freedom, and everything that was theirs but began to wonder if, in the changing context of things, it would be possible any more’.

India followed its own nation building, itself fearful of the re-

ligious, racial and cultural divisions within the newly-formed State

of India, which had pulled together diverse territories formerly ruled by Indian princes. It faced pressures from other tribal groups seeking

freedom. Fearing such centrifugal forces, India sought to consolidate its new-found unity. Goa, a Portuguese colony, was quickly

absorbed; Kashmir joined the Union; and the Maharajah of Manipur, adjoin­ing Nagaland, signed an agreement under intimidation, and what observers believed were false promises, ceding his kingdom to India. In 1974 the Himalayan Kingdom of Sikkim was the last re-

gion to be incorporated into Indian empire-building. India, a newly in­dependent nation State itself, faced enormous internal problems, and pressure from Pakistan and China from without. But it was ironic that India, now free from colonialism, was practising it. The Indian

Army moved in to occupy Nagaland. Gandhi might well have been disappointed with the new nation he had championed.

Into this postwar world of the birth of new nations and the

struggles of others to be free, I was born in Khonoma village on 15 Decem­ber, probably in 1950. Later that year A.Z. Phizo became President of the Naga National Council, swearing an oath to uphold

and preserve ‘the Independence and Sovereignty of Nagaland’. He 22

L and, P eople and the F ight for I ndependence

announced a pan-Naga plebiscite to gauge the aspirations of the people. In that poll on 16 May 1951, 99.09 per cent of Naga voted for full Naga sovereignty. The Indian election in 1952 was boycotted by the Naga, not a vote being cast in the whole of Nagaland.

The Indian Government maintained its studied indifference to the

sovereign claims of a people, less than 1 per cent the size of India’s population. Prime Minister Nehru, who visited Kohima on 30 March

1953, was met by 10,000 angry Naga, protesting the continued failure of the Indian Government to listen to or negotiate with the Naga people and their demands. The Indian Government seemed deeply offended by these Naga protests. In a gross over-reaction, the Assam

Police raided the home of the Council’s secretary, T. Sakhrie, in April 1953. Other leaders were targeted and arrested. My village of Khonoma, which was also the home of the Council’s president A.Z. Phizo, was attacked by 200 Indian soldiers, who ransacked homes and beat villagers.

By late 1954, a reign of terror by the Assam Police and the Indian

Army was in full swing. Village Guards, Naga collaborators paid by

the Indian Army to spy and inform on other Naga, also played a role. In November 1954, fifty-seven people from the village of Yimpang

ranging in age from five to ninety-seven, were killed by Indian Army personnel and Village Guards. All of them were decapitated. The

following year, similar violent incidents continued across the Naga

Hills. Villages were repeatedly raided and sometimes burnt, people were beaten and marched to encampments, and women and young

girls were humiliated by cutting their hair, stripping them naked, and then many were raped.

Part of this savagery was due to developments in the political

situation. The Free Naga Government led by Phizo was formed in 23

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

September 1954. The new government communicated the names of its governing elders to the President of India and included a long

exposition of Naga history and the ills perpetrated against it by India. It claimed the ‘Nagas of Free Nagaland had a traditional history of

1700 years as [a] free and independent nation which had never been interrupted … Naga have always been a democratic people’. The

Naga, it stated, even defended their sovereignty against the British. The declaration listed the dates and places of atrocities perpetrated by

the Indian Army, including beatings and torture, rape, killings, the burning of villages and crops, claiming 500 Naga had died to date.

The communique declared: ‘We do not want anything from India … Please LEAVE US ALONE’.

In November 1954 the Free Naga Government also submitted a

detailed report to the United Nations, outlining atrocities per­pe­ trated by the Indian Army, claiming over 2,000 ‘free Naga’ had been killed in the terror. The report claimed to have proof that the Indian

Government planned to subdue the free Naga, annex Nagaland and

force it into the Indian Union. It added, however, that the Nagas

are not Indians, and the two peoples have never mixed due to racial, cultural, language and religious differences. The Naga had tolerated the aggression to this point, hoping the United Nations will take

up our case ‘for the rights of self-existence’, and fearing if they did retaliate ‘the annihilation of our entire nation’. However, in the

face of continued aggression by the Indian Army, the Free Naga Government abandoned non-violence in December 1955, declaring

the Nagas would now defend themselves. An army was formed and training begun.

The year 1956 was a dark one for the Naga. A Naga Constitution

had been approved in January 1956, which led to the formation of 24

L and, P eople and the F ight for I ndependence

a Naga Federal Government in March 1956. A split developed in

the Naga National Council, which created turmoil in the country, but particularly in Khonoma, as the rivals Sakhrie and Phizo were

from our village. In February, Sakhrie, the Council’s secretary, was

abducted by Phizo’s group to be taken to one of its hideouts. The two young and raw recruits of the newly-created body of fighters

for the Naga cause, who were taking him through the forest, could not keep ahead of the search party of the Indian Army pursuing

them. In desperation they executed him to rid themselves of an

enormous responsibility that had been unfairly thrust upon them. The condemnation Sakhrie had received from Phizo underpinned the terrible tragedy. What the two young fighters thought, as they ended the life of one of the pillars of the struggle they had just joined,

is unknown. But surely their desperation must also be part of the narrative of the Naga tragedy.

Besides this calamity, the Indian Army now occupied key parts

of the country, its garrisons backed by the Assam Rifles and those Naga who were Village Guards. The Indian Army rounded up and

killed some Naga leaders in February and March 1956, hanging their bodies in public view in Kohima as a warning to all. In March 1956

fighting broke out between the newly-formed Naga Army and the Indian Army.

The Naga National Council under President Phizo decided to

resist the Indian occupation more actively, and launched an attack on the Indian Army barracks at Kohima on 11 June 1956. Hundreds

of Naga fighters advanced bearing old muzzle-loading muskets or Second World War weapons. These Naga were vastly outmatched by

the Indian Army equipped with modern rifles, mortars and machine

guns. For days the Naga attacked, at times reduced to using nails and 25

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

wire in their muzzle-loaders, once ammunition ran low. They also hurled rocks at the garrison. Many Naga died, but the Indians were

pinned down. Some Naga soldiers left to attack other Indian gar­

risons at Jotsoma, Khonoma and Mezoma, but after heavy fighting in those villages the Naga were forced to flee to the jungle. Eventually

the Indian Army at Kohima was relieved by airborne food drops, and

then by ground reinforcements equipped with light artillery, which

routed the Naga holding siege to Kohima. These guns were directed at surrounding villages as well.

The siege of Kohima was abandoned after twenty days in the

face of Indian reinforcements and after the loss of many lives. Naga

fighters and villagers across the country retreated to the jungle. Over the next twenty years, Naga fighters harried the Indian Army using guerrilla tactics, inflicting heavy causalities. This military struggle is

told in The Naga Saga (2000) by Kaka D. Iralu. In September 1956, A.Z. Phizo took photographs of his beloved Khonoma village, now

in ashes, and slipped into East Pakistan from eastern Nagaland, and

on to London, where he led a government in exile. My family and I, together with people from Khonoma and other villages, were by this time trying to survive in the jungle. The world of a five-year-old boy, newly initiated in Sekrenyi, was in tatters.

26

Cha pte r 3

T H E V I L L AGE WOR L D OF K HONOM A My birth was unexpected. My mother, whose name was Niditono, had thirteen children before me, but seven did not survive. It must

have been hard to lose half of her born children, but such was the way in our village. My mother was a stoical woman. I am the youngest of the surviving seven children – and the last by five years. As Naga women marry in their late teens, my mother would have been in her

forties when I was conceived. In this sense I was a bit of a miracle as well as being unexpected.

Astonishingly, my arrival was foretold in a dream. My mother

was tired and drowsy one spring afternoon from her daily work in the village and from assisting with the spring rice planting. She fell asleep. While she dozed she dreamt that her deceased father came to

her and asked where was her husband? She replied that Theyievizo was in Kohima on business. My grandfather then told her he had

brought his daughter gifts, and handed her a spear and a rooster. When my mother was rousing from her sleep, she looked around her

for these valuable gifts from her father, but they were not to be found.

‘Ah, it was a dream’, she thought. Sometime later Niditono realised she was pregnant and, remembering her dream, declared ‘This is going to be a boy!’ – as spears and roosters are symbols of men.

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

My mother Niditono, daughter of Lhulevo who performed the honoured Feast of Merit five times, with my father, Theyievizo, son of Khriekrulie, kambura of Khonoma village, 1980.

I entered my world of Khonoma on 15 December, almost at mid-

winter. This is certain as it was the anniversary day of a treaty be­

tween two clans, so my family remembered. But the year of my birth is less certain, as my mother was illiterate, my father had a very lim­

it­ed education, and the record-keeping of my traditional village was patchy. However, my family believe the year of my birth was 1950.

I have the great honour of having highly-respected ancestors. My

mother’s father, Lhulevo, the man of the dream, was the only person

in the history of Khonoma who performed the Feast of Merit five times! This feast is much honoured. It is the most amazing display of human generosity and humility, greater than any other act a person

can do. It is also important in maintaining village cohesiveness, as it keeps the balance between families and resources, reinforces reci-

procity, and emphasises honour as the most valuable of possessions. A married man who has become rich with crops and stock, and who

wishes to enhance his reputation, but not his wealth, may wish to undertake the Feast of Merit.

28

T he V illage World of K honoma

The Feast of Merit involves a man killing all his cattle, pigs and

mithuns – the sacred cow of the Nagaland. In effect, he gives up his

most valued portable wealth. These animals provide meat, which is

a great luxury in Naga culture, for the people mostly eat vegetables and fruits, with only sparing amounts of meat. This slaughtered stock

allowed the whole village to feast for days. The man at the same time

distributes other forms of possessions – but not his land – and begins again like the lowliest of his village, sowing crops and building wealth. However, for this sacrifice he is given a special shawl or

house to recognise his honoured status as a Man of Merit. Lhulevo, my maternal grandfather, with five such performances, became the most honoured Khonoma man for generations.

My mother was the only child of Lhulevo’s second marriage. His

children from his first marriage did not survive to late maturity,

so she became his only surviving child. When Lhulevo died on 20 October 1921, he was again the richest man of the village despite his

multiple wealth distributions. So he must have been a clever farmer, and perhaps had much land to help his economic advance. His grave­

stone records he left an estate of 15,000 rupees, 600 of which was

given to Khonoma village, and an equal amount spent to build his grave. At that time, thirty acres of forest land cost fifteen rupees.

His wealth was greater than the entire Naga Hills’ administration annual budget. His land went to my mother’s cousins to enable the

ancestral earth to remain within his clan – for my mother was of a

different clan called Khatetsu. My mother did not inherit his cattle

or his portable wealth when he died, as it was again distributed to the whole village. However, Lhulevo’s wife, Visopiano, gave some land to my mother.

29

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Lhulevo’s passing was a great sorrow for the village. Besides being

such a generous man, he was also a great warrior. Thus when he died he was mourned with great feeling. The villagers gathered, dressed in

their shawls and finest ornaments, wailing and crying, and speaking of the deeds of this great man Lhulevo. The commemoration contin­ ued through the night, the talk of his deeds being broken by wailing

and war cries. The next day he was buried on clan lands outside the village; put to rest in his shawl. He was buried with a live chicken and a basket of rice. His grave was decorated with all his regalia and

dress, and a little fence erected round its border. A dozen cows and pigs were killed and distributed to all the relatives and clan members, each family getting a portion of meat in his memory.

When the British invaded and we fought a war with them for

Khonoma in 1879, both my grandfathers were present and involved in this most dramatic of struggles for our homeland. Lhulevo, my

maternal grandfather, was a young warrior who fought in the battle.

He is reputed to have run down the mountain three times during the

fighting to sever the heads of three British soldiers, bringing them back as a victory trophy – which was the traditional way of the Naga in battle. My paternal grandfather, Khriekrulie, was only a child

at this time, and had not been engaged in the battle. But after the fighting, the British burnt our village, forcing all the villagers to flee into the jungle. With an eye to their survival, and perhaps out of compassion, young Khriekrulie gathered up a chicken as he ran for his life. This was remembered by generations of my family and later

told to me. So my grandfathers along with others from Khonoma were involved in the first beginnings of momentous change for the Naga. They were forced to flee from Khonoma to the jungle in order to survive – as my own family fled seventy-seven years later! 30

T he V illage World of K honoma

The villagers of Khonoma remained in the jungle in 1879 until

Pelhu, the chief warrior of the village, made a peace agreement with

the British the following year. The peacemaking did not solve things for the British as the Naga proved hard to control. The traditional

elders called peyumia resisted British rule. These peyumia were not

chiefs or warriors in the traditional sense, but men who by their own

quality of statesmanship, wisdom and wealth held authority by the approval and respect of the community. Therefore, the British tried

indirect rule instead, as they did in other parts of the British Empire with a warrior culture, such as Africa and the Pacific. They appointed

some peyumia as gaonburra, that is, official village chiefs. My tribe, the Angami, called these big men kambura. Each village had sev­

eral kambura who made decisions. Pelhu, the most powerful and respected man at the peace, was made the first kambura of Khonoma. The British also appointed a dobashi, a village interpreter. The dobashi soon became the judge in the local village courts, deciding all the criminal cases.

My father’s father, Khriekrulie, who had rescued a chicken in

1879, grew to be a man of status and was much respected. He even­

tually became a kambura, the fourth kambura of Khonoma and the

third one in my family. Khriekrulie had local power, but was of course answerable to the British, and enjoined to keep the peace.

This system of local control worked well in the hands of wise men like my grandfather. The kambura generally governed by discussing village affairs and leading the village to a consensus, as he had only

a distant British power to back other ways of ruling. Thus kambura rule was very like that of the traditional peyumia, out of which it had emerged. Some British anthropologists called the system of ruling by consensus the purest form of democracy that ever existed, because 31

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

of how decisions were made. In this way, Khonoma and some other

parts of Nagaland after 1880 became part of the British Raj and in

turn of the British Empire. However, there was never a written treaty

or agreement made with the British, so the Naga always believed they remained independent within the Empire. Indeed, some parts

of Nagaland remained independent during British rule, which the British termed ‘Free Nagas’.

My mother Niditono, Lhulevo’s daughter, shaved her head like

every other Naga girl after reaching puberty, which was a symbol of

her virginity. All young women remained shaven until their mar­riage,

usually from seventeen to nineteen years old. If they failed to marry this was very awkward. It was a bother to keep one’s head shaven

for all time, retaining the symbol of immaturity and spinsterhood

for all to see each and every day. Young women in this predicament often married anyone they could by their mid-twenties. They chose

someone below their family’s status, or an older person, so they could stop shaving their heads. This was called a ‘hair growing marriage’,

suggesting it was one of convenience. Sometimes the marriage of convenience worked, especially if a child was born, but on other occasions the marriage was never consummated. After a time the woman went home to live with her parents and remained ‘single’.

These women were known as kethamia, literally, girls with long hair

who had the status of a woman, if not of a wife. My mother never had to face being kethamia as the marriage system of Khonoma smiled on her.

Young men seriously began the search for a marriage partner

when aged about twenty. They visited many girls in their late teens in the village, many of whom they already knew well as childhood

friends. They consulted with their parents as to whom they liked. 32

T he V illage World of K honoma

The young man’s parents began negotiations through a mediator or match-maker, who was usually an aunt of the young man. In these

discussions girls and their families had the right of refusal. So it was

only a semi-arranged marriage system. But face and honour has to be maintained in these delicate negotiations. If a girl wished to refuse

a proposal, then her parents might make a reply something like this to the mediator: ‘We are so honoured that such a good young man

has come to our house, and we know how respected his family is in

our village. We would never have believed that such an offer of high honour would ever be possible. But our daughter is unworthy even to be asked by this family for her hand in marriage. So unfortunately

at this time we are unable accept your proposal for marriage’. There were a range of other polite excuses to save the face of the boys’ parents – the girl was too young, she was still studying, and so forth.

My mother had several such offers, but she or her parents thought

the suitors inadequate. My father’s father, Khriekrulie, said to my father: ‘You must go for that girl’ and my father agreed. Fortunately

they were of different clans; otherwise the negotiations could not even begin. My mother was Khatetsu and my father Meyasetsu. These two clans were descended from two brothers, Khate and

Meyase. Tsu means grandchildren or descendants, so Meyasetsu means descendants of Meyase.

It was only recently before this time that the priests of Khonoma

decided in the face of the growth of the village population that the two clans could intermarry. But it was a new decision and my parents

were only the fourth such marriage between these two clans. Indeed,

the first inter-clan marriage was barren, leading many to think that the taboo had been abandoned too hastily. But barrenness was not to be the case with my parents. So negotiations of marriage began, 33

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

first through an aunt, and then the families talked directly. A dowry

price was agreed, payable in pigs, rice and also a mithun – the sacred animal of the Naga.

On the night of the wedding my mother’s basket was filled with

her ornaments, gifts, shawls, and a gourd of rice wine. She set off

through the village with a wedding party led by an elderly woman and all the young people of her age group. The young men carried

bamboo torches and shouted ‘Where is the house of Theyievizo? Show us the way to Theyievizo’. On arrival at my father’s house the young men demanded the bride price. ‘We want an elephant for the

bride price of the most beautiful girl of our clan’, they shouted. An

uncle of my father came out to negotiate the bride price. After a

long discussion and some banter, it was symbolically settled with the presentation of a rooster. The leader examined the bird, exclaiming:

‘This rooster is clean and without any blemish so I will accept this as the bride price’. Then he blessed the couple, saying:

This man and this woman have set their fate and their spirits on a path of well-being, love, and strength.

They have turned their faces away from all that is unwholesome and so are in union with this ritual ceremony of blessing.

This woman shall be the preserver and guardian of home and of wealth. This man shall be the fortunate and blessed one – a warrior of courage, fortitude, and strength.

Together you shall reach for that which others cannot reach.

You shall do and achieve that which others may but dream of. Your cattle houses shall be filled to overflowing.

And your harvest fields heavy with rice, and wine from the grain, from season to season unending. 34

T he V illage World of K honoma

May your children multiply like the spiders on land and crabs in the waterways.

May your children fill your home with play and laughter.

May you live to see your many descendants and may you become the elders of the clan.

May your line continue for as long as fire burns true and smoke enfolds the hearth.

Live long and grow rich in wisdom.

All the good things in life belong to you. So may this be.

So may all this come to pass. Newlyweds generally came to the man’s parents’ house to live. They resided under the one roof, working together in the rice fields, and

forming an extended household. This was the case with my parents.

Perhaps my oldest sibling was even born in my paternal grandfather’s

house. But after a short time, perhaps a year, a house was built for my parents and a bit of land allotted to them so they could grow rice and

support themselves. In other families a house and land was allocated to the young couple immediately after the marriage, but in our family it was custom to live for a time with the husband’s parents. And so

over the next twenty years or more my parents had fourteen children, of which I was the last.

My father Theyievizo grew to become kambura just like his father

Khriekrulie. Father was a wise but firm statesman. But sometimes he behaved like a dictator in the family. My brother Niyiehu said

father argued with my mother as if he was in the village court, always legalistic and always winning. My mother never won any argument.

She was meek and mild, spoke very little and rarely argued. She was 35

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

also very kind and never said any harsh words to anybody in her entire life. So my father dominated.

My mother had respect because of her father, the elders calling

her ‘Lhulevo’s daughter’, although she was poor, having received none of his land or wealth. Only one relative disparaged my mother,

taunting: ‘the daughter of Lhulevo is living in poverty’. But mother did not react at all, such was her nature. A curious thing is that I called my mother and my father by the same name, as in Angami both father and mother is apfü. This word is pronounced very dif-

ferently to differentiate father and mother, but on paper they look the same. This is why I have not used the Angami word here, but the English.

The world into which I grew was still very traditional, so I was

nurtured in a cocoon of custom. There were some changes of course, as Baptist missionaries had infiltrated Nagaland, but they had been deported or fled when we declared our independence after the British left in 1947. However, the Word they brought lingered on,

as some Naga became Christian. The Second World War intruded upon Nagaland, the bloody battle of Kohima placing Kohima in

the pantheon of famous battlefields. But after the war, Khonoma village of several thousand people, surrounded by dense jungle ranges

and accessible only by a steep, winding dirt road from Kohima, remained isolated from the world in most respects until 1956.

My childhood was doubly secure. I was favoured as the last child

of my parents, and spoilt by my siblings. My eldest brother Perhicha had already left home to live in Kohima, but he still indulged me

when he was visiting. My sisters Phono and Jakieno, the third and second youngest in the family, spoilt me the most. As I grew, Jakieno, who was five years older than me, treated me like her baby or toy. She 36

T he V illage World of K honoma

helped my mother in my care – bathing, feeding, and dressing me – a thing she did for years to come. I loved all my siblings, but Jakieno and I had a special bond.

Jakieno grew into a graceful girl and young woman. She was beau­

tiful, but in a Western, not a Naga way. She was tall and slim and

had thick lips. Traditionally she would be considered plain or worse, especially because of her thinness. Naga women are supposed to

have thick legs and calves so they can work hard in the fields and the village. So people would say ‘Oh, her leg is so, so slim, so thin, and like a bamboo, not beautiful’. Children used to make fun of her,

calling her ‘thick lips’, and adults would comment ‘Oh, she has got

big lips’. But I know now that in Western society people inject their lips so that they can become bigger, and her tall, slim stature would now be likened to the stature of a model. Despite this untraditional

beauty, Jakieno had an enormous pride in Naga traditions and did so much to instil them in me. Indeed, her full name was Kejayiekieno,

which literally means ‘the one who lives with the greatness of her clan’. But our family called her Jakieno.

So in 1950 I began life in a traditional Naga village, nurtured by

my family and sisters, my clan, which was Meyasetsu, my tribe which

was Angami, and my village community that was divided into three khels or collections of clans.

Our house was a large thatch-house with bamboo walls as befitt­ing

my father as kambura. It had three sizeable rooms. The one furthest

from the entrance was a dark, small room called kinuseku, and was used for making rice wine that was brewed by my mother. This was

an important room, since rice wine was a Naga luxury and essential for guests and festivals. However, I rarely entered that room as it was dark and forbidding.

37

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Adjoining that was a large room with one small window that was

at once kitchen, dining and bedroom. My parents slept in that room

on a bed of wooden planks and bedding made of cotton blankets and many shawls that mother had woven. Phono, Jakieno and I slept

there too, and it was comforting to hear the fire crackle and my parents talking as I drifted to sleep beside my sisters. Our sleeping

area in the corner was warmed by the fire in the kitchen that burned constantly. The older boys, Perhicha, Dozo and Niyiehu lived away

from the family, Perhicha in Kohima, and the other two in the men’s

morung. Nigweno, the oldest daughter, lived in Kohima too, first in a tribal marriage and then as a single woman – kethamia.

We always had plenty of firewood, which was cut before winter

and stored under the veranda. It came from a sustainable alder plan­ ta­tion, some of the trees being hundreds of years old. The trees were made into a pollard, cut back to the trunk about three metres from

the ground every four to six years, encouraging regrowth that was lopped for firewood. A kerosene lamp supplemented the light from the fire. This was important for at night my mother and sisters, like all the women of the village, were constantly weaving Naga shawls

and blankets from cotton traded from other tribes, and also wool and cotton yarn imported from Manipur.

The third room, known as kilo, was huge. There we kept our

chickens, pigs, dogs and our rice, which was stored in large cane

baskets almost two metres tall. In this room we husked the rice and

held family meetings. As children we used to play and hide among the baskets, chickens scurrying as we ran about. Outside this room was an open veranda where we kept the cattle at night and all our farm and hunting equipment. Beyond that was a bamboo fence, which confined the cows, and a small kitchen garden where my 38

T he V illage World of K honoma

mother grew chillies, herbs and pumpkin. A plum tree stood in the corner.

Labour in our village and Naga culture was traditionally divided

into men’s and women’s work, but some tasks like work in the fields

were done by all. My father hunted and fished at some times of the year, and kept hunting and farming equipment, spears, knives, hoes,

wood cutting machetes called dao, and scythes in good repair. He cut firewood and wove baskets. My mother looked after the children,

the house, carried water and wood into the house, wove shawls and made the rice wine that my father drank with the men in the morung.

Mother made all our clothing, sarongs for the women and girls, and shirts and kilts for the men. I always wore a shirt, but before I was five

or six went without pants. I had a shaved head like other children, with a pigtail, and wore earrings and lots of beads. I never wore shoes until I went to school in Kohima.

The sons and sisters in each family followed these gender roles

and dress, as in traditional times. From the age of six when boys were becoming men they helped their fathers. The girls destined for

womanhood learned to weave cloth and do household chores like their mothers. These roles were still mostly followed when I was in

my infancy, but several of my siblings had moved away into Kohima, half a day’s journey away, and things were becoming different in the town where outside influences were stronger.

The main task of the day was of course growing food, especially

rice, which was our staple food and the basis of our wine-making.

Our family had half a dozen rice fields, more than most other fam­i lies. They were scattered around the lands outside the village, which were terraced into the hill below Khonoma. There were hun­

dreds and hundreds of different terraced fields cascading down the 39

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

mountain. It was a view of which I never tired, and I still can see it

now when I close my eyes. It was not only beautiful, but it was my family’s and our village’s wealth and sustenance – our heritage.

The beauty of the rice terraces obscured the hard work that occurred

in those fields. The soil had to be turned over to regenerate, and was manured with our animals’ waste to enrich it. When the rains came in June and July the fields turned to a rich black mud. Then it was

time to transplant the rice seedlings. The act of transplanting is called

tekhuse and both men and women are expert at it. The transplanting

was done swiftly, the barefoot workers, their backs bent low, placing the seedlings into the mud so fast that it looked like a sporting

competition. I can remember them singing while they worked to make it less arduous.

Rice was the main crop, but we also grew potatoes, taro, yam,

soybeans and millet. We planted ‘Job’s tears’ as well, but I do not

know its scientific name. It grows into a tall plant, and produces a big round grain with a taste similar to rice, but different. We mixed it with rice for our own food, made a good wine with it too, and fed it

to the pigs if there was a surplus. We had forest land for these other crops. Most parcels of this land were in areas steeper than our rice areas, which were still steep enough to require terracing for irrigation

purposes. Every family had an alder plantation for firewood, and a

bamboo plantation for building materials, fencing, weapons, baskets, tools, rakes and even to eat the shoots in hard times. The fermented

bamboo shoots that were used for cooking key Naga dishes were made from wild bamboos from the jungle, not from a plantation.

Our family, like other village families, also used forest lands as

jhum on a rotational basis. This ‘slash and burn’ agriculture required

moving from valley to valley, completing a full cycle every four years, 40

T he V illage World of K honoma

allowing the forest to recover and the land to rejuvenate. Jhum also

provided a sort of calendar by which we counted our years. People

would remark: ‘Oh, he was born while we were cultivating that plot of land and we have come again, so he must be four’. Our daily labour was assisted by a cow herder, who each day collected the cattle of a number of families, and took them to the jungle’s outskirts. He was paid in rice and rice wine.

Beyond the jhum and the places where the cow herder moved

our cattle was the jungle. It was so thick that it is difficult to walk

through. But Naga hunters and their dogs managed to break through in pursuit of prey, particularly prized deer or wild mountain goats. There were birds to be caught as well, and occasionally monkey.

But by the 1950s, the tiger had moved far from our village into the deepest part of the jungle where people rarely went.

We lived and planted by the seasons. The rains began in May and

continued to autumn in September, but they were most heavy in the

monsoon season of high summer in June and July. February to April at the end of winter was usually dry, but it rained at any time of the year in the Naga Hills. We always had plenty of water given the constant six months of rain. The village’s wells brimmed and the streams nearby rarely failed. The winters were cold in Nagaland, but

while there is mild snow on the hills, it rarely snowed in the village, despite dropping to below freezing point at night. These weather

patterns still remain today in my home village of Khonoma – one constant in our lives.

Work filled the rhythms of most days, most times of the year, but I

remember my aunt took me to a wedding in Mezoma village, which was the nearest village to Khonoma. She carried me on her back all

the way. It was several hours of walking – up and down the steep 41

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

hills – and I recall looking out over the terrain below. We stayed the

night in Mezoma but I recall nothing of the wedding. At this age

I always accompanied my parents to the fields when they worked. Other children my age were there too, and we played games in the

small streams, wielded sticks as spears, threw rocks at the sky, and dug into the ground. Back in the village, older boys including my

brother Niyiehu played a game with spinning tops and various war

games of course, for the Angami were great warriors in the past. Boys also wrestled. This was a favoured Naga pasttime, which I en­

joyed as a teenager. I participated in these pursuits as best I could at

four or five, played hidey with other children in the neighbourhood, or watched my mother and sisters prepare food. My sisters played a game with beans.

Those who were older began to position themselves for the mating

game in visiting known culturally as thenuhe. Traditionally, boys call

on girls socially of an evening, to talk, sing, joke and flirt together. The girls wove or stitched clothes, while the boys postured and showed off. During festivals and in winter, they might sing and talk

until midnight. During the working months visits were less welcome, but always politely refused with an excuse. On these occasions boys came to the door and asked whether the family was performing any kenyü rituals, when it is taboo to entertain visitors. If the girls were

too tired they sung back ‘yes’ they are performing kenyü and cannot

have visitors. They boys would try another house. After a few houses they eventually were allowed to enter and offered a mug of rice wine. The boys would then show off by telling stories of their adventures,

not battles as of old, but hunts for animals or their travels to the

neighbouring kingdoms of Manipur or Assam. They might even joke about how they were cheated by these cunning Tephrimia – Indians. 42

T he V illage World of K honoma

Thekranyi Festival in Khonoma, 1977.

The festival of Sekrenyi, the making of men, I have already de-

scribed, but there were many other festivals throughout the year. Thekranyi is the festival before the monsoon to start the rice-planting

season. It is a minor festival with less rice wine being drunk and

without the killing of animals, but is has important spiritual significance. If the coming crops fail there will be famine. The best regalia

is worn and the participants walk around the village in lines, singing and dancing. One song is always Uthiu, our ancestor. In the evening they sit around the fire and sing throughout the night. Girls are honoured with their own ceremony in which they cover their heads, eat separately and are served a special fish and crab dish, called ‘frog’s

dinner’. In August the festival of Chadanyi involves clearing and cleaning the paths to the fields.

Terhünyi, the harvest festival occurred in early December and

lasted for ten days due to its importance. If the harvest had been

propitious it was time for great celebration. If it had been a hard year, whatever was harvested was also cause to give thanks. Preparations

would be made for weeks to prepare the food, and ensure one’s 43

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

regalia was in good condition. Elders planned the ritual and made sure all knew their parts. Over the ten days everyone dressed in

their full traditional regalia, and body ornamentation. Much food

was consumed and of course rice wine. There were also wrestling competitions during the festival.

I can remember vividly the traditional ritual clothing, the regalia

and jewellery worn on these special occasions. Everyone donned traditional Naga shawls made of cotton and other plant fibres, dyed

brilliant black, blue, red and white and woven into vibrant geometrical

patterns, which danced off the shawl. Designs were local to each clan. The men and women wore glowing headdresses of plaited coloured

fibres, feathers, and dyed goat’s wool, with bone or shell attachments. All had earrings that were made of shell, bone or brass suspended

from pierced ears and dangling long designs of dyed seeds and goat’s hair. Bodies were decked with seed necklaces dyed many colours,

armlets made of multiple rings of woven and dyed cane, and belts and

breastplates made of the same material, some with brass buckles or designs. The men wore leggings made of orchid leaves and feathers.

Ritual leaders had elaborate headdresses of bone surrounded by bril­

liant feathers and dyed wools. The dominant colour was red, dyed

from the bark of a native plant. Some villages celebrated by vigorous dancing, swaying on nimble feet, but our villagers danced more

slowly, but intensely. I can still recall images of these things in my mind.

But by the time I was five I was living in a transition time. On

the one hand, I had just gone through Sekrenyi, the ancient ritual of

becoming a warrior and a head-hunter, and being a traditional male

of the morung. It was the experience I remember most of my years before five. But on the other hand, I was to start school, which since 44

T he V illage World of K honoma

British control had Western and Christian elements. All my brothers had gone to school. Perhicha and Dozo were studying at Kohima

High School, and my brother Niyiehu was in Grade 6 in the Khonoma village school. It was taken for granted that I would go too, but not my three sisters. My father, in the customary way, decided that girls don’t go to school, at least in our family. The only girls who did attend school were from the few Christian families in the village.

I entered school in January 1956. My brothers, who knew all about

school, organised a bag, a new long shirt and Niyiehu said ‘You must

take one rupee for registration’. So off I went on my first day to the

Khonoma mission school, wearing my new shirt, my shaved head and pigtail, and my best Naga beads and earrings. I felt proud of how

I looked. But there was one problem, which I did not realise at the time – I still did not have pants.

I was enrolled in the primary class with about twenty or so other

boys and girls of my age, but mostly boys, and left there by Niyiehu.

I found that a few of my neighbourhood friends were also there. In

the playground I also met, and soon made a very good friend of, a boy from the neighbourhood named Viu. He was a little older, so had been in school for two years. Later in life he became a doctor as he was very smart. He guided me through those early weeks at school. I

remember reciting numbers and singing, but little else than singing in those first days.

But I soon learned of my great deficiency, and for the first time

I who was the apple of my sisters’ eye felt humiliation. Those of us who were not Christian did not wear pants, we were all naked below

the waist, having no pants and no shoes. The boys from Christian families all wore pants because of strict Baptist morality. I soon

believed too that Christians were always a little neater, their houses 45

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

a little cleaner, and their parents were a little smarter. The Christians were distinctive and to be emulated.

One day, one of the older Christian boys pinched my penis, laughed

and asked ‘Is this a little caterpillar hanging there?’ I went home and in great distress told my brother. He replied ‘Okay, we’ll make

pants’. During the war in 1944 the Japanese came to our village, and my father as the kambura had to feed them, and then, when the

British defeated them in the battle of Kohima, my father and the

village had to feed them as well. One British officer gave his coat to my father, a thick woollen military coat. But as my father never

wore Western clothes in those days, it remained in the house unused, except occasionally as a play thing by my older brothers. So my

brother Perhicha cut this woollen coat and stitched it into pants for me! They were very itchy and scratchy as I did not have underpants –

but now I was like everyone else in the mission school class. Dozo, my second eldest brother from Kohima, who knew much of the world, brought some comic books with colour pictures, and said ‘Take these to school’. Everybody at school wanted to look at them,

ex­c laim­ing ‘Oh, there’s some photos, there’s some pictures’, so I became popular.

However, my schooling and my newfound acceptance by the other

boys was brief. The killing of Sakhrie and invasion by the Indian

Army forced us to flee. It would be another three years before my education resumed in a rapidly changing Naga world.

46

Cha pte r 4

F L IGH T T O T H E J U NGL E When the Naga Army attacked the Indian garrison at Kohima in

June 1956, violence spread very quickly as the Indian Army sent in re­ inforce­ments and led a general attack on Naga villages in the region.

Many people secretly prepared to leave our village. Over a series of

nights people slipped away in family groups – but only members of two khels, Merhüma and Semoma. Before they left, family heirlooms

and possessions that could not be carried were secretly buried. This added to their sorrow as precious household and ritual items were

abandoned and their survival left to chance. On a night in June 1956,

our family of nine: my mother and father, three brothers and three sisters and I, slipped into the darkness. Most members of the third khel, Thevoma, who supported autonomy within India, stayed there under the protection of the Indian Army, but a few joined us. Indeed, some Thevoma joined the Village Guard set up by the Indian mili-

tary and fought against their own people. This was a time of great village upheaval, bitterness and division.

My father took his gun – loaded of course – for we were in great

fear of discovery. Others carried spears and axes. Most of us lugged baskets brimming with food and essential clothing, and any precious items such as jewellery. My mother took coins loaded in a belt. We

all wore our Angami tribal shawls about our shoulders to keep us

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

warm. As I was just five, my eldest brother Perhicha, then in his

twenties, carried me wrapped in a Naga shawl slung over his back

like a rucksack. We left the village walking past our rice fields in the dark, then we climbed and climbed to put some distance between us

and Khonoma. I dozed in my sling, bumping against my brother’s

back. A sharp pain caused me to cry out as a nettle bush scraped my legs, causing one of my family to gag my mouth to avoid detection.

For all of us it was an emotional time, although being five I had

no real sense of what was happening. Yet now that I understand,

I become emotional just remembering this leaving of home. Since

then, separation from my home has been a constant feature of my

life. Even the more knowing and older ones in the family were at the time in the fog of the present, unaware of how long the separation from home might be. As it turned out, our time as Nhanumia – jungle

folk – lasted over two years, while some families spent many more years in the jungle.

Over several nights 2,000 fellow villagers crept out of Khonoma

and camped in small groups not too distant from our village. We felt quite safe in the embrace of the jungle as the Indian Army was ignor­

ant of our jungle terrain. Besides, our ancestors’ reputation of being head hunters, and the reality of members of the Naga Army being

active in the area, made the Indian soldiers wary of following us at this time. However, in these first days of exile, we saw our village burnt by the Indian Army. The fires burnt and smouldered over many days, causing utter desolation for my family and other villagers.

In the first months of our exodus we stayed at no great distance

from home and crept back into the area at night, mostly to take food from our gardens and rice from our terraced lands. No doubt it was also the pull of home that kept us close. The terraces lay below the 48

F light to the J ungle

village and the midnight harvesters had to act with great stealth, searching for crops in the moonlit earth. Once the Indian Army realised what was happening, they patrolled the rice fields at night,

and some villagers were shot. The Nhanumia then brought guns to

defend themselves and this led to gun-fights over the food. But as the

gardens and crops were stripped, and the Indian Army became more active in our pursuit, we moved further afield.

First we moved south-east to the area of the Dzuku Valley. This

valley is covered in bamboo reeds and from a distance it looks like an English lawn. However, it is very cold in the winter and the streams

that feed the reed beds become frozen. There are village stories of hunters in this valley getting lost. Chükheu, the god of wild animals,

protects them by confusing hunters or making their efforts in vain.

Some hunters claim to have glimpsed Chükheu, but he always van­ ished before a second look. The valley’s bird life was abundant, in­

clud­ing the national bird Blyth’s Tragopan, a grey-bellied pheasant. There were also bears, tigers and other animals. We lived in a bamboo hut built by my fathers and brothers, while my grandmother, uncle

and aunt lived close by in a cave. We realised we were vulnerable if we stayed in the one place, so we moved. Increasingly we split into smaller groups of several closely-related families, or even broke into the one extended family.

Movement became the template of our lives in the jungle. We

moved to gather food, to avoid detection, and because of fear of Naga spies informing of our whereabouts. Each new journey was through the jungle. The terrain was often impenetrable, even at times

to animals, being thick with bamboo in parts to the point of despair for any traveller. And yet there was a rare beauty about this jungle

that lingers with me still. Over several years we travelled to more 49

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

than twenty sites where we camped. We gave tags to each place and

my mother constantly challenged me to remember the name of each camp in correct succession. I could recite them much to my pride, but

now the years have wiped away most of my memory of those names. One in a valley was called Dzuku, meaning ‘cool waters’ and another was Tsucha, meaning ‘road of elephants’.

We moved according to the seasons, avoiding the mountains once

the weather turned cold and snow fell. But my homeland is mostly

around 2,000 metres, so the nights were cold everywhere, requiring a

camp site with wood and protection from the elements. At each place we made a shelter upon arrival, usually a thatched wind and water­ proof shack, constructed from branches, fronds and sedges. Some­ times we camped in caves that promised warmth and seclusion. We

chose places where we thought food might be plentiful and the Indian Army distant. However, spotter planes were active. If one came too close, we surmised our camp fire smoke had been seen, so we were

forced to move. At one camp we awoke to hear firing in the middle of

the night and fled into the jungle, running until we were exhausted.

We then hid in the jungle till daylight. My brother was sent to see if our camp had been destroyed. He returned relieved and chuckling

with the news that the noise had been bamboo crackling in a bushfire. On one occasion we found what looked like an ideal site. It had

rocks for shelter, a good water source nearby, and plenty of trees

for firewood and cover. Our family laboured all day to construct a bamboo frame, which we thatched with leaves and fronds. We

also made an enclosed area for our chickens, which provided eggs and meat at little risk to us. If they made a noise it sounded like jungle fowl, so we thought we were safe keeping them. As nightfall approached my sisters wearily began to prepare an evening meal as us 50

F light to the J ungle

brothers made a fire. My mother rested, then slept and dreamed. She

was visited by a long dead aunt in her dream, who issued a warning:

‘Leave this place, for this is not clean. Some stones are unclean; they are inhabited by evil spirits. You must leave’. My mother woke in alarm and told us all about the dream, exclaiming ‘We must leave now’. My father protested that it was almost nightfall and we had only just arrived at this fruitful place. But my mother insisted.

Backed by the power of belief in premonitions, we reluctantly

packed everything then and there, and trudged into the night, resting only when some distance had been travelled from this camp. Our night was far from comfortable as we huddle together for warmth

until dawn. The next day we began anew the search for a sheltered and safe camp site. Months later we learnt that the Indian Army

discovered that place of the dream shortly after we departed. Our mother and our faith in tradition saved us!

The Naga had always hunted and we did too. But the Naga had

crops as well, which provided a consistent and sustaining food source to supplement any hunting. However, once our crops were harvested secretly at night we were forced to buy supplemental food – rice, fish,

salt, vegetables – while our precious coins lasted, and only if we were

in proximity to a village where we could make purchases in safety. Our funds dwindled as the months went by, and prices rose in these

troubled times of skirmishes between the Naga and Indian armies.

During this period the cost of a kilo of salt increased eight-fold. Increasingly we had to win all our food by our own traditional skills. Sometimes the food search went well. The jungle was very thick

with tall trees and dense with wild undergrowth and flowers, which

made it very beautiful and at times productive. For most of the day the adults searched for food, foraging for mushrooms, jungle fruits 51

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

and vegetables, insects, bush rats and little fish they caught in the

streams. A small stream would be dammed and redirected with the whole family active in the diversion. Then little fish and crustaceans could be plucked from the fast-drying creek bed.

There were myriads of birds everywhere in this wonderland of

foliage, and we awoke every morning to a cacophony of bird song.

They were beautiful and also worth eating. At one camp site by a briny water hole, my father set a bird trap with glue known as ketsa.

It was made from the skins of a jungle fruit that was ground and pulverised in a pestle and turned into glue-like paste. When applied

to small sticks near the water, on which birds perched to drink, they stuck fast. Every morning we set the trap with ketsa and caught a few

birds that had come to drink. For a month we had birds for lunch every day until we had to move into higher regions. We used ketsa successfully in many other places. At one stream many traps were set

by a few families and over a hundred birds of all sizes were caught, which were divided between all the families. I was so proud when I returned to our camp with my share of birds.

But we always seemed to be hungry, as our days were active and

the foodstuffs meagre. We tried to hunt larger animals, of which

there were many in the jungle. We saw monkeys, deer and a few tigers, but most of the time we came across smaller jungle cats of various colours. They all have different names in our language, but I can remember only the generic term tenya. We ate any animals that we could kill. But it was not easy to catch wild animals without

expert trapping skills, which few of us had. We possessed a gun, but rarely used it, fearing detection by the Indian Army.

Sometimes we pooled food with other families. On one occasion

a man shot a deer and we all feasted on roasted venison. But I was 52

F light to the J ungle

without rice to go with the meat so the hunter declared: ‘You can have my rice, for I am full’. Of course he was not full, but he passed his rice to me – the youngest in the group. I eagerly accepted his

claim of being replete. The Nhanumia could be magnanimous to each

other in these dark days. But deer were rare and our jungle diet, while sometimes nutritious, was mostly inadequate. Over the months we all lost condition under the rigours of a moving, outdoor life, with little shelter from the elements.

Indeed, people became more desperate in their hunger, and desper­

ation threatened existing values. Theft of food occurred, whereas in

past times it rarely happened, as food was usually in good supply. Occasionally the Nhanumia planted gardens in the jungle with pumpkins, potatoes and herbs as they journeyed through the forest, hoping

to create a future food source. If another group stumbled across these

gardens when in yield, they were confronted with a dilemma, and in

many cases they helped themselves. My brother Dozo, who began to dig for vegetables in one discovered patch, was challenged by some

Christian Naga. It was wrong to steal they declared, but he replied as he kept digging, ‘We are not stealing! We are surviving!’ Some days later the Christians tucked into the ‘stolen’ food when they also ran

short. My brother who at that stage had little time for Christians, being a traditional man, chortled, ‘They don’t steal, but they eat what others steal’. Another woman who put on airs, even in the jungle, was also

lampooned by my brother who hated hypocrisy. This woman insisted

she always ate her meal with a mug of rice wine, but as supplies grew

short, she gladly went without, to the delight of my brother. ‘Oh you can’t have your meal without your wine’, he teased!

Naga tradition itself was challenged by our plight. After one food

search, in which my father ran the risk of using his gun, he returned 53

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

with two monkeys he had shot. It was custom for monkey only to be

cooked outside the house on the veranda, by men, and in a different pot to other cooking. Also, by custom monkey was eaten only by

men. So my sisters and mother it seemed would miss out. My brother

Perhicha, who had already attended church before coming into the jungle, much to my father’s disapproval, declared: ‘Let’s all eat the

monkey. When we go back to the village one day, sooner or later we

are going to be Christians and this taboo will change’. So, urged on by hunger, the women of our family enjoyed the monkey meat, and the traditional ideas of my parents were questioned.

However, the compromise of tradition was not always easy. Naga

people, although meat eaters, cannot eat all meats, because of taboos

as we have seen. They are also enjoined never to leave a hunted animal

in pain, and must prevent any wounded quarry from escaping. On one occasion a hungry Nhanumia tried to hunt a python, itself a taboo

item for some. He failed, and it escaped wounded into a hole where it died. Thereafter, this man had frequent nightmares about being attacked by the spirit of the python, crying out in the camp, ‘It’s

wrapping me and strangling me!’ His family later became Christian in an attempt to escape the python’s spirit. Others converted in the jungle in the hope of calling on greater help and power to survive the conditions in which they were trapped.

Other village rituals and traditions suffered because of the jungle

nightmare. There were few or no traditional symbols or clothing to

wear as they had been left buried in the village; there was no large

number of people in one place to enact ritual; and there was no time to do so in the feverish search for food each day. We were a group of

village farmers, who occasionally hunted, trying to survive as fulltime hunters and gatherers.

54

F light to the J ungle

Even the important Sekrenyi, the festival that had begun my jour-

ney to manhood just a few months before the burning of our village, was compromised. For the celebration of Sekrenyi everyone had to

return to the village, but that was now impossible. It was also impossible to perform it in the jungle. People were scattered across the forest in small groups, we had insufficient food to sustain a large

group for ten days, and no place to do so without being detected. The morung or male dormitory did not exist to conduct men’s business;

there was no rice wine to toast the novitiates; and no field for an archery competition. The ceremony lapsed during those jungle years,

and our hopes of reviving it and other traditions once we returned home were uncertain. Change was afoot. Christianity was making inroads as people clutched at new ideas to save them from starvation in the jungle and attacks by the Indian Army.

Fear gripped many. Despite the Naga knowing the jungle, we had

never lived in it for extended periods. My parents and other adults were in constant worry and concern as they were responsible for their

families. Not only was food scarce, but dangers lurked as there were wild animals in the jungle: big cats, pythons, poisonous insects and

spiders. One day I disturbed a hornets’ nest and I was stung many times, causing my face to swell dangerously, until the juice from bamboo shoots reduced the swelling. Another day, a large tiger passed by our camp and stopped, silently looking at us. Our father told us to be

silent and freeze. We just looked at each other for what seemed a long time and then it left, melting back into the dense foliage from whence

it came. The tiger obviously was not hungry, otherwise it would have rushed at us or stalked us later. It was a wondrous moment, later re-

called vividly by me after reading William Blake’s poem ‘The Tyger’. But at the time we were absolutely terrified, not astonished. 55

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

My parents had a more specific worry, prompted by the constant

likelihood of contact with the Indian Army or the Village Guards.

My elder brothers Perhicha and Dozo joined the Naga Army and were thus in great danger. Perhicha, educated to Year 10 in a mission

school and tall for a Naga at six foot (183 cm), was made a captain.

He was in charge of a group of five fully-armed Naga soldiers. One day Perhicha visited our camp with his fighting group. They hunted

for us the next day and killed a gaur, a massive wild ox, Bibos gaurus,

known to the Nagas as mithun. Our camp feasted on meat for a

few days. Perhicha then travelled to East Pakistan for training. We thought he was still there, but he had returned and was arrested in Assam and imprisoned in Imphal for more than a year.

Dozo joined a different armed group. Some months later news

came that Dozo’s group had been attacked by the Indian Army. Most

escaped, but there were no reports of Dozo. My mother was frantic with worry, asking any Nhanumia she met: ‘Have you seen Dozo, have you seen him?’ In the end she consulted a traditional clever

man. The shaman listened, took a leaf, and cut some reeds. He then

declared: ‘Dozo is alive! He survived the attack and is not in danger – but he is not well’. The last part of the consultation did not cheer my

mother, who remained in high anxiety until Dozo appeared several months later. He related how he escaped during the skirmish, but became separated from the main group of Naga soldiers. He reached a village, only to be struck down by malaria.

As the months in the jungle dragged on, desperation mounted as

many people began to die of starvation or illness. Our family faced

a black time when my sister Phono became ill with pneumonia and

other complications. Her hair fell out and she lost her sight. She was dangerously ill and I recall the family trying to keep her warm with 56

F light to the J ungle

blankets, interleaved with banana fronds, with a Naga shawl on top.

My parents wondered how they could possibly conduct funeral rituals in the jungle. My sixteen-year-old brother Niyiehu, who was a good

hunter, went in search of jungle rats. These are different from village

rats, being bigger with white chests, and had more meat, much like a rabbit. Niyiehu found and dug out a nest, killed some rats, and trium-

phantly brought some home. My mother made soup, and after Phono supped on this for several days, she improved. Eventually when the cri-

sis passed Phono opened her eyes and exclaimed: ‘I can see you! I can see!’ It was wondrous. Niyiehu had saved Phono without medication.

On one occasion when food became very scarce and we were

facing great hunger, a group including my uncle Vilarhito and aunt Azo Riano walked for some days to buy rice from the village of Tsiekwuma. Unfortunately, an informer warned the Indian Army of their arrival. Three women were killed by Indian soldiers in the

subsequent ambush. Auntie, who is now a hundred years old, told me

recently that their names were: Atubu-ű, Bei-ű and Neilehu-ű. Some men were captured as well and executed by firing squad. Aunt Riano and my uncle Vilarhito escaped into the dense jungle with others during the mayhem.

My oldest sister Nigweno was very angry at these events and des-

perate to leave the jungle. Nigweno had been living out of the village in Kohima when the violence erupted. She had plans for the future but my family had convinced her to flee with them to the jungle.

She hated the rough conditions, and resented the pressure to join the family. When Phono became ill it was the last straw for Nigweno.

She defied my father and snuck away from the family and returned

to Kohima. The town was far more comfortable, but not much safer, as there were frequent shootings in the streets. 57

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

One particularly notable example of the violence even in the towns

and villages was the killing of Dr Haralu, the first Naga doctor. He was a peaceful man and did not get involved in Naga politics or the

Nationalist movement. However, one day he was out walking and

was shot dead by soldiers from a detachment of the Indian Army.

The detachment was returning from a jungle operation in which they lost some men, and they simply sought retribution on the first Naga person they met. This atrocity turned many moderate Naga people to

support the Nationalists, for they realised no-one was safe from the Indian Army.

Younger children, such as my ten-year-old sister Jakieno and I, had

a different perspective on the jungle. The early period was at times fun. There was no school and our days were filled with leisure. This

included foraging or catching little fish in the stream and cooking

them over the fire, which seemed like play. We slept in makeshift camps, huddling and shivering under our shawls on bitter nights, but

in milder weather we slumbered under a canopy of trees that filtered the starlight. At times other children joined our games. It was an

adventure for us young ones, generally oblivious to the realities and

dangers around us. But as the months and years dragged on, life became harder even for children. Our clothes wore out, leaving us

only with our Naga shawls for protection. Some of us sickened. I developed beri beri, a vitamin B1 deficiency, which leads to weakness and swelling of the body. And I ended up with malaria as well.

If we ever felt bleak we cheered each other with dreams of what

might be in our lives after the jungle. My sisters would say ‘When you leave the jungle and get an education, you can fly in an aeroplane,

you can dig oil and become rich’. As Jakieno was washing me and

rubbing me with a rag, she would say: ‘One day you are going to 58

F light to the J ungle

Jakieno (full name Kejayiekieno) Chase (nee Sanyü) on the left with a friend, photographed in Kohima 1966, eight years after our jungle experience.

get an education, and you can then buy a towel. People who’ve been educated, rich people, use towels. One day, if you have education,

you’ll maybe have a car’. As I had never ridden in one, that thought inspired me. They would cheer themselves as well, saying life will

be better back in the village. They also developed a new attitude, declaring: ‘When we were in the village, we used to complain about

our curry not being good enough, or there’s not enough meat. Now, when we go back, we won’t complain about anything, whatever we get we will rejoice, and we will enjoy it’.

But others could not dream of better things. Some village groups

lost 50 per cent of the population in these troubled times. Some died through violence, but as the second year turned over to the third,

more people died from sickness and hunger. Something had to happen

to end this spiral of endless movement from camp to camp, pursued by the Indian Army.

That something was the intervention of the Deputy Commissioner

of the Naga Hills – Rashid Yusuf Ali. He was the son of Abdullah Yusuf Ali, one of the great Muslim scholars of the early twentieth 59

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

century, whose translation of the Koran became the version officially

endorsed by the Pakistan Government. Abdullah Yusuf Ali was

educated in Britain and married an English woman, who gave birth

to a son, Rashid. Rashid became a major in the British Army in the Second World War, a colonel in the Indian Army, and then he joined

the North Eastern Frontier Administrative Service. In 1957 he

was Deputy Commissioner of Nagaland, later retiring as the Chief

Secretary of the state of Arunachal Pradesh. Rashid already knew of the Naga before joining the administrative service there. He had met the Naga leader Phizo during the Second World War, who was in jail

for sympathising with the Japanese advance into Burma, deeming them the Naga’s ‘saviours’ from British imperialism. By chance,

Rashid also married one of Phizo’s nieces. Thus he had knowledge of and some empathy with the Naga.

But what caused his intervention in 1958 was the condition of the

Naga living in the jungle camps. He met with some and was appalled

at their emaciated condition, the death toll and the atrocities they

experienced at the hands of the Indian Army. Rashid told me much

later, when in his nineties, that he realised the army was burning villages, raping women, and killing people in large numbers. Rashid who was appalled, confronted Army officers with their deeds, and instituted a peace. The Naga called it an ‘Amnesty’, although Rashid

in his old age did not recall any formal document being signed. The understanding allowed many Naga to return home. Others chose

to stay under hard jungle conditions and continue to fight for years – some to the present day. Rashid sent a message to my father as Kambura and others, to come and be resettled back home. So in

mid-1958 after two years in the jungle our family headed back to Khonoma, to what became a journey of change! 60

F light to the J ungle

The jungle experience was a defining one – and also a dividing

one. At first people did not talk about it. It was too traumatic and so the pain was buried. But now people want to remember. I have even

been back with my son Kevisato to a cave we used to inhabit that has been recently rediscovered buried deep in a bamboo forest. It has

been cleared and acts as a shrine to the jungle years and the suffering there. Those who were there are now called Nhanumia. Folklore has grown up about survival. Of course there are stories too about who

did not survive, and how they died and where they now lay. So it is a story of courage, of survival, of love, of hate, of bitterness, and of

how we fought for our land and our independence. Those that did not go into the jungle are forever divided from those who did, and

they cannot share deeply in the memories of the jungle or the legends about it, as it is outside their experience.

A curious fact is that often the Nhanumia joke and laugh when

telling of their hardships and sufferings in the jungle, which I find bizarre. I have since spoken with the Karen of Burma, who also lived

in the jungle after the Burmese Army burnt their villages, and they tell their stories with great pain and sadness. So do other refugees I have met. Recently I talked to one Naga man who is older than

me and who remembers more about the jungle experience. He told me how his family ran out of rice. So he put the last rice and some vegetables they had collected on a plate, and they looked at the plate

as long as possible, knowing there was nothing for the next meal. But

he was laughing as he told me as if it was a big joke. Why do they do this? Are the Naga so stoical? Or is it still too traumatic – so by joking about it they dismiss its reality?

But they do cry when talking about the experience of others dur­

ing those years in the jungle: the torture, rape and killing of their 61

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

loved ones. And Phono my sister remembered through tears her sick­

ness, her banana leaf blanket and the rat soup. She also bemoaned her loss of education while in the jungle. But out of this trauma and

deep suffer­ing of the jungle years also grew love and compassion, and an under­standing of the sufferings of humanity.

I too used to joke about the jungle when I was young. But as I

grew I realised that my two years there reshaped the way I thought

and lived, and my philosophy of life. In fact it changed all our lives.

Before we went to the jungle, tradition as I explained meant boys were educated in school but girls were not. My sisters were destined

to shave their heads in the teenage years and be married between the

age of seventeen and nineteen. But at the end of the jungle experience, Perhicha and Dozo declared to our father: ‘Phono and Jakieno must go to school!’

The jungle changed our world view too. It was like a chapter from

a novel or a Hollywood melodrama, seemingly unreal, yet it was

true and had enormous consequences. Traditions were altered and

taboos were broken out of desperation. In starvation we looked at the world from a different perspective. Circumstances changed, the

food changed, the belief system changed, a lot of superstitions melted away. Women ate monkey meat!

The jungle is still very vivid in my memory. I often wonder how we

were able to survive. How did we manage to avoid the Indian Army, find food and shelter, and avoid death for over two years? How did we psychologically cope with the near death of Phono, which led to

a discussion of how we could bury her deep in the jungle and yet find her grave months or years later, once this nightmare had ended – if it ended? But I have resolved now that the jungle was our protector. It hid us in our time of need, and we managed to sustain ourselves from 62

F light to the J ungle

its plants and creatures. It gave us life and nurtured us. And that to me is something mystical. I always enjoy seeing the jungle near our village when I return home, although it is much reduced from

decades of logging. I recently fashioned a small ‘jungle’ at the bottom

of my garden in suburban Melbourne, to which I often retreat for meditation.

But in 1958, when finally we escaped the jungle, there was nothing

but relief!

63

Cha pte r 5

T R A NSI T IONS F ROM T R A DI T ION A L L I F E The journey home to Khonoma took several months as we went via

Kohima. Yet in a sense we never arrived home, for when we reached our home country it was not the same.

On our first day moving out of the jungle, we arrived in a village

of another Naga tribe, the Zeliang. We trekked in late at night, tired out with travel and emotion, and stayed with distant relatives. Next

morning my brother Dozo, who could speak English, went to the

local Indian Army barracks to announce our coming in. ‘We received a message’, he stated, ‘that we can return to the village’. One officer

spat back, ‘If you want to be independent you can live in the jungle!’ However, a more kindly officer told us the army was arranging for a truck to take us to Kohima. Our family, together with another fifty people, were put in army trucks.

It was the beginning of my encounter with modernity. I was now

eight years old and had never travelled in any motorised vehicle

in my life. After some time over rough and twisting dirt tracks I became dizzy watching the trees overhead and the flickering light

as we passed. I developed a headache. My brother Niyiehu said: ‘You are looking at the wrong direction, look in front and we’ll buy a sweet in the next stop, and it’ll help you’. However, I vomited

T ransitions from T raditional L ife

before we arrived at the town of Ghaspani – an inglorious first encounter with motor vehicles. Ghas­pani before the colonial period

was known as Medziphema, a name to which it has reverted. We

stayed at Ghaspani overnight, and the next day we were driven to Kohima, the bustling capital of Nagaland.

We arrived the day after with little to our name. We had tattered

clothes on our backs, worn Naga shawls and carried few other pos­ sessions. We brought some jungle products to sell – mostly python skins for the luxury accessory trade. My oldest sister Nigweno,

who left the jungle a year earlier for Kohima, sent food and found temporary accommodation for us.

We stayed in Kohima for few a months until my father declared:

‘We have to go back to our village’. However, this was a forlorn

hope. Our village had been burnt over two years ago, and despite the Amnesty the Naga who fled into the jungle were not really trusted by the Indian Army. It was thought we might take up violence again and

support the Naga Army, which did not accept Indian rule. The maj­

ority of the Thevomia khel had never left the village, and our political

differences with them and a lot of enmity remained. Also, we were

placed not on the site of our original Khonoma village, but resettled a kilometre away. This area, known officially as a ‘village group­ing’, was in order to quarantine us from contact with the Naga Army.

We called our new village Terhotsiese, which meant ‘the place of

the Spirit Stone’. Established on 14 April 1958, its name derived from

the folklore that gods had mysteriously placed an impressive stone at this place. It remains there to this day, shaped like a plinth, extruded

tangentially from the ground, and painted in black and white stripes. Ironically, this was the very site where the Angami had settled in

1880 after war with the British, the burning of their village and their 65

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Me, photographed for the first time in Western dress, 1959.

own flight to the jungle. The Naga have a repeat history of being succoured by the jungle after their homes were laid waste.

At first we were given a government ration of rice, dal, chilli, and

salt to tide us over. The rice was known as ruso – ration rice. It was

the worst rice that was available and probably used normally as pig feed. The condition of living here was that the Indian Army would

be posted outside this new village to keep a watch, and to ensure none of us joined or contacted the Naga Army. It was likened to

a concentration camp by some, and yet it was far freer than that. We were more fortunate than some villages, which had a wire fence

encircling them. At Terhotsiese we had an army post on a hill beyond the village surveying our every move. 66

T ransitions from T raditional L ife

We certainly noticed a change in our lives. The Indian Army

demanded labour from the villagers to construct roads. I recall being involved in such work when aged eight. In sporadic months of ten­ sion in the first few years of living in Terhotsiesie, we were placed

under a night curfew. We were issued with passes to leave the village in the day for work in the fields and had to report back by dark.

When the Indian Army conducted operations against the remain­ing Naga Army still holding out in the jungle, the villagers were forced

to carry supplies for the Indian soldiers. In one operation against a

Naga Army camp at Khukhwi, the village men were arrested and marched before the Indian Army as human shields. The Naga Army

could not fire into a group of their own people and were forced to abandon their camp and flee.

Gradually things returned to some degree of normalcy. People

started to plant crops and rice in their former gardens. As they had

lain fallow for several years, they soon produced bounteous crops of potatoes, beans, pumpkins and, before too long, rice. Villagers searched for their lost cattle. Sometimes a person would recognise an

animal in the bush: declaring in triumph: ‘That’s my cow!’ As they

had gone wild, they had to be eaten. Ironically the villagers ate more meat in this period than they had ever done. Chickens and pigs soon

appeared in backyards and barter sprang up. People built houses and a village school was begun. I was given the job of ringing the school bell at sunrise as we lived next door. The sounds and smells of a village gradually emerged.

Before many months passed, my father realised the need for a shop

in Terhotsiese. He headed for Dimapur for supplies, returning with a jute bag full of salt, tea, sugar and matches. I and my siblings had

to sell these door to door, but soon my father established a shop and 67

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

we lived out the back. Business boomed as no other shop opened its

doors in Terhotsiese. Soon my father brought a truck load of supplies from Dimapur each month. After a while he and Perchicha bought a Bedford truck to bring in goods more cheaply. It was the only truck

in the village, and it was my job to wash it. I sometimes accompanied the driver. Villagers helped to unload the stores and were often given biscuits or matches in return. Before long father branched out

from food to all manner of clothing, household goods and hardware supplies, as well as tobacco and beer. He began with his money kept

in a match case, but when he closed the business in 1970, his till was a large cash box.

Occasionally my father had unexpected customers. One night, as

I was walking to my brother’s house in the village, I heard a noise as I crossed a stream. I saw two figures lying in the undergrowth

beside the stream. One moved and asked: ‘Is the Indian Army in the village?’ I replied ‘No’, realising they were soldiers of the Naga Army. They then exclaimed: ‘Good, for we want to go shopping!’

So at midnight they crept to my father’s store and purchased large supplies of biscuits, salt, sugar, tea, matches and other essentials

for surviving well in the jungle. This showed that the villages were porous, and how the Naga Army operated, sustained by the jungle and friendly villagers.

This new village of Terhotsiese was our home for the next eleven

years. Things became more relaxed over time and the Indian Army moved further up the hill and was less oppressive. But the Armed

Forces Special Powers Act remained in force. It gave the Indian Army the right to shoot and kill villagers suspected of resistance

activity with impunity. And despite trying to rebuild everything to be like old Khonoma, Terhotsiesie was a new site with an altered life, 68

T ransitions from T raditional L ife

and thus not really home. It was not village life as we had known it, but a very strange life. We grew rice, planted vegetables, went to our

former fields, we did all these things, but we were not living in our home village. We finally returned to our original village in 1969, but

by then our lives were significantly altered. The change for me began

with school, for I moved away from Terhotsiese, and further away from my birthplace in the old village of Khonoma nearby.

Jakieno had stressed education while we were in the jungle. She

would tell me what I could do with it, while she dreamily towelled

me down after giving me a bath. Dozo too saw the value of educa-

tion. He and Perhicha had been educated to Grade 10 and knew the benefits for business. Dozo emphasised in family discussions that high to do people, a term he invented for the elite in the town of

Kohima – people with money, big houses and status – all had an edu-

cation. He often poked fun at the high to do, joking about how stupid they really were, how arrogant they were, and that they don’t know how to treat their servants properly. So his phrase became a family joke between us. Every time we heard of an extravagance, or later

saw somebody driving a smart car, we’d say ‘high to do’. But Dozo

secretly envied them. He eventually became a successful businessman and began behaving like one of the high to do. He drove the best

cars, owned a hotel, and lived like one of those he made fun of. But he never stopped telling stories about those high to do.

Dozo was the one who urged that I go to a school in Kohima run

by Baptist Angami Naga, the last American Baptist missionary having

been ordered by the Government of India to leave Nagaland in 1957. I had my Naga pigtail cut off and I was fitted out in a school uniform of

blue pants, a white shirt and red tie. So I walked to Kohima to face my new school. I was very nervous. I had attended the small village school 69

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

in Terhotisiese, but I had only learned to write my name and had not even mastered the alphabet. Now I was to attend school in the capital.

On my first day I found I was the oldest in the class, but there were

several others who had been in the jungle as well, and who missed

out on school for some years. Like me they were also eight or nine,

but in Grade 1! For the rest of my schooling I was one of the oldest by several years. I generally did not find it a point of pride, but rather one of shame. There were about twenty children in my class at the Baptist school, and girls too, for they were now to be educated in this new Nagaland.

The school had been a chapel built by Americans in the early twen-

tieth century, probably Reverends Suplee or Tanquist who were the legendary Christian missionaries in Nagaland. It was a wonder­ful old colonial weatherboard building with a big fireplace. The school

was in that building and an adjoining smaller chapel was divided into classrooms. Some students boarded in the former residence of the

missionaries, which contained a dining hall and a lovely adjoining garden. There was another building used as a school chapel where we

sat for religious services. The school still exists and has now become a heritage site and cannot be demolished.

I did not board at the school or a nearby student hostel – although

as time passed I would have liked to have lived at the hostel. I heard

a lot about hostel life from some of my classmates. They said you were treated very well: ‘You have good food, a nice bed and you can

play with your school friends’. There was a matron or house mistress to look after you. I wanted to stay there very much, but my family

couldn’t afford it. To live at the hostel and go to school cost about

100 rupees a month, ten times the cost of schooling as a day scholar, which was 10 rupees. So I went to live with my sister. 70

T ransitions from T raditional L ife

Baptist School class mates, Kohima 1961. I am second from the left in the back row.

Nigweno was old enough to be my mother as she was my oldest

sister. She had returned early from the jungle and went to live in Kohima, where she earned her living as a single woman selling rice

wine, which became a bit of a difficulty with my being at a Baptist

school. The Baptists considered drinking wine an abomination, and selling it a shameful occupation. My brothers, Perhicha – now out

of jail due to the Amnesty – and Dozo who had ‘come in’ from the jungle with us, both lived with Nigweno too. They were starting up a

contracting business in Kohima. Phono, my second eldest sister, lived

in Terhotsiese, being too old for school. She remained illiterate all her life like my mother. My brother Niyiehu, who had been in Grade 6 when we fled to the jungle, never succeeded at school after that. He

attended school in Kohima for a few months, but gave up as the gap

in his schooling due to living in the jungle was too great to bridge. Jakieno also restarted school in Kohima and came to live with us too.

Nigweno lived in a two-roomed rented shack with a tin roof that

had been built during the years of British colonial rule. The walls were 71

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

of corrugated iron sheets and it had mud floors. We cooked and ate in one room and all of us slept in the second room. So it was rather

crowded, having to accommodate Nigweno as well as Perhicha, Dozo,

Jakieno and me, but being with my family was of great comfort. A

little later Dozo moved to his own rented room and then married. If there was any homework to do, Jakieno or I would squeeze onto a little table, but I cannot recall much homework being given.

Each day I rose at about 5.00am (Indian time) and we’d drink tea.

Then we would start cooking, not breakfast as the Naga don’t have

that, but a large morning lunch of rice, meat, curry, everything. It

was a heavy meal and after that we’d go to school, but we would not take a lunch. It was a walk of about two kilometres to school, which started at nine and went to three o’clock. After that we walked home and had afternoon tea.

The school was run by Christian teachers, some of them women of

my clan, who we called ‘aunts’. Aunty Rano was the principal and she was a very strict woman, very tough. She later became a member of

the Indian Parliament representing Nagaland. The first few months

we didn’t go to a class, we just sat outside and sang, listened to stories and played games. Then they divided us into classes according to how

old we were or how educated. Each day after that we went to the chapel first to learn Bible verses, listen to talking and preaching, and

then sing hymns. Then we attended our classes. None of the teachers seemed to have teacher training, but some were university graduates,

and were very dedicated. In the Baptist school in Kohima the educa­ tion was good, unlike in the village schools where the teachers were only educated to Grade 6, and able to teach basic maths and reading.

We had a good education but it worked against being Naga. Boys

had to wear shirts and pants and the girls had to don dresses, not our 72

T ransitions from T raditional L ife

Naga kilts and makhala sarong-like clothing. We were not allowed

to speak our Naga languages but had to use English. The school procedures, commands and classes were all conducted in English.

The text books were at first derived from England. The British had

left them when they departed in 1947 prior to Indian Independence. I specifically remember a textbook in English with photographs of

English boys and girls. They seemed so beautiful to me then. But at some stage the order came from Delhi that all these British colonial

text books had to change and everything had to be indigenised,

not to Naga traditions, but Indian. This was just another form of colonialism for us Naga. So we used Indian texts all produced in

India. But of course they were still in English, but with Indian content and contexts. So we had an Indian education, with Indian history, and stories of Indian folklore and culture.

I became very cross-cultural, in fact multicultural. At Nigweno’s

house I spoke our local village dialect with my brothers and sisters. But the moment I stepped onto the streets of Kohima I spoke Tenyidie

and Nagamese, the national language, and with a town accent. If I spoke with a village accent people might laugh. So I switched

languages and accents from village to town, from Khonoma dialect to Kohima dialect and to Nagamese, so fluently and so automatic­ally that nobody noticed. At school it was all English, but Naga English,

which was accented very hard and strong. The schooling system

meant that while you could speak Nagamese or Tenyidie out of school, you could not even read these languages. Now schools teach

Tenyidie as a subject: a Naga language subject. We just accepted all this at the time. We were told we must learn English, as English

was going to be our passport to a successful career. However, we

resented a forced Indian content education – and our teachers 73

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

resented teaching it. Later students had to learn Hindi, although that was introduced after I left the Baptist school.

Staying in Kohima was a big thing for me as I was about nine

when I came to reside there to attend school. I was lucky to be living with most of my brothers and sisters, which made up for being away from my parents, who I still missed terribly. My big sister Nigweno

was like a mother, and once Jakieno came as well I was much happier. Kohima was a beautiful old colonial city of about 30,000 inhabitants in those days. Its streets were well-kept, with some fine colonial homes and gardens dotted among more modest houses. The Deputy

Commissioner’s bungalow on Officers Hill was the best example of

the colonial era. The town had a small park called Phoolbari and a picturesque war cemetery. There were no slums then, but there were a

lot of poor residents, who has just returned from the jungle where for years they earned nothing. Kohima’s roads were not clogged as there

were few cars, but there were a significant number of trucks passing through from Manipur and Assam. Most shops were run by Indian

traders. The town, situated along a ridge of the Naga Hills, had a pleasant bustle about it, so different from sleepy new Khonoma.

I still connected to Khonoma, although I rarely returned on week­

ends as it was a four hour walk away – there being no bus in those days. But I always went back for funerals, weddings and festivals in

which I performed traditional rituals with my parents and siblings who were still in the village. We visited our ancestors’ graves and offered them rice wine. It was a constrictive regime of taboos: ‘We

won’t do this, can’t do that, can’t touch this, can’t eat that’! But I felt secure in custom, even though it was so different from the education

I was experiencing in Kohima, which was driven by science and Christianity. There was just something very unique and comforting 74

T ransitions from T raditional L ife

about my village and its traditions. In winter we had two months break from school and I helped plant potatoes on our family’s land and cut firewood from the alder trees. I came back for over a month

during the summer holidays as well, the time of rice planting and the ceremony of thekranyi. I worked every day on rice cultivation or whatever work the season demanded.

There were fun times at home. Due to the Amnesty, my people

in Terhotsiese were not allowed to possess guns, so hunting had to be modified. It was perhaps like ancient times. The whole clan was

involved in chasing wild goat or deer with hunting dogs. The dogs and their handlers would pursue a deer, which eventually became so

exhausted that it laid down and was killed. The first of the runners to touch the deer would get its head, the second and the third other prized sections of meat. The rest was cut up and distributed equally

to the rest of the barefoot runners. If a deer or a large wild mountain goat were killed, each runner received a kilo or two of meat.

Children participated in the hunt, catching the leading party as the

meat was being divided or meeting them on the return journey. They

too were given meat to carry back to their families. I joined the chase from the age of nine and brought back my share with great pride. I

remember on one hunt we were closer to the front runners, and my friend Viu, who is about two years older than me, was third to touch

the deer. He gained an extra portion and gave me half of his share. I

remember his words: ‘I’ll share with you today, as I am in third posi­ tion’. He was a very clever boy, who became one of the highest paid

doctors in Nagaland, and later worked for the World Health Organi­ za­tion. Like me, he was brought up in the jungle.

Another aspect of hunting was undergoing change. In traditional

times it was taboo for the hunter to eat his own kill. He hunted to 75

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

feed others. If the hunt was successful he spoke to his fallen prey,

apologising for killing the animal. He would say ‘You are no longer needed in the forest. I am taking you to feed the women and children

in my village’. When the hunter returned, the women would feed

him chicken and rice wine, while others ate the hunter’s kill. As people became Christian the respect for this taboo and the fallen

animal was broken. Christian hunters enjoyed the meat along with the others, breaking the link of veneration between the hunters and their prey.

I was now living in two worlds and finding it more difficult to

manage the two in tension. Besides traditional rituals in Khonoma,

I was singing hymns in chapel and hearing Christian sermons every school day in Kohima. There was definitely pressure to convert. More and more people were converting in our village and my parents were

becoming a minority in their traditional beliefs. Many of my friends in the village were Christians, and at times they would make fun of me. One day we went for a swim in a jungle stream and there was a

snake there. They tried to kill it but the snake escaped. I declared,

speaking traditionally: ‘No, you can’t leave it like that, wounded’, but they laughed at me. My brothers Perhicha and Dozo converted

as well, Dozo seeing the connections between Christianity and

education: ‘All these high to do people, they are all educated and they are all Christians’ was his refrain.

My clan aunts who ran the Baptist school were expecting the mi-

nority of boys who were still traditional to change. Other Christians

were always on the lookout for converts. I attended a Christian wedding because Dozo was going, and the Christian kids were welcoming and immediately beckoned me over: ‘Come, come, we’ve got a seat here, a special seat’. One aunt on another occasion pointedly 76

T ransitions from T raditional L ife

commented ‘I heard that you went back to the village and performed

the festival, the rituals?’, so I replied, ‘Yes, my father told me to do that’, which was a possible defence. They were always watchful and one day a teacher saw me coming from a traditional wedding holding

my mug of rice wine. I felt shame that I had rice wine and I tried to hide it, because Baptists are not supposed to drink rice wine.

My mind was in turmoil about it at times and still is to an extent. I

came to understand God’s love and to see the goodness in Christian­ ity, but the Baptist evangelicals also preached a wrong attitude to

Naga tradition, which itself has a wonderful deep spirituality. The traditional-thinking Naga were said to be ‘bad, evil, head-hunters

living in darkness. The wonderful Baptist missionaries converted the

Naga into Christians and saved them! Hallelujah!’ I secretly thought this was a lot of rubbish. Head hunting I came to realise later was a ritual, and the whole village might have collected five heads in a year,

perhaps not even that, while in recent disturbances, Christian Naga killed each other with AK47 machine guns in much larger numbers. However, in the 1990s the Baptist Church published From Darkness

to Light, preaching that the Nagas became Christian and moved from the darkness of evil to the goodness of the light of Christ. The tug of

war between Christianity and tradition was played out as I shuffled back and forth from Kohima to Khonoma.

The education of my sister Jakieno was not as successful as hoped.

When she left the jungle with all of us, she was excited by the

prospect of school. Dozo had declared that things would change after the jungle and girls should go to school as well. When the time came my father allowed it. Jakieno was about twelve when she began

at the Khonoma village school. She was so keen to learn that the teacher said: ‘Oh, she’s a grown up girl, let’s promote her half a year’. 77

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

This occurred and she shone because of her attitude. Jakieno finished

Grade 6, but as the village school did not continue past this grade,

she came to Kohima for more schooling. She attended Kohima High School and came to live with Nigweno and her brothers.

Like me, Jakieno was the oldest by far in her class by about five

years. She was also in competition with children from other villages, and also the children of the high to do families of Kohima. The latter

especially had the advantages of better English skills. Her former high ranking with her peers dropped, and she struggled. Jakieno was

against the pupils from educated families, who had the advantage of an early and unbroken schooling, better study places, and literate parents who could help.

In Year 10, our level of matriculation, she failed the matriculation

exam. She could have repeated the year, which many people did. Some tried three and four times before passing; one student sitting sixteen times until success came. All my brothers tried two or three

times and they did not pass, because they had been in the jungle and missed out on so much in those years. After Jakieno failed she came home to the village to look after our parents who were getting old.

By then she was already in her early twenties, and becoming rather old for a high school girl.

Jakieno received proposals, despite not having a traditional Naga

beauty. She was willowy instead of having sturdy legs and a short, strong stature. Advised by our parents, she declined suitors for vari­ ous reasons. Besides, she declared she wanted to become a nurse: ‘I

heard that you can become a military nurse, even if you don’t pass

matriculation. You can study later on’. Then Tsolie, the headmaster

of the village school, proposed to her through a marriage broker. She did not love him, but my parents urged her to accept as he was a good 78

T ransitions from T raditional L ife

and respected man, being a teacher. She knew this was the case and

agreed. Tsolie proved to be a wonderful, kind and humble man who

later became the village church pastor. They had three sons and it proved to be a very happy marriage, but her dream of going further with her education was never fulfilled.

In 1964 I was in Grade 5, and doing well. Educational opportun­

ities increased once the Indian Government poured money into the

newly-created Indian state of Nagaland. One scheme offered Naga boys the opportunity to attend Indian military schools, known as Sainik Schools. An educational team came to our school in Kohima

setting out the exciting opportunities: ‘If you get into this school you can fly an aeroplane, you can become Army officers’. It sounded wonderful to a youth of fourteen, and my principal, aunty Rano,

encouraged me to apply: ‘It’s a very good school. If you fill out this

form I’ll pay the one rupee for your application’. So I filled out the form, and was eventually called for an interview. The full irony only

hit me much later. My aunty Rano had been imprisoned by the Indian Government at one stage, but here she was encouraging me to go and join an Indian military academy.

Hundreds applied. We all had to sit an English examination and

another in mathematics, which I think I just passed. All those who succeeded in the tests were interviewed by Education Department

officers, some in uniform, some not. I could speak English well because I was in mission school. They asked ‘Why do you want to go to this academy’, so I replied as best a fourteen-year old could: ‘I want to become an Air Force officer. I want to become a pilot’.

Many questions followed, but one question stuck in my head:

‘What does your father do?’ I declared with great pride, ‘My father is kambura’. They laughed, which embarrassed me, and I could not 79

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

understand why they were laughing. I looked around, and one fellow taking pity on me remarked: ‘Oh, that’s very good, that means he is the chief of the village; my father is also a kambura, that’s good’. I was

comforted by him. I reasoned years later the laughter was because the status of the kambura had declined in the new India – after the

Raj – and it was by 1964 a less meaningful title. By the 1960s the power in Naga villages lay with the chairman of the village council, and, in a growing Christian country, also with the pastor – not the

kambura. Perhaps the laughter was also in the grand way I declared my father was kambura, or the way I had pronounced the official title

of my father, for the original word was ‘goanburra’ in Hindi, but the Angami changed it to kambura. Perhaps this incident made me stand

out. In any case, I was one of the thirty-two Naga boys selected out of hundreds to go to a military school in Odisha, in eastern India.

This news created a lot of confusion in my family – and not least in

me. Two-thirds of the people of old Khonoma had been chased into

the jungle by the Indian Army, and their homes, possessions and their village burnt. We had faced desperate and disrupted times for over

two years – even to the point of starvation. Hundreds died in those

years of ostracism. My father had been severely beaten by an Indian Army officer prior to fleeing to the jungle, and both parents were severely aged by the anxiety of protecting and feeding a family in the

jungle. My oldest brothers Perhicha and Dozo had joined the Naga

Army to resist Indian colonialism. Perhicha had been imprisoned

and Dozo forced to flee a firefight with the Indian Army. The lives of

my sisters had also been disrupted. All this had happened and much more. It was one of the most disastrous periods in Naga history.

The Naga were factionalised further by Nagaland becoming the

16 state of India. In the late 1950s, some educated Naga sought to th

80

T ransitions from T raditional L ife

act as mediators between the Naga National Council and the Indian Government, which were still engaged in bitter and costly fighting. They formed an organisation called the Naga People’s Convention,

which called for peace and 2,000 delegates attended a convention at Mokokchung in 1958. The President of the Naga People’s Convention

was Dr Imkongliba. Views were split. Some thought incorporation

into India might work for the Naga, some sought peace at any price, while others were influenced, even bribed, by the Indian Intelligence Service.

Some at the Convention became convinced that statehood was

the best option for the Naga and that the Naga Nationalists could and should be sidelined. This group pushed for the 16 Point Agree­

ment presented to them by the Indian Government, which offered statehood. Mr Kevichusa, the first Naga University graduate, object­ed,

declaring: ‘This is wrong, this was not our purpose as a Convention.

We were supposed to be the third party to bring the two parties to talk; we are not supposed to negotiate with the govern­ment’. He said the Naga National Council, which led the Naga independence

movement, had to be a party to any discussions. He resigned in protest, but the remainder went to Delhi and signed the 16 Point

Agreement on 26 July 1960, without the consent of the Naga people.

Nagas were to be granted a special status. Clause 371A of the Indian

Constitution, a new clause, gave a special place to the Nagas in India, but made Nagaland a state and part of India.

Those who desired independence were bitterly opposed to the

Agreement. In retribution Naga National Council sympathisers

assassinated the President of the Naga People’s Convention, Dr

Imkongliba, despite him being a good, peace-loving man. Statehood physically and ideologically further splintered the Naga. They were 81

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

divided across two countries (India and Burma), and spread across four different states of India: Assam, Arunachal Pradesh, Manipur and the newly-formed state of Nagaland. Clause 13, which stated contiguous Naga areas could be joined to Nagaland, has never been implemented.

Statehood promised that Naga would enjoy the rights of Indian

citizens. These included the right to own property; to move freely

within India; to live in any place in India; to have freedom of express­

ion and association; and equal rights before the law and protection against arrest and detention. However, a whole host of special Acts cancelled these rights. A book written by Kaka D. Iralu, The Naga

Saga (2000), explains this. Freedom of movement, and freedom of

speech and association, were nullified by the Assam Maintenance of

Public Order Act (1953) and later acts. The rights to equality before the law and protection against arrest and detention, were nullified

by the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (1958) and other acts. The

right to protection of life and personal liberty was overridden by the

Assam Disturbed Areas Act (1955) and the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (1958). Each of these acts made the Naga less equal.

Indeed, we were exposed to State terrorism as the Indian Army had free reign to act with force.

But India did pour money into Nagaland as promised, and many

Naga became wealthy and assumed positions of power in the new state apparatus. Many benefited in some way. Because of statehood, I

and other Naga boys were being offered a place in an Indian military academy and an excellent education!

Given all this history, there was naturally much discussion at

the news of my offer. My father, a supporter of the Naga National Council, said little, but I think pragmatically he saw I was being 82

T ransitions from T raditional L ife

offered an excellent education, one not available elsewhere and at no cost. He had always valued education, so saw the great opportunity

this was. He had been told too, perhaps by one of the Baptist school Angami aunts, that Sainik Schools were the best in India. My mother was scared that I was going very far. She kept asking, ‘How far is it,

how many days of walking is it?’ So we didn’t tell her the distance and played it down a little bit, saying: ‘Oh, it’s not too far’.

My brother Perhicha, who had been imprisoned by the Indian

Army, perhaps surprisingly thought that I should accept. He out­

lined the following reasons: ‘In order to defeat your enemy, you must know your enemy’s knowledge and skills, and, if you learn the Indian language and Indian education, that would be our best weapon to

defeat them. An insider’s weapon is better than an outsider’s weapon’. So he told me: ‘Go ahead, take it’. Indeed, Perhicha was the one

who actually accompanied me on the four-day journey to enrol at

the military academy. Jakieno, whose opinion I especially valued, thought it was wonderful. She had dreamed of this for me while in

the jungle. She now remarked: ‘High to do families are going to this school, so you are going to be high to do!’

Everyone in the village no doubt had a view. One villager said to

me ‘If you get training in the Indian Army, one day you’ll become

a general in the Naga Army’. The Indian Government hoped the

opposite, believing this is how they would make the Naga, Indian. Both views had an element of truth. Some boys later joined the Indian

Army, but most did not. Some joined the Naga Army. I joined neither. However, I furthered my education and opened my possibilities to the world – and in the end that hopefully served Nagaland!

83

Cha pte r 6

S A I N I K M I L I TA RY S CHO OL In mid-1964 I won a place along with over thirty other Naga boys

at the Sainik School at Bhubaneswar, in the state of Odisha on the

northern coast of east India. The population of this state was over forty times that of Nagaland, and Bhubaneswar, its capital, was roughly the same in population as the whole of Nagaland. The school, created in

February 1962, was the ninth of twenty-four Sainik Schools to be established across India. The name ‘sainik’ derived from the Hindi

word for soldier. The schools were devised by the then Minister of Defence, V.K. Krishna Menon, who aimed to change the nature of

India’s military and naval officer cohort by addressing its regional and

class/caste nature. Graduates were prepared for entry to the Nation­al

Defence Academy and the Indian Naval Academy. The inspiration for these schools was the Rashtriya Indian Military College formed in 1922 during the British Raj. It trained Indian cadets for entry into the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst in England, and then the

British Indian Army. After Independence in 1947, Rashtriya College trained those seeking entry to the Indian Armed Forces.

The Sainik Schools were funded by state governments and of-

fered standards and facilities equal to the English public school

system. Scholarships enabled children of merit from all classes to

attend. The Sainik Schools current website declares: ‘The Schools

S ainik M ilitary S chool

select bright and promising students through a national entrance examination and focus on moulding their overall personality with

emphasis on extracurricular activities’. In the Sainik system both the body and mind of students were honed through ‘skills in sports,

academics and other extracurricular activities’. They were equipped

with cricket, hockey and football fields, running tracks and of course

parade grounds and firing ranges. In more recent times they have gymnasiums and swimming pools, and offer horse riding, canoeing

and mountaineering. Cadets were assigned to houses that competed in sporting and academic endeavours. Attendance at such schools was the dream of many Indian families.

The six months between my acceptance in late 1964 and my

enrol­ment in April 1965 was an interregnum of both anxiety and

excitement. I finished my Grade 5 at the Kohima Baptist school and then helped out with farm work until leaving for Odisha. As the time drew near, my mother was in a scurry of preparation as she

made smoked beef chutney for the journey and wove a new shawl to take with me. Perhicha purchased new shoes, jacket, bedding and a suitcase to carry my entire luggage. Phono and Jakieno washed my clothes and packed my bedding.

I moved about my village with an increasing sense of dread. We

had been in the jungle away from my beloved Khonoma, and we were still not there, due to living in Terhotsiese under Indian Army supervision. Now I was going to live 1,750 km away from Khonoma

in a new school, with new military ways. And yet I might become a pilot and travel the world! These thoughts and related emotions coursed through my brain as the days ticked by.

In the final week I began to say my goodbyes, to all my friends

and the people of the village. The whole clan was talking about it 85

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

In my Sainik school years in Bhubaneswar, Odisha.

and everyone wished me luck as I was the first to leave the village to

go to soldier school. I began to sleep fitfully for several days before my departure. The day before leaving I played my last game with

my special friends Viu and Nidelhu. That evening we had a chicken dinner, which was always a luxury. But this one was special as the

bird had been caged and well fed for such an important occasion. On the day of departure for Kohima, the first leg of my journey, I bid

goodbye to my father, Phono and Niyiehu, who remained behind in the village to manage the store, crops and livestock. There were no embraces and certainly not kisses, for Naga are restrained. But the

emotion coursed through my body as my father and Phono took my hand and simply said: ‘vise volie’ – ‘Go well, go well’.

My mother accompanied me on the four-hour walk to Kohima,

which I had covered many times when travelling to and from the

Baptist school over the last six years. I walked behind my mother,

who carried my bags in her basket on the well-worn earthen track. I watched the back of her head as I walked, grey, but erect. I drank in the scene despite my increasing anxiety that was now knotting 86

S ainik M ilitary S chool

my stomach. There were birds singing everywhere, more than usual

I thought. Our people consider that birds speak to us and believe

the singing of certain birds is a good omen. This is especially the case if they sing from the left side of the road, which is the side warriors carried their shields. My mother exclaimed happily: ‘pera

viho’ (‘Good birds singing!’). The omen comforted me for a while but then the dread about my new school returned. We stopped halfway

and ate a lunch of rice and meat, which mother had prepared and wrapped in banana leaves. The mountains seemed greener and more beautiful that day than ever before. This soothed me.

At Kohima we went to Perhicha’s house where Jakieno and

Nigweno were also living. It was wonderful to be with them. Their

jokes and laughter eased my pain. They prepared another chicken dinner in my honour. As we gathered around the table I looked at my siblings and thought of the wonderful times I had with them, sharing

our cramped accommodation in the village and at Nigweno’s house while we were at school. Jakieno was pensive, as was I, but Dozo was in full flight as usual. Despite these schools being new and far from

Nagaland, Dozo was full of tall stories about a school he had never seen. ‘It was a wonderful place’, he exclaimed, and ‘had magnificent food and accommodation, and the most modern sporting facilities’.

He had us all amazed and at times in peals of laughter. I ate a bit more chicken and relaxed a little.

The next day the moment of departure came and the knot in my

stomach grew tighter. I was saddened to leave them all, but especially Jakieno. She accompanied us to the bus station, and simply whisper­ ed many times ‘vise volie’. Fortunately, Perhicha, my oldest brother,

was happy to accompany me to my destination into the unknown

in Odisha, a trip of several days. Dozo’s wife Khono cooked some 87

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

roasted sticky rice for the journey. As the bus drew away I looked hard at Jakieno, fixing her in my memory, for the summer holidays were many months away.

Perhicha and I arrived in Dimapur and headed for a hotel. The

next day we took a train from Dimapur railway station to Guwahati

in Assam. Most of the other students assembled there too, but the station was packed and we were unable to team up. The high to do

families had known to book a seat on the train. Perhicha grabbed

the door handle of the train and I followed, holding onto my luggage with the other hand. Perhicha pushed and shoved and finally we squeezed into the carriage. The only available space seemed to be in

the toilet, which had the door open. Both of us went in and sat down.

He said: ‘Just sit here, sit and we will adjust our seating at the next station’. So for about five hours we sat in the toilet and fortunately no-one seemed to want to use it. I was very scared by the crush of people and the novelty of it all.

At midday when the train stopped at a station we alighted to

stretch and get some fresh air. I saw David Kire from my old Baptist school, who was also now a scholarship holder at the Bhubaneswar

Sainik School. He was travelling in first class with his father, Joshua Kire, who was educated and high to do. David’s father spoke very

good English and was very kind. He advised us how to reserve seats

before we travelled on the next rail leg. We departed for West Bengal

and Bihar state, then late in the day alighted ready to change for our third rail journey. We slept that night on the platform and the following morning caught a train to Calcutta. By this time we were

totally drained from lack of sleep and the endless miles of the trip. I continued to feel very apprehensive as India glided by and was glad of Perhicha’s presence.

88

S ainik M ilitary S chool

Throughout the journey I had been aware of entering a vast country

with many, many people. We passed countless villages beside the rail line, rice fields, dusty roads, and towns large and small along the way. Our stopovers were confined to the railway stations, so I had no real sense of the size of these towns. But all this changed when

we arrived in Calcutta. It was a city then of ten million people – 500 times larger than Kohima. Its scale was immense, with people milling everywhere. I wondered what they all did. It was quite a terrifying experience, a real nightmare for a boy from a small Naga

village. There were thousands of cars and taxis on the road and what seemed countless rickshaws, their drivers all bearing down on us, touting their business, wishing to carry us anywhere, everywhere.

Perhicha, then in his twenties, who had fought with the Naga Army,

and had been to Calcutta before, felt more at ease. He bargained a

price for our ride and showed me some of the city from the back seat

of a rickshaw. We passed the Howrah Bridge, which spanned the Hooghly River – the third largest cantilevered steel bridge of its day.

I was quite boggled by its size! The rickshaw then conveyed us to what must have been the filthiest hotel in the whole of Calcutta. The

toilets had the vilest aroma and were filled with excrement. Guests did not even bother to use the toilet to pee. The hotel was ironically named ‘Palace Hotel’, a name that Perhicha used when he started his

own hotel in Nagaland thirty years later – but his was a better-run establishment.

The next day we caught our fourth and final train for Bhubaneswar,

the capital of Odisha state, where the school was located. It was

a much smaller city than Calcutta but was still huge to me. We arrived there in the early hours of the morning and went straight to a hotel to rest. It was a better hotel experience than the Palace 89

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

of Calcutta and the beds seemed luxurious. I also discovered the

wonder of flush toilets – which I confess I pushed quite a few times. We went to the school by taxi in mid-morning. A teacher at the entrance directed us to the principal, who passed us to a matron, a pleasant Anglo-Indian woman dressed in a white uniform. She showed us to my dormitory.

My brother stayed one night, but the next day he and all the other

parents left. It was then that the knot in my stomach, which had relaxed with the distractions of the journey, really drew tight. Before

he left, Perhicha took his watch and put it on my wrist and muttered

‘vise bielie’ (‘Stay well’). My heart nearly broke at that point. The jungle had been terrifying at times, especially when we fled into the

night, running from an Indian patrol in our vicinity. We had looked into the eyes of a tiger. But my family were always with me. Now I was alone and just fourteen.

The Bhubaneswar Sainik School was only three years old, and its

permanent campus just one year old when I arrived. The Chief Min­

ister of Odisha, Shri Biju Patnaik, opened the school in January 1962, but it remained in makeshift government-owned accommodation for two years. A new campus eight kilometres from the railway station was completed and opened in January 1964 by Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, just five months before he died in office.

By the mid-1960s my school grew to about 400 enrolments. There

were fifteen other Sainik military schools at that time in India with probably similar enrolments, about 6,000 students in total across the country. Thirty-two Naga students out of 6,000 was about 0.5 per

cent, which did not seem much. However, as India’s population was

then 498 million and Nagaland’s about 0.5 million, we were a mere

0.1 per cent of the population within the Indian State. This meant 90

S ainik M ilitary S chool

us Naga students were five times over-represented in these military schools. Clearly, the Indian Government was developing its new state of Nagaland and trying to build loyalty to India within it. But such favouritism was later to cause trouble.

The founder of the Sainik Schools, Menon, wanted to diversify

the army’s regional and class/caste nature. Our over-representation

helped regional diversity, but did not boost class diversity, as many of my fellow Naga students were from high to do families, due to their

previous educational advantages. The high class/caste complexion

of the schools was consolidated further by sons of government and

military officers having special entry. A few Naga boys gained entry without passing the exam, which clearly smacked of corruption. One only lasted a year before the school let him go, as he could not meet the standards.

When school commenced, I was nervous at first, as the teachers

and administrators were in uniform. When I was young such uni­

forms chased us through the jungle, tortured my father, imprisoned

Perhicha, and, since the Amnesty, watched us daily in our village. However, these men seemed kind and understanding. The prin­cipal, Commander Zutshi from Kashmir, who was educated in London,

had light coloured skin and looked European. He was a fair and reasonable man.

During those first days we were fitted with our daily uniforms of

short khaki pants, khaki shirt, long khaki stockings and brown army shoes. For evening dinner wear we were issued with long white pants

and a white shirt, and for special occasions were given grey woollen

pants and a green blazer. We were also issued with several pairs of shoes for sport and military parades. We did a lot of sport in those

first days and they showed movies at night. These diversions helped 91

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

keep the loneliness at bay – besides, there was still plenty of time to think about home when the lights went out at night.

Each boy was also allocated to one of ten houses. The dormitories

were organised along house lines, there being five dorms for each

house and each dormitory had ten boys in each. The houses were named after the great rivers of India. I think I was enrolled in

Narmada House, but I was soon shifted to Brahmaputra house, the same house as David Kire to my great comfort. David was a few years

younger, but coming from a high to do family he spoke good English, was well mannered, and knew about dress codes. He developed into a

true gentleman, and became a bank manager and a successful businessman. Our new house master and captain addressed us at length,

speaking about the benefits of the school and the tough discipline we would face each day.

My house captain explained our house’s tradition. Brahmaputra

House celebrated the river’s long journey to the sea. It rose in Tibet and flowed through north-east India and entered the sea in the part of India that later became Bangladesh. All rivers in India are denoted

as female except this one. Its name means the son of the Hindu god, Lord Brahma and we were called the ‘brave hearts of Brahmaputra’

or the ‘mighty eagles’. Our motto was ‘purity of the soul’. The website

of my old school says today of Brahmaputra House, ‘The brave hearts

of Brahmaputra with their strong determination, sheer zeal and hard work have excelled in academics. To prove their mettle, the brave

hearts have bagged trophies in inter house basketball and football tournaments many times’. It adds that many have passed from this

house into the military and others into business. In 1979 alone, twenty-six Brahmaputra cadets joined the armed forces. Of course when I was there this tradition was still being laid down, but pride 92

S ainik M ilitary S chool

was expressed in being ‘brave hearts’. There was a little ragging associated with house membership, but it was not severe or nasty.

On the first day of class, the jungle experienced again shaped the

outcome, as I was the oldest boy in the class being fourteen, where­as most others were eleven or twelve. For a while I became the target of

some jokes as the oldest and the tallest. Also, like some others, I had absolutely no knowledge of India, and couldn’t read or write Hindi, which was compulsory. But fortunately classes were in English, of which I had developed a sound proficiency at the Kohima Baptist

school. To make matters worse, I also grew very fast in my first year at the school due to a teenage growth spurt and good food and exer­

cise, so I became even taller. I tried to make myself look shorter, but it didn’t work. I was referred to by teachers as the ‘tall boy’, unless they

used my school number, which was ‘number 370’. It took a few years for my classmates to catch me, which the Punjabis and Kashmiris students in particular finally did, some surpassing me.

Each day was heralded by a bugle that called us from bed at

5.00am. After quickly dressing we assembled for an hour of phys­

ical train­ing, which might be a long distance run or exercises on the football ground. After that we had to run to the showers, dress into our uniforms and march to the dining hall by 7.00am. After breakfast we would march back to our dormitory to prepare for the

day’s schooling, which began at 8.00am. We again assembled and

marched to classes. Indeed, we marched everywhere, and in the first months were drilled constantly to perfect this art. We had morning tea at 10.00am, lunch at 1.00pm, rest time and afternoon tea from 2.00 to 4.00pm and then an hour of sport, almost two hours of home­ work, and then dinner in our whites at 6.30pm. A house meeting

followed dinner most nights, addressed by the house master, captain 93

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

or vice-captain. It was a hierarchical world as there was also a dor­

mit­ory captain to organise us. After these meetings there was some free time before a bugle sounded lights out at 10.00pm.

As the months went by I began to excel in sports, particularly due

to my height. The jungle years, which had held back my schooling,

for once worked in my favour. I became a member of the school

basketball team, was reserve goalkeeper for the school football

(soccer) team, and I was selected for the athletic team. This meant I was given a special school blazer and earned a trip to another Indian

state to compete against other Sainik Schools. We were welcomed home with a dinner after the inter-school tournament. I also joined

the school band, learning to play saxophone, and joined the volley­ ball team as well.

These sporting achievements gave me confidence, which spilled

over into my academic work. My English improved further and I began to read and write Hindi sufficiently to pass my initial exams. Also as time went on, my fears of India and Indians diminished. I

began to feel as if I belonged at this school. I became determined to

get a good education so that I could attain the power of knowledge

that the Indians have. My aunt suggested that I apply to this school and my parents and family – indeed the whole village – encouraged

me to come here. They all hoped I would one day become a kezhamia,

an officer; literally it means a ‘big man’.

What helped me too was some mentoring. My English teacher

was Charles Shaylor, a young man in his twenties who came to India as part of the British Overseas Volunteers Service. He had a good

knowledge of other cultures as his parents had been missionaries in

Kenya where he was born and grew up. He empathised with the Naga students and I stood out, being tall and a little older. It was obvious to 94

S ainik M ilitary S chool

him that there were flaws in my earlier education. I was very keen to

learn English, but my English wasn’t as good as the others, who had longer tuition in this second language. Charles Shaylor asked ‘Would

you like to come to class early before the others arrive, so that I can give you an extra 30 minutes of English?’, to which I immediately

replied ‘Of course!’ I found this extra time by going straight from a quick breakfast to my classroom, where Mr Shaylor was there ready

to teach me English. By the end of the year I was doing better than some students and catching the rest. My pronunciation improved through constant repetition guided by my mentor.

One day Mr Shaylor said I should speak at the school assembly,

because every morning a student spoke on a topic of interest to the whole 400 boys. He said he would arrange it, and proposed that I

should recite something before the whole school. He selected the

Gettysburg Address by Abraham Lincoln. I read it and found it exciting. I memorised it and we rehearsed every morning for some

weeks: ‘Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on

this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to

the proposition that all men are created equal’. It was a wonderful and powerful speech. Then I would end with a flourish: ‘that we here

highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain – that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom – and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth’. Mr Shaylor was very happy, observing: ‘You

don’t make a speech, you master a speech by heart, and you pretend you are Abraham Lincoln’!

It was a fantastic speech and Mr Shaylor taught me the history

of it. I have never forgotten those words of Lincoln. I found the whole thing inspiring – the speech, the performance of it before my 95

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

fellow students, and the ideas in the speech. It seemed to relate to

the current situation of the Naga. Lincoln spoke of freedom, equality and democracy, that is, government ‘by the people, for the people’.

The Naga were fighting their own civil war, one caused by a war with India, which was attempting to impose colonial rule over the Naga.

While not comprehending the whole picture, I grasped something as a youth of the speech’s relevance.

At the end of the year Mr Shaylor volunteered to be the teacher

to accompany us Naga boys home. When he arrived at our house, Perhicha presented him with a shawl, a Naga welcome of respect. When Mr Shaylor returned to England, I remember him saying to

me: ‘Read, read anything, for the rest of your life read! It doesn’t matter even if it is a novel, magazine, newspaper, just grab some­ thing, and read, and read, and read’. He sent me postcards and we

corresponded until I went to university. Years later when I was trav­ elling in England, I rang his home in Reading, exclaiming: ‘Do

you remember a boy called Visier in India?’ He replied ‘Of course!’

He invited me home to stay, but as I had commitments he travelled with his wife from Reading so we could briefly meet in London. He

presented me with a hat and scarf to ward off England’s cold, which I took as a gesture like the gift of a shawl.

At the Sainik School we all had pen-pals. Mr Shaylor sent our

addresses to another school overseas and students from there wrote

back. Many had Australian pen-pals, and it became a competition to see how many you could collect. Students would ask: ‘Who is your

pen-pal?’ ‘How many do you have?’ Of course we all corresponded with friends and family. Some students, especially those from high

to do families, might receive a letter or more every day. One day

I received five but that was unusual. My mother and father never 96

S ainik M ilitary S chool

wrote to me for they were illiterate, nor did Nigweno and Phono. I did receive letters from Jakieno, and occasionally from Perhicha and Dozo, but Niyiehu never wrote as it was difficult for him. Jakieno

corresponded regularly about news or what she was experiencing at home. Once she told me: ‘I had a very bad dream about you, I hope

you’re alright’. At that very time I had been hit by a motor bike, so her closeness with me continued, almost in an uncanny way.

Another teacher, Captain Patnaik who taught geography, was also

very kind to me. Because of him I became very good in geography. He knew a bit about Nagaland and the Naga War, whereas few

other teachers did, despite daily newspaper reports about the ‘Naga

rebels’ and the ‘Naga Underground’. My people who were fighting for independence from the Indian Government were referred to as ‘Naga rebels’, ‘Naga separatists’, and ‘Naga Underground’. The word ‘terrorists’ was not applied to them before the 1990s.

Each December I went home for annual holidays with a growing

feeling of success, aided by these mentors. We had an end of year celebration at the school before we left called ‘Bara Khana’, literally a

big dinner, which came from the time of the British Raj. We all wore a blazer and tie, which was not too uncomfortable as the temperature was cooler at that time of year. Then our dramatic train journey

home would begin, taking four or five days, punctuated at times by sleeping at railway stations. We arrived at Dimapur in the late after­

noon. The high to do parents picked up their boys by car, but us village boys headed for a cheap hotel, before catching a bus the next day

to Kohima, where I was reunited with my brothers and sisters for a night or two. I would spend my vacation in the village as I did when I was growing up, cultivating rice, cutting wood, doing other farm jobs and seeing friends.

97

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Most villagers were pleased to see me and other boarding school

boys. We were popular with the girls too, because we came from

a good school, had nice clothes and different experiences to relate. Sometimes the boys in the village became jealous. I remember one of

my friends remarking only half in jest: ‘Our girls always go after these boys who come back on holiday from the outside as they come from a

good school. They just don’t like us’. Perhaps the village boys thought

we were high to do, but we knew we were not. That was evident when

we returned to school. The high to do students from the city had tales

of holidays, dances and parties, while we’d been working on a farm.

Sometimes we’d have tales of hunting or a Christmas party, but mostly we seemed to live a duller life.

Although the school preached the unity of India, there were div­

isions within the campus, as there were in Indian society. I dis­cov­

ered this shocking fact one day while playing with a boy from my class. He was darker than the others, but I was very friendly with him because he was very kind, and he was the smallest in my class.

Another boy said: ‘Do you know that he is a Harijan?’ I was puzzled as that word meant nothing to me. However, he enlightened me. Harijans are the Untouchable caste. ‘You don’t make friends with these

people, they are the lowest caste’. I later found out that according to the Indian Constitution you are not allowed to discriminate against

another (lower) caste, but in practice everyone did. People don’t have relations with or marry the ‘wrong’ caste. The Harijan boy one day touched the shoe of a Brahmin boy, who was extremely angry for it was then unclean!

So I was learning about the caste system and discrimination in

these encounters, a barrier that was far greater than any divide

between the high to do and those from the village. The latter was a 98

S ainik M ilitary S chool

Baptist youth most in Western dress in Khonoma Christmas Day 1967. I was then home for the school holidays, and I am third from the left in the back row. Jakieno is just below me and to my left in the second row.

With my brothers Perhicha (left) and Dozo (right).

99

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

class divide and based on education and to a degree religion. But I saw that caste was the Great Divide, and that it was seen in India as an irrevocable one. Also I noticed it was racial, as Brahmin boys had lighter skin than the lower castes, like the Adivasi and especially the

Harijans, all of who were quite black of skin. Harijan means ‘child

of God’, a name given them by Gandhi, but they now choose to call themselves Dalit, which has the more political meaning of ‘the oppressed, the crushed one’.

Another divide opened at the school involving us Naga students.

More came each year after our first thirty-two, because the Naga state government thought: ‘This is a wonderful thing; our boys

are getting free education from the Indian Military’. So the Naga regional government sent students to Sainik Schools every year. The

system became corrupted. Also, it became accepted that if your son was a troublemaker, he could be disciplined in military school. Con­

sequently a lot of dropouts and wayward Naga boys were sent to

the military academies for discipline. Some of them behaved quite

badly, fighting and refusing to obey orders and were not motivated. So teachers and others students became increasingly fed up and

angry with Nagas. There was an element of truth to claims of Naga

disturbances, but the Indians were also prejudiced by what they read

in the papers daily about Naga ‘insurgents’. It should be remembered

that a low grade but constant war existed, in which both Naga and Indian soldiers were killed each week.

Things came to a head at the school in 1968 during my fourth

year. Two teachers planned a riot or a demonstration against the Naga students. After dinner one night, as students returned to the

dormitories, a scream was heard. An Indian student wrapped in a Naga shawl was in the swimming pool, screaming ‘Some Naga boys 10 0

S ainik M ilitary S chool

tried to murder me; they tried to throw me in the swimming pool!’ It was later found out this was staged and he had jumped in himself.

Suddenly scores of students jumped into the street joined by some

from the nearby university and some people from the city. It was obviously planned, for they came very quickly and equipped with

sticks and bars. They bashed up every Naga that they could find on the school campus.

Students headed towards the dormitories screaming and shouting. I

heard someone yell they were bashing Naga boys. People bellowed ‘run, run, run!’ It was terrifying. I grabbed a younger Naga boy whose name was Senti. We broke our bathroom window, jumped out

and ran into the bush, where we hid in the jungle for several hours.

We could hear the noise of police sirens, and near the university excited and triumphant boys returning to their campus. I whispered to Senti: ‘Maybe we’ll go to the city and search for some Naga boys

who are studying at the agricultural university about twenty kilo­

metres away’. Then I remembered that there was a boy, Tsering from Bhutan, who was in our school’s hospital, so I said: ‘Let’s go and search for him’.

We re-entered our school at about three o’clock in the morning,

and quietly knocked on Tsering’s door, whispering who we were. He let us in and we discovered there were other Naga boys hiding with

him under his bed, so we joined them. Eventually the police came, and after we identified ourselves as Naga, they took all of us in the

early hours of the morning to the safety of a police station in another town. We stayed there for three weeks while officials were sent to

investigate, interviewing us and others about what happened that night. It became quite a big political issue between the Indian and

Naga state governments. The riot threatened diversity in education 101

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

through the Sainik system and the attempt to assimilate the Naga into India.

It was quite laughable, but the Naga officials and police officers

sent to be part of the investigating team were Indian. At that time there were quite a few Indians in the Nagaland administration, as

the Naga were deemed to need help in their governance by Indian officials – or were not trusted in this time of war between the Indian

and Naga armies! The boys were traumatised by what had happened. Some were hospitalised with serious injuries – cuts, bruising, broken bones and split heads. Fortunately no-one died, but some had been

severely beaten. While we waited for the investigation to conclude, the police took us swimming to a nearby lake, but I could not really swim well and almost drowned. Two Indian police had to dive in and

rescue me. One police officer who was Anglo-Indian sympathised with our plight and brought his sons in our age group to visit and play with us. He was a good man.

Finally we were sent home and I faced the train journey to

Nagaland for the eighth time. While the train crossed north-east India, passing through towns and villages, with stopovers at Calcutta

and several other large train interchanges, I had plenty of time to

reflect on the shocking premeditated riot I had just experienced, and to ponder how my life had changed over the past four years. I had grown from a boy into a young man, and five inches along the way,

a product of good food and plenty of hard training. I had achieved many things, learnt Hindi and improved my English language skills,

and grown in self-esteem with the help of Charles Shaylor. I was

not sure I wanted to enter the military, although flying a plane had seemed very attractive four years earlier. I had met a diverse range

of students as well – Indians from all over the country, and from 10 2

S ainik M ilitary S chool

all castes and classes – high to do Brahmin and also Dalit youth. I made close friendships with two Naga youths, David Kire and Norman Putsure, who later became Secretary of the Government of Nagaland. I also made friends with Deepak Bhan from Kashmir, with who I still remained in contact.

My horizons were certainly wider. Just travelling by train to

Odisha these eight times did that. Calcutta, a city of at least ten

million people, was a daunting place. I stepped off the train to be accosted by beggars and saw thousands of people sleeping on the

streets in the city. I was a poor village boy on a scholarship, but I was well off compared to these people, and yet I had little money to give them. The city was vast with many quarters and high-rise buildings,

and tens of thousands of cars and taxis. It was daunting for a boy from Nagaland where Kohima was the biggest town. It was surreal

to head back to my little village to grow rice and cut wood after all these experiences at military school and the wider world. I realised I

was living a very unusual life, different to that of most other Naga. I

thought I may not stay in the village. Indeed, I dreamt of travelling further than Odisha – even to overseas. My Englishman teacher Mr Shaylor and pen pals had helped implant this idea, even one girl in Australia, with whom I corresponded for almost ten years.

But for now I was traumatised by recent events at the Sainik School.

I stepped off the bus at Kohima, homesick and drained, but buoyed by a sense of relief. My parents yearned for my arrival and greeted me

with joy. My mother was shocked that her fourth and youngest son had been a victim of a riot, held in police custody, and subjected to Indian terror!

10 3

Cha pte r 7

S T U DE N T DAY S In October 1967 I arrived home to a village in turmoil and awash

with concern and anger. My mother was overjoyed to see me and immediately sent my brother Niyiehu to collect wild honey from

the jungle because of its healing powers. My father was quiet and restrained, but deeply angry. He simply muttered ‘One day we will

teach them a lesson’. Dozo as usual was outspoken, exclaiming ‘We can’t trust these Tephrimia – Indians. They will always treat us like this!’

This was the general view in the village. Indeed, news of the

incident spread like wildfire, and soon most of Nagaland knew of the riot in the Bhubaneswar Sainik School and how Naga boys were beaten and placed in custody. Ancient hatred of the Indians was

ignited. One man organised a rally and tried to deport all the Oriyas

living in Nagaland but it of course never happened. The Government of Nagaland negotiated with the Indian Defence Ministry to send us

to other military schools besides Bhubaneswar, but few of us returned to a Sainik School. We were all too traumatised.

My family debated my future. My mother wanted me to stay in the

village. Dozo said I should go to another school – perhaps in Shillong (the capital of Assam but after 1973 the capital of Meghalaya) – 400

kilometres to the west. I did not feel like making decisions. I was

S tudent Days

exhausted and confused, so I stayed in the village and helped with

the family’s work in the rice fields. I had many nightmares, not about

my Sainik School, but my time in the jungle when the Indian military was chasing the Naga and our family. I did not talk to anyone about

these nightmares for I did not know how to express it, and being a seventeen-year-old boy I felt some shame.

But then a wonderful thing happened. Rajmohan Gandhi, the

journalist grandson of Mahatma Gandhi, was to visit our village.

There was intense excitement at the news and my Aunty Tuno Iralu from Kohima said we must clean up our village of animal manure

and so forth. The whole village assembled to meet such an illustrious visitor. I wore my jacket and tie from Sainik School. There was much

anticipation as Mahatma Gandhi had met with a Naga delegation in

1947 and heard the Naga declare they were not part of the British Empire. They avowed that when India gained its independence from

Britain, so too would the Naga. Gandhi agreed, exclaiming: ‘But why wait, grasp your independence now!’ His assassination shortly after ended Indian tolerance of Naga claims for independence.

Expectations of the visit to the village ran high. Rajmohan Gandhi

was an imposing man being 190cm tall (6 foot, 3 inches). He was accom­panied by a delegation of three men, including the President

of the Naga Nationalist Organisation Rev. Megosieso Savino, my

cousin Niketu Iralu, and an interpreter. They drove past the old vill­

age levelled by the Indian Army in 1956. It was now a grassy field

with a few stone walls and earthen embankments, and a graveyard near­by, one headstone proclaiming ‘murdered by Indians’. Rajmohan Gandhi saw these things and declared in measured English: ‘I have seen the graves of your people. I have seen the remains of your village

burnt in 1956. I am deeply sorry for what the Indian Army has done 10 5

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

to your people’. The response was electric. Here was an Indian man, not an official spokesman, but an Indian nonetheless, apologising for the killing, burning and mayhem. Indeed, he was no ordinary Indian, but a notable journalist and writer, and one with a noble lineage. In the context of what had happened recently at my Sainik

School it was very powerful, meaningful and historical – and for me

personally. To apologise, to express regret, was I realised a healing thing – and for all concerned. It was a moment that has returned to my mind again and again.

Several months later Dozo was still pushing for my return to

school and favoured one in Shillong. His view held sway within the family, as he was by then a town councillor in Kohima and engaged

in a successful contracting business. Dozo’s administrative assistant

James Mao, a young university graduate, accompanied me by train and bus to Shillong, to select a school for Year 9 entry. However, we soon struck trouble as I was then almost 18 and tall for my age.

This alarmed principals, who said I should be in university, not Year 9. James explained, ‘The whole family’s tall, he’s just a tall boy, he’s

not very old’, but they remained unconvinced. We were turned away from school after school. Eventually we found ourselves on Shillong’s outskirts at Sacred Heart, a school for poor villagers. It was run by

the Salesian order and headed by a Maltese priest, Father Attard, who had been in Shillong for forty years and spoke fluent Khasi, the local language. It looked a good school and Father Attard agreed to accept me, so James enrolled me on behalf of the family.

My first day at school was a bit of a shock. Many of the students

did not wear shoes, whereas at Sainik we all had half a dozen pairs of shoes – school shoes, sports shoes, marching boots – and several

uniforms. Also, I was once again the tallest in my class. Not only 10 6

S tudent Days

Class of 1969 Sacred Heart Boys’ School, Shillong, India. I am in the middle of the back row. Father Attard is in the front row third from the right.

was I two or three years older that most of the boys in my class,

but the local people from the Khasi tribe were some of the shortest

people in the region. I was called Bah Jrong, ‘Mr Tall Fellow’, even

by the teachers, and teased unmercifully by the boys. However, there were two other tallish boys, one from the Mikir tribe, who called himself ‘George Harrison’, and another, Sailo from the Mizo tribe. We joined together and started bullying back.

That first year in Shillong was very hard. I was not homesick or

traumatised by the Sainik riot, but disappointed that Sacred Heart

was on Shillong’s fringe and with a village clientele. Also, for the first

time ever, I had to care for myself. While at school in Kohima I lived

with my sisters and brothers who looked after the baby of the family. Then at the Sainik School everything was provided for us, we simply

went to meals and put our clothes in a laundry bag. Now I faced

planning meals, shopping, cooking and doing my own laundry. I was 10 7

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

able to find lodging with three other Naga, who were also studying in Shillong. We rented a small two-bedroomed house from a Khasi

woman, which was clean and tidy. I shared a room with my cousin Nidelhu. Kolezo and his cousin Pelhuhu shared the other. We had

our meals from a mess run by a Khasi family but had to cook our own on weekends. We made our own beds, cleaned our rooms and

keep the floorboards polished. I had to walk for forty minutes each way to school. It was all a bit of a shock.

When I returned to Shillong for my second year at Sacred Heart

things looked brighter. I joined the athletics team and became the school champion. Our school also went to the district sports com­

peting against thirty-five other schools, including the elite schools. Our school, which few had heard of, came third. Due to my height I gained many of our points with firsts in the long jump, and hop, step and jump; a place in the high jump; and our sprint team of which I

was a member gained a place in the relays. Father Attard, who was normally strict and formal, called out: ‘Hey! Visier, long legs! You brought honour to our school, very good!’ There were girls at Sacred

Heart but in a different campus behind high walls and under the strict surveillance of the nuns. However, Sailo, ‘George Harrison’

and I managed to meet some girls. We used to write letters to them and the three of us had many conversations about these girls. Things were changing.

I came to see Shillong was a beautiful city. It was very small by

Indian standards, having little more than 100,000 resid­ents in 1968 when I arrived. It was a gem of the British Raj and favoured by cooler

mountain air, being 1,500 metres above sea level and centred on the

Shillong Plateau. It had fine old colonial build­ings, a British colonial precinct with a lake and pine forest to walk in, and picturesque vistas 10 8

S tudent Days

provided by a golf links, cricket ground and polo field. It was often

called ‘Scotland of the East’. We Naga boys and girls went for picnics in Lady Hydari Park, which had a mini zoo; to Elephant Falls for

some invigorating plunges into mountain streams; and hiking for panoramic views to Shillong Peak, 500 metres above the city. I was beginning to feel alive and freer.

Shillong was also known for its music and we sometimes went to

concerts and revues. Near the end of my second year at Sacred Heart,

when preparing for my matriculation exams, I went for a walk. I

saw some young European people in a truck handing out flyers for a music revue ‘Anything to Declare’. I decided to go with my room­

mate Kolezo Chase. To my surprise I saw my cousin Niketu Iralu

there. He had left Nagaland to travel to America and the United King­dom. He was at front of house introducing the performers.

Naturally after the show I re-introduced myself to him – as I had grown much since we last met – and he introduced me to some of

the cast. I met Peter Shambrook from England, and an Australian youth Rob Wood – two people with whom I am still in touch.

‘Anything to Declare’ was a musical produced by Initiatives of

Change, featuring stories of forgiveness, reconciliation and hope. One told of a French woman, a socialist and member of the French

Resistance, Madame Irene Laure. Her son was tortured by the Gestapo, causing her to wish all Germans wiped off the face of the

earth. After the war she became a member of the French Parliament and attended a conference on the rebuilding of Europe. Germans attend­ed too. Madame Laure was about to storm out when someone

asked ‘How can Europe be rebuilt without Germany?’ Madame Laure stopped in her tracks, turned and stayed. She subsequently

toured Germany, addressing public meetings and state parliaments, 10 9

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

to apologise for her hatred of Germans as a people and seeking reconciliation. Madame Laure was honoured by all governments for her role in assisting the healing between France and Germany.

Kolezo and I found this and other stories and songs deeply moving; and challenging. I returned home but could not sleep. I had met

Europeans, vibrant and beautiful young men and women, not older Catholic priests and brothers who were my teachers, which was novel for me. But most of all I was deeply confronted by their message of reconciliation.

The next day I went and talked to my neighbour, Mr Gogoi, an

Assamese journalist. I felt angry and confused, but also inspired

by the message of ‘Anything to Declare’. I told him of my family’s

exper­ience of Indians, my father’s torture, the burning of our village, our flight to the jungle, my brother Perhicha’s imprisonment, and my

terror at the Sainik School just a few years earlier. I told him too of having my Naga language and culture overridden by that of India. My neighbour listened and replied, ‘I know you people don’t like us. But I am Assamese, and being in far north-eastern India I feel those

from mainland India oppress and neglect us too. So I can understand how you feel’. This man wrote and published an article in the local

newspaper about the Naga boy who came to talk peace, and of our conversation.

The press article created a lot of discussion and people asked about

it and how I was able to find some forgiveness. I had much to reflect

upon as I left for home during the long break after the matriculation

exams; a break that lasted from December to the following July. If I passed I could enter tertiary education.

During this break I attended a two-week camp at Asia Plateau,

a centre in Panchgani near Bombay, run by the group Initiatives of 110

S tudent Days

Change. This group emerged from the ideas of Dr Frank Buchman,

an American Lutheran minister, who believed the world’s problems stemmed from personal selfishness and fear. He formed a group

called the Oxford Group in the 1930s. It changed its name in 1938 to Moral Rearmament, after Buchman declared the world needed not military but ‘moral rearmament’. In 2001 this group altered its name again to Initiatives of Change, and was led from 2009–12 by Professor Rajmohan Gandhi, who had inspired me forty years

earlier at my village of Khonoma. Indeed, Initiatives of Change had a profound impact on the total direction of my life.

The aims of the Asia Plateau centre were to build bridges in a

div­ided world. Students came from all over India and there were Americans and Europeans there too. Each day we followed a rou-

tine. We rose, took breakfast together, and then held meetings, in which people told stories of who they were and their country. The

discussions helped to dispel myths about each other. I remember a

Punjabi student saying ‘I hear you people are very wild warriors and

head-hunters’. Another knew we were now Christians. Another, a journalist, asked: ‘I heard that Nagas were head hunters and are now

Christians and head hunters, they are still killing each other with the slogan “Nagaland for Christ”. What do you say about this?’ I replied cheekily to such a silly question: ‘Well, there’s a difference, the Naga chopped off their enemy’s head before they became Christians. But now they are Christians, they say grace before they go to war’.

My own prejudices were challenged too. Most Naga had little

time for Indians, thinking them clever in business, but cunning and likely to cheat you. They were, in short, not to be trusted. Their army was ruthless and without mercy and had oppressed us after their in­

vasion of Nagaland in the early 1950s. These views were shaken by 111

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

the many fine Indians I met at Asia Plateau. These included Ravi Rao from South India; Rusi Lala, a journalist from Bombay; Colonel

Rege and his son Vijay and daughter Leena; and Suresh Khatri who

later married Leena Rege; and Dhananjai Pandya. There was also Rupa Chinai, a Gujarati girl from a high to do family, who contin­

ually smiled and was very interested in the Naga story. Rupa became a prominent journalist and we remain friends forty-five years later.

The camp opened my eyes and those of others to the wider world,

as I met people from beyond India. I found the British most fas­cin­ at­ing as they had run Nagaland as a colony until just before my birth.

The Naga always ask the British about the handover of the Naga to India: ‘Why did you have to hand us over to somebody else to rule, if

you didn’t want to rule us?’ So there was resent­ment about the whole

saga of col­onial­ism, and in many aspects the evils of col­onial­ism, and the horrific things that the British did. But at the same time,

the Naga, like other colonial subjects, had awe, even respect for the

tech­nol­ogy, knowledge and power of the colonisers. The British at the camp were em­barr­assed about their colonial past, and I was am­

biv­a lent about it, so it was an interest­ing conversat­ion. Besides, the

sit­uat­ion was amel­iorated a little by British colonialism being now placed at one re­move from the Naga by Indian colonialism.

Like the apology of Gandhi’s grandson Rajmohan to the villagers

of Khonoma in 1967, the revue ‘Anything to Declare’ and the follow­

ing fortnight at Asia Plateau set me thinking. I was born into the animist spirituality of my Angami people in Khonoma, but attended

a Baptist school from the age of nine. I was nominally converted to Christianity when I was about sixteen. However, I was not baptised until I saw the revue ‘Anything to Declare’ and experienced Asia

Plateau. I was nineteen and it caused a profound spiritual awaken­ing 11 2

S tudent Days

in me – an epiphany. I became a Christian by conviction. ‘Anything

to Declare’ also made a seismic impact on my friend, cousin and fellow student at Shillong, Kolezo Chase. His similar epiphany was to have profound implications for peacemaking in the future of Nagaland, but more of that later.

From Asia Plateau I went back home to my village much changed,

but it was time to grow rice. So I worked very hard, especially because

my sister Jakieno was not well. We had to dig the soil, transplant rice

in the paddy fields, and I laboured just like the other villagers. The months passed, but finally June arrived, and with it the examin­ ation results in the Assam Tribune. We searched the columns for my

name, and someone declared: ‘You passed, your number is there!’

The news quickly spread around the village ‘Visier passed matric’. Of the thousands of names listed I was one of them. Indeed, ten youths from my village passed matriculation that year, so Khonoma was in high delight.

My family were ecstatic too. I was the first one of the family to pass

matriculation. Two of my brothers had tried three times, but being

from a village school they had little chance. My sister Jakieno tried as well, but she lost so much schooling while in the jungle, and also attended a village school, that she too had little probability of success. The family discussions quickly turned to ‘Where should Visier go?’

They aimed high for me. My brother Perhicha thought I should go to Calcutta, but Dozo thought it should be Delhi. However, Darjeeling

entered the frame. It had good colleges, a fine climate, and was far closer and perhaps safer than Delhi or Calcutta. So yet again I left home for my education: having first gone to Kohima, then to

Bhubaneswar, followed by Shillong, now I was to go to Darjeeling. My Naga roots seemed to be loosening. 113

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

My arrival in Darjeeling had an embarrassing false start. My

cousin Nidelhu and I journeyed by train to Darjeeling and pres­

ented ourselves to St Joseph’s College for enrolment. Father Gerald Leclaire SJ, a Canadian Jesuit and the principal, asked where were

our migration certificates – a form of cross-state educational passport

– and our examination results. He exclaimed, making us feel very

silly, ‘We cannot consider you before you have such documentation!’ So we had to return home to our families and the village without

success. We applied for these documents, posted them, and a month later received news we had been accepted. So we set off a second time on the long train journey.

Darjeeling had the reputation of being a very beautiful city, and

like Shillong was a favoured summer retreat of the British Raj. It was

twice as far from Kohima as Shillong; a little smaller, a little higher,

and nestled under the Himalayas and mighty Mount Kanchenjunga on the eastern border of Nepal. It was famed for its black tea, which

grows on the slopes of its 2,200 metre hills, surrounded by dense

forests. It had the usual colonial buildings, some gothic, some mock Tudor, and Christian churches such as St Andrews, a relatively new

zoo, and the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, since listed as a world heritage site. Its culture was a mix of Nepalese, Tibetan, Sikkimese and Bhutanese traditions, with a bit of English and Scottish thrown

in. It was famed for its mists, which suddenly cleared, to reveal breath­taking vistas. Darjeeling was also noted for its educational

institutions. A Tibetan princess had studied there before the Second World War, and a famous Naga soldier, General Mowu, had been

educated there in the 1950s. Darjeeling had several tertiary colleges, all connected to the University of North Bengal.

114

S tudent Days

My fellow students likened me to the film star Bruce Lee while I was in St Joseph’s College at University of North Bengal, Darjeerling, India, 1971–74.

Our introduction to Darjeeling was mixed. For the first few

months, my cousin and I and other St Joseph’s College boarders were

housed in the huge former palace of the King of Kush Bihar, while the college built new hostel accommodation. However, it was now in a state of disrepair. The chimneys had collapsed, the windows were

broken, and we boys were packed in six and seven to an admittedly large room. It was wet, misty and raining when we arrived and it rained every day for weeks. But classes were a surprise for me. For the first time in my whole education to this point, I was not the giant

of the class. All the boys were tall, and a lot of the boys from Tibet

and Punjab were taller than me. And I discovered tall boys were

popular with girls. And yes, it was coeducational; there were girls at my college for the first time in my education! Initially I was nervous

and very shy, but soon it became more natural and fun to have girls around.

The new boarders faced the usual ragging. Boys had their heads

shaved and some girls were even stripped naked by other girls. Each 11 5

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

of us was allocated a number which the older students used to bark orders at us new and unknowns: ‘Polish these shoes, clean this room,

now!’ For several weeks this went on. It was quite horrible, and

some took it hard, but I had experienced it at the Sainik School and managed to survive. At the end of the ragging period a welcome

party and dance was held. We were allowed to take off our numbers,

dress in our best clothes and enjoy a dinner dance. It was the first time I had danced with girls in a Western way. We all practised our

moves and then asked a girl to dance. As my cousin Nidelhu was shy, I went and asked a girl: ‘Please dance with my cousin, he’s very shy’.

Darjeeling’s colleges were exciting. It was a melting pot of classes,

castes and ethnicities. The cousin of the King of Nepal, and royal family members from Indian princely states, were resident in my college. The Prince of Sikkim visited. There were many high to do

people from the cities of Bombay, Delhi and Calcutta who sent their children there. There were also Adivasi, the local indigenous people,

who, being Catholic converts, gained scholarships to go to St Joseph’s College. The Adivasi were mostly labourers in the tea gardens. The

children of high caste Brahmins were there too. The majority of

students were Nepalese, Tibetan, Bhutanese and Sikkimese, and of course some Naga, all of whom did not come from a caste society,

but rather one marked by the difference between the wealthy high

to do and villagers. The Jesuits seemed to be purposefully mixing it up, and of course they were seeking to train replacements for their ageing European priesthood. Hundreds of Adivasi were training at a seminary at Darjeeling.

My first year studies went quite well, although I found English

Literature troublesome. At the end of the year we sat for our exams that would gain us entry to a degree at the University of North Bengal. 116

S tudent Days

However, there was a complication caused by insurgent action of the

Naxalites. These were a group of Maoist Marxists who emerged in Naxalbari in Bengal. They fomented strikes and attacked landlords and other capitalists, and developed into an armed insurgency that has

battled with the Indian Government for forty years. They attacked

educational institutions and burned examination papers, and that is what happened to mine – or so it appeared. I received the news from

the college that I had failed my entry exams. Father Van, my mentor at the college, was shocked and so was I. He asked me what I would

do. I was determined to repeat the year to ensure university entrance,

which he readily supported, calling me ‘courageous’. But the next first-year intake did not happen for another six months.

Again turmoil intervened in my life. In March 1971 a terrible war

broke out between East Pakistan (later aided by India), and West

Pakistan. The military junta controlling West Pakistan sought to repress Bengali nationalists in the east, who declared themselves a

provisional government of Bangladesh. Fighting and mass killings

by air strikes and army operations followed against those in East Pakistan. Over ten million Bengalis fled into India, including the members of the provisional government, and three times as many

people were displaced internally by the fighting. The world was out­

raged by the mass killings that amounted to three million by war’s end. India joined the fighting with East Pakistan in early December

1971. Subsequently an Indo-West Pakistan war erupted, leading to West Pakistan’s surrender two weeks later. Bangladesh was created

as a secular democracy and widely recognised by nations across the world in 1972.

How did Bangladesh’s Liberation War impact on me? Well, there

were many refugees in the Darjeeling district and some students 117

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

went to help through the Red Cross, but returned in a few weeks sick with diarrhoea. Father Van said: ‘You are not going to have a class for

another six months because you are repeating, so you can go down

and work in the refugee camp and I’ll pay you a hundred rupees a

month’. So I went with four Adivasi students. When we arrived we were flabbergasted, as there were 80,000 refugees in this camp on the

Indian–East Pakistan border, soon to be renamed Bangladesh. They

were living in a sea of Red Cross tents and supported by Caritas. The five of us were to teach 7,000 students, and I, who had apparently not been so successful in my university entrance year just completed, was to be their headmaster!

The classes were conducted by ‘teachers’ recruited from any ref­

ugees who had passed matriculation. We paid them one rupee a day. Classes began early and in the open air, as the temperature soon

rose to the high thirties. The children were divided into age groups

and dispersed over the school grounds in manageable groups. There were no books, pencils, paper or blackboards, so the children learned

orally. Classes were in Bengali and the children were taught maths, poetry and singing. It was a cacophony of noise, much like a bazaar,

as each group competed with adjoining groups. But some learning took place and their mornings diverted from the misery that faced them. At lunchtime the 7,000 lined up for porridge prepared by the nuns and other volunteers.

The camp was tinged with death each day as diarrhoea in particular

raged. Others died from malaria-related complications. I learned

some basic medical skills, including giving injections – although

some of my patients yelled when I jabbed them in the wrong place. And I was involved in burial details with other volunteers and servicemen. Most mornings we would bury the dead in quite shallow 118

S tudent Days

graves, of two to five bodies together. The sound of guns and bomb

blasts rattled and boomed in the distance. It was a ghastly time but

the refugees showed great fortitude. A priest came each night to say Mass and then we would sing, tell stories and crack jokes. And so it went for six months. When the war ended we returned the refugees by trucks provided by the military. However, five million escaped

into different parts of North East India, where some Bangladeshi communities remain today, experiencing occasional racial trouble with Indians.

While working at the camp I was attracted to a young Nepali nun,

Sister Theresa. She was very beautiful and being young and a Baptist myself, which is a religion without a celibate clergy, I did not think about the consequences. There was some chemistry between us and

we chatted on many occasions over dinner. One night we trucked

some Bangladeshi refugees over the border and our driver became

lost on the way back. We arrived back very late in the night to the anger of her Mother Superior and a priest. My explanations were in vain. The next day Sister Teresa told me over dinner: ‘I’ve been

ordered to return to my teaching position’, adding ‘you can come and

see our school’. As soon as I returned to my college in Darjeeling I

went to visit her, but was told ‘She has been transferred, and you are not to contact her’.

I returned to college in December 1971 with much experience

and 700 rupees in my pocket, as Father Van had given me an

extra hundred. I had learned Bengali in the last six months as few Bangladeshis spoke English or Hindi. It was like immersion learning

as we had to converse every day in Bengali to do our job. The whole experience was challenging. You do things because you have to do them, and this built a confidence in me. I always remember Father 119

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Van telling me upon my return: ‘You will not realise now, but when

you get older you will see what you have done. And what you have done is something many, many people will never experience’.

I had achieved these things due to my innocence. I was fresh,

ideal­istic, full of hope and positive energy. A twenty-year-old believes he can do anything – any adventure is possible. I was also a dreamer and I did it because it was fun. Volunteers who were more mature did it for compassion and out of deep concern, but often it had an emo-

tional impact on them. But we younger people were less disturbed because of our naïve belief in the goodness of humanity, although physically I was very exhausted and blackened by the constant expo-

sure to the sun. I went home to rest. It had been a hard experience for all, but even for refugees the camp was better than their war-torn

home soil, where people were dying in their tens of thousands – over three million in all. They were out of immediate danger in the camp and had shelter of sorts, and basic food provided by Red Cross, Caritas or the UN.

When I arrived home at Christmas a most marvellous thing hap­

pened. A telegram came from the university saying I did not fail

overall. But I did have to redo one exam, as papers were still missing. The day after Christmas day I repacked my bags and headed back to Darjeeling. When I arrived it was snowing. I hired a room and

engaged a tutor for some specialist coaching. After a month of study in early 1972, I went to the main campus of the University of North

Bengal down in the valley below Darjeeling in Siliguri, and sat the

exam. I was ecstatic with the outcome as I had passed my pre-entry year for university, and thus did not have to repeat the year! And due to the war and the Naxalite insurgency, which had disrupted classes in late 1971, I missed very little of my first year at university. 120

S tudent Days

However, within a few months my studies were disrupted, as my

brother Perhicha developed a very serious and life-threatening brain

tumour. My family asked me to accompany him to Vellore Chris­tian Hospital in southern India, one of the country’s foremost hospitals. I

needed to miss a month of classes. But when I asked for leave some teachers objected to allowing me to miss so many classes. But Father

Vann said: ‘It is your brother, of course you must go’. I journeyed home to collect him; anxious for Perhicha, and nervous about the respons­ibility I faced. My parents knew little about brain tumours,

but had been told it was a horrendous illness. So my father gave me instructions on how to bury my brother if the operation was un­ successful, as it would be too difficult and too expensive to bring his

body home. So I took a Naga shawl to wrap my brother’s body, with directions as to the correct ritual. The journey south was a grim time.

In Vellore we rented a room in a guesthouse. Next morning

we queued at the hospital. The nursing staff informed us: ‘We are

arranging things, your turn will come’, which it did two weeks

later. Perhicha underwent an operation lasting many hours, and emerged gravely ill. His head was shaven and the regrowth fell out

from post-operative chemotherapy, and his eyesight was also affected.

He remained in hospital for twenty days to gain sufficient strength to

return to the guesthouse. His life savings were absorbed by that big and very expensive operation – but he survived.

For two months he was a day patient receiving medications each

morning, relaxing for the remainder of the day at the guesthouse. I read many books, mostly novels, lent me by another patient from

Nepal, including Perry Mason legal stories, and some American westerns. I made friends with relatives of other patients, and on

occasions we rode bicycles in the countryside and went for a swim. 1 21

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

But it was a depressing time, since Perhicha was so weak and ill for many weeks. After two and a half months, which fortunately included the college’s summer holidays, my brother was well enough

to travel home. I sent him home under the care of someone else,

and I flew direct to the college, worried about the length of my absence. But Father Vann the principal understood, so I continued my studies.

Upon recommencement I shifted to History, and revelled in stud-

ies of the Reformation, the American Revolution, the World Wars, and other aspects of world history. Academically I was growing

stronger, reading beyond the text book, and beginning to increase my knowledge and to expand my world view through history. Father Van inspired and mentored me right through university. We talked

often and a few of us went hiking and swimming with him. We

talked of many things. One day after hiking he confided, ‘You know, last night after we went for a hike, I realised I am not going to last

forever, I was so tired, I knew one day I will die’. He was then in his fifties, which I thought was very old.

I continued to reside in St Joseph’s College, which was paid for

by my parents, while my tuition fees were covered by the Nagaland

Government. St Joseph’s College changed over my time there. At first the students were served as in colonial times, and wore jackets and ties, but all that changed, and we had to queue up and serve

ourselves at the buffet. The principal explained: ‘We can’t keep this old tradition as it is too expensive’. However, the student management

remained. In my second year of the BA degree I was elected as a jun­ ior councillor with a few others and progressed to be head councillor

in my third and last year of my degree. Councillors were in charge of discipline in the dining hall and college rooms, ensuring people 122

S tudent Days

met curfews. We also handled student mail and kept the notice board

up to date. Our greatest power was controlling water – hot water in particular. Darjeeling had been designed as a British hill station for

summer retreats to accommodate 10,000 people. However, by the

time I arrived, it was well on the way to ten times that number. So the city struggled for water despite all the rain, due to a storage problem.

College cold water shower times were naturally restricted. This

was more so with hot showers due to the cost of fuel. They were

restrict­ed to once a week, which was a hardship in a mountain clim­

ate. Water was heated only on Saturday morning and boys would enter the shower twenty at a time. The four councillors would shout

‘ready!’, and turn on the hot water for two minutes to wet everyone. Then we would turn off the water while they soaped up for about

five minutes, and then turn it on again for another two minutes to rinse off. They always complained and pleaded with us ‘Don’t

close the water’, so we might give them a little extra to show our benevolence. We timed it with a clock, like a military operation. But

once everyone was finished and gone, we four councillors shower­

ed for as long as we liked while the water remained hot. We were abusing our position as councillors but we thought it was fun. After the shower everyone dressed up and headed out for Saturday night

in the city, going to a movie, or dating their girlfriends. They were

supposed to return by 10pm, but many were late. They climbed the

gate or the water pipe to enter the college and we duly noted their names for a report to the college principal.

In the last year of my degree I became the college’s athletic cham­

pion, assisted by training at the Sainik military school. The Naga

students at the college were proud, declaring: ‘Oh, you’ve brought us

honour’. Indeed, there were several hundred Naga youth, boys and 123

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

girls, scattered across different colleges studying in Darjeeling, as

there were few colleges in Nagaland at the time. A Naga Students Union existed, which ran various socials: dances, picnics and film

nights. We were more organised than other ethnic and student

groups. Indeed, following a tragedy in which a Naga youth drowned while on a picnic, the Naga Students Union took responsibility for

organis­ing the entire funeral. They did it perfectly well, and the college authorities remarked: ‘We have never seen any student body like this’.

We also talked politics in the Naga Students Union, which often

became a stepping stone to a political career. The question of the day was the creation of the state of Nagaland in 1963 as part of India.

This issue split the Naga and was debated by students during my undergraduate years at the University of North Bengal. The Naga

Students Union always supported independence from India, not auton­omy, and certainly not incorporation as a state. They were not

only deeply aware of their Naga roots, and their history, but many of their parents had been jailed, faced starvation in the jungle or fought for the Naga Army.

Statehood caused a deep split in Naga politics that penetrated to

every level and sometimes became deadly. It entered all our lives,

including mine. I have already explained earlier how the Naga People’s Convention in 1958 sought to negotiate peace, and how

its president Dr Imkongliba – a good man – was killed after some self-serving people at the Convention signed the 16-point statehood

agreement with India, without consulting other Naga. When I was

at St Joseph’s College in 1973 my roommate was a young Naga boy called Imi, who was from an educated and high to do family. His brother was a doctor and his sisters were also university students. He 124

S tudent Days

was always well and fashionably dressed and a sound student, while

I was doing better at sport and my lessons, and spoke more fluent English than he did. We became friends, but we never talked much

about our family background. I was reticent lest he learn that my parents were villagers, traditional, and not Christians.

But one day while we talked I asked ‘What does your father do’

and he relied ‘My father was killed, by the Underground Nagas’. I was stunned into silence because my family were Underground Nagas. I realised his father was Dr Imkongliba, the President of the

Naga People’s Convention. In a flash I knew the Council’s people,

our army, my people, assassinated his father! I just said: ‘Oh, I’m sorry’. We never talked about it again, but I realised his father was a

good man, who was sincerely trying to bring peace in the best way he thought possible – for the war between the Indian Government and

the Naga nationalists was truly terrible. Imi came to know, some­ how, that my family and my village were nhanumia (Underground),

although he also knew that it was not my tribe that killed his father. Neither of us every spoke of it again. We just moved on and remain friends to this day.

The Naga students were into fun. Indeed, they were always very

popular, because they wore the latest fashion: jeans, bellbottom trousers, platform shoes and, for the boys, long hair. The Naga girls

were even more popular, as they were not only fashionable, but good singers and dancers as well. Some of the young men and women

played guitar, and all of us followed Western music: the Beatles, and Elvis Presley. I was popular in the college. Many said I looked

like Bruce Lee, the martial arts film star. They called to me: ‘Hey,

Bruce Lee, Bruce Lee’. I thought it was funny, but it made me

125

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

happy nonetheless. I combed my hair like his and dressed like him. In the latest bellbottoms and platform shoes I stood about six foot two.

Interestingly enough, nobody noticed my background as a villager,

either by my face, my dress, or the way I spoke. They thought I was one of them, from a rich educated, high to do family. Many rich Naga studied in Darjeeling, but almost half of the Naga students in the university were sons and daughters of villagers on scholarships.

Some­times wealthy students casually asked ‘What does your father do?’ I just replied ‘My father was in business’, which he was, being

a shopkeeper in our village. I never told a lie, but did give a false impression. I would also make a joke out of it. However, one friend

lectured me, saying ‘Some of us who come from a village, and are poor despite getting an education, are ashamed of their back­ground, they’re ashamed of their parents. You should not be like that!’ I was

never ashamed of my parents, but I was clearly avoiding the issue. I was impressed by my friend’s admonition: that you should always be proud of your own background.

Not long after that I went home for a holiday. My father wanted

to go shopping in Dimapur. I went with him dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, and long hair of course. I was walking with my father from

shop to shop, and a car slowed down and a girl waved. I couldn’t

see her face because the car was still moving, as a police officer was ordering ‘Move, move, move, you are slowing the traffic’. So the car drove on and I did not know who was in the car. But back in College

after the holiday, a girl I knew approached me and said: ‘I was so impressed by you, because you were helping a poor villager from shop

to shop. I saw you and I tried to wave, but you didn’t see me. You are always helping refugees, and now you are helping poor villagers’. I replied ‘That was my Dad’ and her face just changed colour. I wasn’t 126

S tudent Days

ashamed to say that he was my father, but the situation would have

been confusing for her. Here was a young man, dressed like Bruce Lee, with a poor villager in chapal (slippers) and a red shawl. She thought I was one of her class, but I didn’t belong to her class, I was just acting, and now I thought that should stop.

My undergraduate days at university flew by as I was absorbed in

my studies and having much fun as well. Hiking in the mountains was a great pastime. I climbed with my cousin Nidelhu, my Bhutan­ ese friend Karma Dorjee, and my Chinese friend Kong King Liu. We hired equipment from the Himalayan Mountain Institute and we trekked as high as we could go without oxygen. It was October

and sunny weather without rain, so we could see the snow-covered Himalayas rising majestically before us, as we struggled on in the thinning air. It was an exhilarating experience.

One of the most memorable times was a holiday in Sikkim with

my friend Keshar Kumar Pradhan, during the October Puja Holiday. Sikkim was in those days the fairytale kingdom of the Himalayas.

The Sikkimese people comprised three ethnic groups: Lepcha,

Bhutia and Nepalese. They are the most peaceful and gentle people and they live in harmony, respecting each other’s culture. Indeed, it is said the Lepcha did not have a word for ‘murder’, as it never occurred

in traditional times. My friend took me to his village in Pakyong and then we spent a couple of weeks in the capital Gangkok. Being Naga in Sikkim was very popular in those days and every night I

was invited out for dinner. We visited monasteries and drove up to the Chinese border.

Sadly, twenty years after I left, the fairytale ended in tragedy. The

takeover of Sikkim by India was precipitated by two white tigresses,

according to a recent book Open Secrets: India‘s Intelligence Unveiled 1 27

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

(2010) by a former intelligence director, Maloy Krishna Dhar. The American-born Queen Hope Cooke, wife of King Chogyal Palden Thondup Namgyal, and the Belgian-born Eliza Maria Khansarpa,

wife of the pro-democracy leader Kazi Lhendup Dorji Khangsarpa,

created nervousness within the Indian Government. Queen Hope Cooke aspired to make Sikkim more high profile internationally,

while Eliza Khansarpa was pro-Indian. The Indian Government took the opportunity to annex Sikkim in May 1995, as it was situated in a sensitive geo-political area bordering China and India. Many considered this a very reprehensible political manoeuvre.

In mid-1974, the six month study period before my final exams

began. During my preparation I received an interesting invitation due to my earlier connections with Asia Plateau. In 1973 people

asked themselves at an Asia Plateau conference whether peace could be reasserted once the Vietnam War ended. Some students wrote

a musical called ‘Song of Asia’ to present the case for peace in Asia

through music, dance and drama. Rajmohan Gandhi, who was at the conference, declared ‘Song of Asia’ was sparked by a vision of

a new Asia and a new world. In early 1974 I was invited to join the revue. I thought this would be a window to the world for me – a sort of Gap Year once my exams were over, and until I continued further

study or something else. So I accepted. Admittedly, the peacemaking philosophy of ‘Song of Asia’ was secondary for me at the time.

I developed an ulcer, perhaps due to the stress of my final year at

university. Perhicha heard this and immediately travelled to Dar­

jeeling to assist. He accompanied me to the railway station at nearby Siliguri, where I was to depart for treatment in Bombay. Then I told

him after treatment I was not coming home, but going to join ‘Song

of Asia’. The Naga generally show few emotions and rarely cry. For 128

S tudent Days

instance, when you arrive home after being away, someone would just say ‘Oh, you are home’. But when Perhicha took me to the railway

station, he broke down, sputtering out: ‘You saved my life, you know, when I had a brain operation, you were the only one who was there’. Then he wept.

I was both astonished and moved. I was also churning, but on the

inside. Having left family and Nagaland for much of my education, I was about to take my leave of India.

1 29

Cha pte r 8

T OU R I NG W I T H ‘ S ONG OF A SI A’ After farewelling Perhicha in Darjeeling, and receiving medical

treatment in Bombay, I journeyed to Asia Plateau, the Initiatives of Change Centre in the hills at Panchgani, a day’s journey from

Bombay. Again, I was heading for a beautiful place, where bureau­ crats of the British Raj retreated from the summer’s heat. I had

attended conferences there over the last few years, but this venture was new and unknown. My excitement would have been intensified

if I had foreseen that ‘Song of Asia’ would change my life, and create a chain of friends across the world that vibrates to this day.

I immediately began rehearsals and slotted into the choir quite well.

Bente Lancaster (nee Sigmund), a Norwegian opera singer, taught proper breathing, stage presence, and to smile with energy all the

time. A Maori, Te Rangi Huata, imparted Maori songs and dances. We were coached to project and create drama with our voices, which I still utilise today. A troupe of forty people were already perform­ing in schools across India, perfecting the show. They returned for more

workshops and hard training. We had breakfast and rehearsed, ate

lunch and trained some more, and after dinner at night we rehearsed further. We toured locally in southern India, came back for more

training, performed in northern India and rehearsed some more. We

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

did that for several months. Then we toured overseas, which for me required a special passport, as I was a Naga from an area then under

Indian military control. On this tour I encountered some of the great events of the day in Asia.

We arrived in Vientiane, Laos, on 3 April 1974; the very day of a

historic but futile reconciliation between Prince Souvanna Phouma,

a Lao centralist leader, and his half-brother, Prince Souphanouvong, who supported the communist Pathet Lao. A civil war had raged in

Laos since 1953, one recently entangled with the Vietnam War. Our opening night was on 10 April. Among the thousand people present

were the Prime Minister, Prince Souvanna Phouma; members of the new cabinet and other parliamentarians; army generals; and members of the diplomatic corps. In a message to the cast, Prince

Souvanna Phouma wrote: ‘Laos, being firmly attached to the great moral principles, in all their forms and manifestations, is very happy to welcome the artistic group on her soil’.

I had a speaking role in a small but powerful dramatic sketch

about a mother with three sons in Nagaland. One son was shot by the Indian Army, and a second son – played by me – wanted to take

revenge on the Naga villager who informed on his brother to the

Indian Army. But the villagers stopped him, saying if this informant

were killed the Indian Army would retaliate against the whole village

and probably burn it. In frustration, and shame at not being able to take revenge, this second son played by me shot himself. The mother

in despair at losing two sons asked: ‘Who will break this chain of

hate? Who will break the chain of sorrow, of ancient hate, of ancient wrongs that have shed blood today, and wrongs today that will shed

blood tomorrow?’ The third brother entered and declared: ‘I have the courage to kill a man. But if I can have the courage to kill a man, 131

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

why cannot I also have the courage to love him enough to make him a different man?’ So he forgave the Naga informant.

It was a play of forgiveness. Rajmohan Gandhi, who travelled

with us, asked: ‘Will Asia be known by the blast of bombs, suffering

and crime, or will Asia be known by the still, small voice?’ This was the philosophy of his grandfather, Mahatma Gandhi. There is an inner voice more powerful than bombs that speaks ‘peace’.

When asked why he supported Initiatives of Change, and did he

think India could change, Rajmohan Gandhi replied: ‘I am doing this because it is the right thing to do’. Then, quoting Mahatma

Gandhi, he added: ‘Be the change you want to see in the world’. From that personal change, a better world would emerge. This was

an inspiring and empowering message for me, and for Laos. The leading Laotian language daily wrote of this dramatic sketch of the

mother and three sons: ‘What moved one most was the morality

that instead of killing one another, Man can reconcile’. Unfor­tun­ ately, the reconciliation of April 1974 dissolved over the next year.

The communist Pathet Lao gained the ascendancy, and, aided by the

North Vietnamese (once the Vietnam War ended), assumed control of Laos in December 1975.

The following month we toured South Vietnam, arriving in Saigon

on 15 May. The war was raging close to Saigon and at night we heard

distant bomb blasts and the crackle of gunfire. It seemed that the South was in danger of losing the war. General Tran Thien Khiem, Prime Minister of the Republic of Vietnam, and his cabinet members

attended the premiere in Saigon. When the cast sang ‘Vietnam, Vietnam’, the audience were moved to tears. The people responded

to the message of peace, as well as nationalism. A leading daily Song Than wrote: ‘Never has the Vietnamese public been exposed to such a 132

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

The cast of my first performance on tour with 'Song of Asia', 1974. I am in the middle of the back row, five from the right.

treat of a moving moment. It showed that from each heart can spring

the beginning of a new world’. Again the sketch of the mother and three sons had resonated mightily.

The remarkable thing was this sketch of a mother and her three

sons was inspired by an extremely complicated Naga feud across clan and political lines that reached deep into my own family. However, those in ‘Song of Asia’ never knew of my links to this story of the

heroism of Kolezo Chase. Because it was so complicated it was not suitable for a dramatic sketch, so a British playwright working

with ‘Song of Asia’, Alan Thornhill, wrote a simple story to portray Kolezo’s act of forgiveness that ended this feud. The story of this vendetta in the late 1960s and its resolution helps us to understand the powerful splits among the Naga at the time. 133

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

The gist of this family story about Kolezo Chase was a feud between

the associates and extended families of the wives of my brothers Niyiehu and Dozo. Khono, Dozo’s wife who he married in 1960, had a very forceful brother Vichasieto who worked for the Indian

Army as a Village Guard in Khonoma. Vichasieto was disliked and feared by my khel, the Merhüma, who were nationalists. Niyiehu, my

traditionalist brother, married Nizono, and her brother was Captain Arüno of the Naga Army. So the brothers of the two sisters-in-law

were on opposite sides of the Naga struggle – Arüno supporting

the nationalist cause of independence and Vichasieto supporting

incorporation of Nagaland into India. Fortunately their children do not carry such enmities.

In 1968 there was a split in the Naga National Movement between

my tribe the Angami, and the Sumi, a powerful warrior tribe. It had the hallmarks of an ancient tragedy in which brothers and former allies brought death on each other. It was so disastrous a split that it led to killings, of which one Angami elder Zapuvisie Lhousa later wrote:

‘It brought much distress and anguish to the people at large and left the populace very perplexed and distraught’. The Indian Intelligence

Service worked very hard to encourage Naga to defect, using bribery to get some to succumb to their desire for greed and power. This is out-

lined in Maloy Krishna Dhar’s book, Open Secrets: India’s Intelligence Unveiled. This technique for defeating enemies had been practised for 2,000 years, Kautilya writing in Arthashastra about the art of bribery.

Some breakaway Sumi leaders, including General Kaito, formed

the Revolutionary Government of Nagaland and sided with the

Indian Government. However, the Prime Minister of the existing

Federal Government of Nagaland, Kughato Sukhai, issued a decree of azah (‘to arrest or kill’) General Kaito and his fellows, who were 13 4

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

deemed as traitors. Yet the general was the Prime Minister’s own brother, so fraught was this civil war! Captain Arüno, the brother

of my sister-in-law Nizono, was ordered to carry out the azah. This

created personal turmoil as Arüno had admired and served under General Kaito before Kaito’s defection from the Nationalist side.

However, an order to implement an azah could not be denied. Arüno assassinated General Kaito on 3 August 1968 in Kohima, causing widespread consternation. Arüno was in turn shot by the Indian

Army in my village of Khonoma. Arüno’s brother, Metalie, then shot himself at Arüno’s graveside just beyond the bounds of Khonoma village, out of profound grief at the loss of his brother.

Kolezo Chase, who had shared a house with me while we were

studying in Shillong in 1968–69, was white with rage at the deaths.

Captain Arüno and Metalie his brother, who were both dead, were Kolezo’s cousins. Kolezo was in turmoil. He was a fervent nationalist,

and member of the warrior clan of Gwizantsu, the same as Phizo, the father of the modern Naga nation. He wanted to take revenge

to uphold the honour of his clan and also for nationalist reasons. He waited for a chance to kill the man he thought responsible for his

cousins’ deaths, who was Kughato Sukhai, but found it difficult to find the right moment when he was alone. In the meantime divine

intervention occurred to challenge Kolezo’s hate. Both Kolezo and I had seen ‘Anything to Declare’ in Shillong as students, and were

deeply moved by its theme of forgiveness and the story of Madame

Laure who forgave the German people. My uncle Niketu Iralu from Khonoma also spoke to Kolezo about listening to God and the need

to find stillness and forgiveness instead of hate and revenge. Vengeful hatred would only destroy the Naga nation for which his family had sacrificed so much.

135

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Kolezo recalled his changed thinking in a book Scrolls of Strife:

Endless History of the Nagas (2011) by H. and P. Borgohain. One day Kolezo had this thought and voiced it to himself: ‘You have the cour­ age to kill him but have you the courage to love him and make him a

different man?’ Following this profound declaration, Kolezo met the leader of the Sumi breakaway group and apologised for his hatred and

attempt to kill him, saying: ‘I have been so sensitive to how others have hurt me but so insensitive to how I have hurt others’. This apology had

a profound affect and started a chain reaction of forgiveness. The man that Kolezo tried to kill, and who became the Ato Kilonser (Prime

Minister) of the Federal Government of Nagaland that was resisting India’s takeover of Nagaland, years later travelled across the country to apologise to one of Kolezo’s cousins, whom he had jailed. Kolezo studied history like me, and rose to be Principal of Patkai Christian College, one of the leading institutions of higher learning in the state.

His story reinterpreted dramatically in ‘Song of Asia’ inspired count­ less people across Asia, Europe and Canada.

Our life in ‘Song of Asia’ was full of adventure and uncertainty,

not knowing what the next country or next day would bring. We travelled by rail, road and air to twenty-three cities in India, Laos

and Vietnam. In hindsight much could have gone wrong but in our naivety we managed to get through unscathed. This did not always

apply to our luggage. While travelling in southern India we had our suitcases stacked on top of a bus, but we failed to take into account

that some Indian bridges were very low. On one occasion the bus’s roof clipped the bridge and our bags were smashed. On a brighter

note, Mother Theresa met the cast in Calcutta, remarking: ‘thank God you have answered the call. Your work and our work complement each other’.

13 6

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

During 1974 we played before 120,000 people and I also managed

to sit my final university exams and pass my Bachelor of Arts degree. I am sure my education was deepened by travel. My horizons certainly widened, and now we were bound for Europe. When I touched down

in Amsterdam this continent seemed to be a different planet. Outside the airport I was astonished the roads were so straight and clean and the cars drove so fast. It all seemed so organised. I caught a train to Switzerland to join the group.

Once on tour, we often performed twice a day, a matinee, and an

evening show after a rest and dinner. Some venues were very large, and some venues like Westminster Theatre in London, were profess­

ional theatres. As in Asia, our group had some transport adventures. During one train journey two of our group were in the dining car

when it was detached from the rest of the train and directed to another destination. They arrived two days later after making an unscheduled visit to Denmark with no money and no passports.

In each city we were billeted with host families organised by a

committee. Mostly the hosts were ordinary families who wanted to

know something about Asia or just to help out. While staying in

Sweden I asked my host: ‘How did you come to have me into your home?’ She replied: ‘Oh, I was at the hairdresser who said “there’s

some Asians coming to town and did I have a spare room?” I replied: of course I have a room’.

In Norway I also stayed with a young medical doctor, Esben

Benestad, his wife Liv, and their two children Elizabeth and Even. Dr Benestad asked many questions about India, Nagaland, Darjeel­ ing, and also about politics, Marxism and so forth. I couldn’t answer

all his ideological questions because I had never read about such

things, but I could tell him about the struggle of my people. I visited 137

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

him once more, then lost touch, until I connected with his son

Even on Facebook in recent times. Even had just made an awardwinning documentary about his father, called All About my Father.

Dr Benestad had undergone gender reassignment, changed his name

to Esben Esther Pirelli Benestad, had remarried to another woman, and is now a well-known Norwegian sexologist and personality.

I stayed with families in Switzerland, Norway, Denmark, England,

Scotland, Wales, France, Germany, almost the whole of Western Europe, and we often stayed with hosts for up to two weeks. The questions from them were always the same: ‘Where are you from?’,

‘I am from Nagaland’. ‘Where is that, what is it like, what is its

population, size, its economy, its history? What is your relationship with India and China? Will you get independence?’ We would spend hours and hours talking of Nagaland. I did not know all of the

answers, but told what I knew. I decided to learn more, but as there were then few books on Nagaland I started collecting information, and I wrote to my brothers and friends, asking for material and answers to specific questions.

I became very good at relating stories about Nagaland to the rest

of the world. In almost every town and city we performed, I was invited to speak to some group or other, especially schools. I spoke in

a women’s club in Sweden before thousands gathered for their annual meeting. On that day I spoke and sang with my friend Somere Jogo

from Papua New Guinea, who was also travelling with ‘Song of

Asia’. It was quite a scene. Papua New Guinea had just gained its in­dependence from Australian trusteeship that year. The women were astonished to see a real person from the newest country of six

hundred islands and one thousand tribes, and with her was this guy

138

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

from a fairyland called Nagaland, where Christians go headhunting! We made their annual function a great success.

While I was in Tromso in Norway, I met a history professor, who

invited me to lecture to his class, saying ‘I’ll pay you for the lecture’.

For a one-hour lecture he paid me in cash a thousand kroner! I had never seen that much money in my life, more than I could earn in Nagaland in a month. It developed my speaking skills and I even

sang at times, breaking into a Naga chant. I began to think that after my touring was over I would head home and do a Master’s thesis in Naga history.

Requests for information on Nagaland continued and I realised

a thesis in Naga history could help me to fulfil those desires. There were always talk fests after the show as the cast stayed behind to

engage the audience. We shared our stories, our vision for our country and why we are in ‘Song of Asia’. The interest was generally intense,

but sometimes the results were surprising. In Holland one night

after the show I talked to a young man for a long time. He seemed intensely interested in what I had to say. I told him the story about

the mother and three sons and how the third son found healing through forgiving his former enemies. After I had been talking for

about twenty minutes I stopped and asked him what he thought. He said: ‘I am just thinking – you have a very small nose’.

While in Switzerland a friend arranged for me and Charles

Ooi from Malaysia to have breakfast with the King and Queen of Romania. Although the King had been in exile for many years, living a normal life in Switzerland, a king is a king. He was related to all the royal families of Europe and was a distant cousin of the Queen

of England. The night beforehand I hardly slept, thinking ‘waoooo’

139

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

– this boy from the jungle is going to meet a white King! We were

briefed and taught how to address him as ‘Your Highness’. In the morning Charles arrived late and, forgetting his lines, simply said ‘Good morning, sir’. I thought to myself – Oh my God! The King

was very kind and polite. I remember him as a man with some deep sadness in his eyes.

Many wonderful friendships were formed during my trips. One

of my hosts in Switzerland, Collette Konrad, declared that she was going to be my Swiss mother. She bought me a fine Swiss jacket,

which I wore for fifteen years. I lost touch for many years but traced her through the internet after nearly forty years. One day I rang her

when she was in hospital. She was warned that I would be ringing her from Australia but when she heard my voice she was emotional.

A few months later she died. Her daughter Claude emailed me to say that it was the happiest moment for her mother when I spoke to her. She was thinking of me when she died.

‘Song of Asia’ was about spreading healing and forgiveness and the

cast were totally committed to that vision. Love affairs among the cast were disapproved of as distractions to those ends. However, love finds a way. Suresh and Leena Khatri married in England during

the tour to everyone’s delight, while we were still travelling with the

show. At the end others tied the knot, including my friend Charles

Ooi, who married Sano, a Naga girl who played the mother’s role in the show. I was honoured to be his best man at their wedding.

I was also invited to be best man by my close ‘Song of Asia’ friend

Ron Lawler, once he proposed to a girl named Cynthia, who was not with the show. I decided a little Naga humour was in order, so I told

Ron that if I was his best man he would be like my brother. If he died I would be obligated to perform his burial rites in a Naga shawl and 14 0

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

then marry his wife (which was true of one Naga tribe but not mine – the Angami). Out of deference to me they invited me on part of

their honeymoon. It was the most memorable motoring and camping trip of my life! Years later I broke the joke to Ron, and it is still a joke enjoyed by the Lawler family today.

I stayed with ‘Song of Asia’ for three years, experiencing things that

lasted my whole life. Stan and Aileen Shepherd every night played western tourists who were lost in Mumbai in that famous skit ‘Asia Shows the Way’. Directions given by an Indian local flummoxed them

which led to peals of laughter each time from the Indian audience. Rina Sailo and Joseph Zokunga, both from North East India, were wonderful and talented people. Another, Yukihisa Fujita, became a Japanese Finance Minister. I remain in contact with many of them today, scattered as they are through Asia and the Pacific.

One person I met during that tour, who became very influential

in my thinking, was Hans Ragnar Mathisen, from Samiland. He was a young art student who viewed the show in Oslo. Mathisen was fascinated by Asian culture, and was so enamoured with us and the

show that he travelled with ‘Song of Asia’ for over a year. He invited me to visit Samiland in Norway, which I did in 1975, the first of half

a dozen visits over the next thirty years. My friendship with Hans and the trip to Norway deepened my commitment to do a thesis on

Naga history. This was for many reasons, but mostly because he was an indigenous Sami man. After he finished his art degree he travelled

to Asia, visiting Taiwan, Japan and many other places. He came to India in 1977, just after I had left ‘Song of Asia’, and declared: ‘I want to come to Nagaland’.

But before I tell the fascinating story of my friendship with Hans,

I must relate how I came to leave ‘Song of Asia’ in 1976 while I was in 141

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

London. I was on the eve of going to Canada with the show. This was .

exciting for me as I would visit the Americas, and also we were to be

hosted by the First Nations, the Chiefs of the Treaty Seven. However, there was trouble in India and the Prime Minister Indira Gandhi issued a state of emergency. Administration toughened for everyone,

but especially for Nagas, some of whom were imprisoned. I was on a special passport as Naga people did not normally get passports. It had

to be renewed every three months and it had been renewed regularly, but this was now refused. If I had stayed away from India for a few

more weeks I would have been rendered stateless, which would have

been disastrous. I was sad and angry that I could not go to Canada with the rest of the cast, but there was nothing I could do. Nagaland

as a state did not have a passport of its own, and India now refused to renew my special Indian passport. So I left London for home.

When Hans Ragnar Mathisen expressed a wish to visit my village

and other parts of Nagaland, I was very troubled as it seemed an

impossible task. In those days foreigners were not permitted to enter Nagaland. It had been a forbidden land to visit for several genera­ tions. So I told him: ‘No-one can get in’. He replied in a determined

fashion: ‘I can get in’. So we tried by all means possible. We went to Delhi and met members of parliament. Fortunately my Aunty Rano

Shaiza represented the Naga state in the Indian Parliament. She

pulled strings. Officialdom finally promised to grant Hans a three-

day visa, although he would have to be accompanied by police. So Hans and I went to Shillong and we waited, but the Restricted Area Permit did not arrive. We phoned Delhi many times, and finally after a couple of months we received a letter. Hans would be given

a special permit to visit the restricted region of Nagaland, for three days only.

142

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

At Tromso Samiland, Norway with Hans Ragnar Mathisen, 1975.

Hans and I packed our things and caught a train to Nagaland. We

arrived in my village on 14 August 1977, which was by coincidence Naga Independence Day. The village was already celebrating when we arrived, but this was extremely dangerous. Such celebrations were forbidden, as Nagaland’s independence was not recognised by India,

having incorporated it as part of India since 1963. For recognising 14 August as Independence Day, people were liable to be imprisoned. Despite this, most Naga celebrated the day by killing a pig and raising the Naga flag, albeit surreptitiously. My khel, formed of three clans

from the village, was there to welcome Hans. Everyone lined up in tradi­tional dress and chanted a welcome as foreign visitors to Khonoma

were then a rarity. My father Theyievizo, as the kambura and other elders presented Hans with a spear in a welcome ceremony.

143

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Hans’ naming day in Nagaland 14 August 1977. Clan Elder Gozo presents a Naga spear to Keviselie.

It was decided that my family would adopt Hans, making him my

blood brother. This entailed being named in a special ceremony. My mother Niditono slept on the matter as the Naga believe in the power of dreams. She awoke and announced: ‘This man has come to mean

something very significant; he has arrived on an auspicious occasion, Independence Day. His name shall be Keviselie, the one who meets good things in life’. The name was endowed by my father as chief.

Hans always thought his name was given by my father, which it formally was, but my mother had dreamt it. Hans was so proud to be

renamed! Forty years later he still uses it as his artistic name. Google ‘Keviselie’ and read about him.

Immediately after the naming ceremony, Keviselie and I raced

around Nagaland visiting village after village. He took hundreds of photographs and asked endless questions. We did not stop or sleep for three days until his visa ran out. Keviselie became totally committed 14 4

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

to the Naga cause, declaring: ‘I’m going to speak for the Naga cause

in the United Nations; I’m going to speak to my MPs’. Indeed he was

dedicated to indigenous causes in general, later playing a key role in organising the World Council of Indigenous People’s Conference, in Tromsø Norway, which I attended at his invitation in 1990. So began

my deep connection with Keviselie, who became one of the most well-known Sami artists in Norway, and certainly in his own region of Samiland. This friendship changed both our lives.

I first visited Samiland in 1975 while on tour with ‘Song of Asia’.

I returned in 1984 and we travelled to the North Cape on the top of

the planet, and to Alta, Guovdgeaidnu, Karasjohka and Jokkmokk,

all Sami villages in Norway and Sweden adjoining Russia. Indeed, some Sami people live in Russia, being split by colonial borders like

the Naga. This was the last wilderness in Europe, where reindeers and their herdsmen continue to live. The cold was intense at minus 25 degrees Celsius, making breathing difficult. Each night we shared

a fire, listening to each other’s story. I told him about the jungle, my family and village, and my educational journey in Kohima and Indian cities. These stories were interwoven with the story of the Naga struggle against Indian oppression. Keviselie in turn shared his personal history.

What Keviselie told me of his life is detailed by his Sami friend

Nils-Aslaat Valkeapää in a book by Keviselie entitled Hans Ragnar Mathisen, Elle Hǻnsa, Keviselie (1998). The title listed his Norwegian,

Sami and Naga names respectively. Keviselie was born in Narvik in 1945, which had almost been destroyed by Germans troops in

the war. He was one of twins to a Sami mother, Eline, although

his twin did not survive. Keveiselie never knew his father. In his

early years, tuberculosis ravaged the village, killing his grandfather 145

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

and three uncles. Hans contracted the disease and was hospitalised from 1949 to 1956, a prolonged time due to his mother’s own illness.

Upon discharge at age eleven, Hans was fostered by a nurse Nikoline Solberg and her husband, both North Norwegians, and went to live

with them at Tromsdalen, on the mainland opposite Tromsø Island. He was well treated and received a good education, but in his early

twenties returned to his real mother, Eline, and her extended family.

Keviselie became a teacher, then attended an Arts Academy from 1973 to 1979. He remained in contact with his foster parents and

later converted their home in Tromsdalen into an art studio, assisting his career as a struggling artist.

As I listened I realised how lucky I was. I knew, and was nurtured

by, both my parents. I grew up in a village with my three brothers

and three sisters, and with cousins, aunts and uncles close at hand. I experienced traditional life, and although it had been disrupted by flight to the jungle and by Christianisation, I knew who I was. I

still had my roots, and uncles and my traditionalist brother Niyiehu would tell me of the great Naga traditions. Keviselie seemed lost

when I first met him, and separated from his traditional culture due

to postwar disruptions, ill-health, and fostering into Norwegian

culture. That is perhaps why he embraced us Naga, as it put him a little closer to finding his own roots.

We also had something in common. The Sami and the Naga have

suffered the same colonial problem along with those in the Americas,

Australasia, and the Asian-Pacific region. Their context is very dif­ ferent, but all indigenous people share a tremendous grief, sadness and anger, that something has been taken away from them. It could be land as in the Americas and in Australia; it could be language and

culture as in Norway; and it might be independence and sovereignty 14 6

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

as in Nagaland. The Sami were not allowed to speak their language

for many years. Keviselie did not know Sami in his youth but took classes at Teachers Training College. After he visited Nagaland he invited a distant cousin to stay and they only spoke Sami in the

house to further improve Keviselie’s spoken Sami, in which he is

now fluent. It is a deep sadness that colonialism has damaged – even destroyed – cultures.

But even I had difficulties despite growing up in my culture,

for colonialism develops an inferiority complex in those colonised. When my cousin and I were travelling by train back to college in

Darjeeling, a man in an adjoining compartment heard us talking and

remarked ‘Oh, so you are Nagas’, but we replied ‘No, we are from Bhutan’. The man who obviously knew the Naga language looked at

us oddly. In our subconscious view, we reacted that way because we believed people in India looked down upon the Naga. But if we said we were from Bhutan we might escape that. Only two years ago I was

on a Thai Airways flight from Bangkok to Calcutta. Most passengers were Indian. An Indian woman next to me asked me where I was from. I replied: ‘I’m from Australia’. She then asked many questions

about Australia, but finally said: ‘Oh, but you must have migrated

from Malaysia to Australia, you’re not real Australian’. I replied: ‘No, I migrated from Nagaland, I’m a Naga’. ‘Ohhh’, she said, ‘you’re just a Naga!’ She added: ‘I’m a professor, I teach a lot of Naga students,

and I help them, you know, because they are weak in studies’. She

virtually stopped talking to me. I was no longer interesting as she thought I was from a lower caste.

As a young Naga I had been very confused. In some ways we were

part of India, but we were not Indian. We fought for independence,

but we are not independent. We fled to the jungle when the Indian 147

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Army burnt our village, and a few years later I was in an Indian military academy and then studying at an Indian university. I also

travelled on an Indian passport, but I am not Indian. The Naga were also part of Burma, now Myanmar, but were not Burmese. For the colonised person there was and always is this conflict of ideas, of

identity, about who you are. It is a very big conflict, a crisis in your

inner being. I was supposed to sing the Indian national anthem at the Sainik School, but I mimed and just moved my lips. I developed a deep hatred for Indians, but through Initiatives of Change this

was blunted. I met wonderful Indian people there and gained a deep love and respect for Indian culture, especially Indian music and

yoga. Some of my best friends are Indian who I met through ‘Song of Asia’ and later in life: Suresh and Lena Khatri, Sanjoy Hazarika,

Dhananjai Pandya, Rupa Chinai, Rahul and Renuka Kapadia, to

name a few. One of the people I most admire is Rajmohan Gandhi. But I had to learn all this. All these contradictions brought turmoil, but also reconciliation.

Keviselie was very angry when I met him about the treatment of all

indigenous peoples. He believed all Norwegians were bad, or at least he hated what they had done, and their indifference to it. He resented the Norwegian language and culture, and yet he was Norwegian as well as Sami. He grew up in the Norwegian language and that would

have shaped his cultural outlook, and his very being. Some of his very close friends were Norwegian, and his foster mother and father were

Norwegian. Deep in his soul was this identity crisis. He had to tear away at, or reconcile with these things, to become Sami.

We talked a lot about this. I related my own story, and how I

found healing, and how my hatred for things Indian diminished. In the beginning Keviselie believed my change was a kind of softness, 14 8

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

that in his hatred he rejected. It was as if his hatred for all things Norwegian was keeping him alive. But as we talked and talked, his attitude shifted. He was very moved by the story of my friend Kolezo, my sister-in-law’s cousin, which became represented in ‘Song

of Asia’ in the story of the mother and three brothers, the message of which was the turning of revenge into forgiveness and change. The words ‘If I can have the courage to kill a man, why can’t I also have the courage to love him enough to make him a different man’

challenged and moved Keviselie deeply. He once remarked: ‘That is a very difficult story’.

The other thing that changed Keviselie’s thinking was that he

realised oppression is relative. He thought that Norwegians were

very oppressive to the Sami, but when he tried to enter Nagaland, he realised it was much worse there. Once he finally gained entry for

three days only, he learned there was a special enactment, the Armed Forces Specials Powers Act, which allowed an Indian Army officer to

shoot a Naga on suspicion. This law still exists. He could not believe that we were celebrating our national day so covertly, and in such great fear of recrimination. If an Indian Army detachment passed

through the village we would quickly have to bring down our flag and hide it. And he could not believe that just to get him there for

three days we had been forced to campaign and to lobby parliamen­ tarians for months. He could not believe the lack of freedom, that every­where we went the police followed us, even into a restaurant.

They then checked his passport again and again, even though they could not read it because it was in Norwegian. It was just harassment.

Keviselie became less angry as we talked and talked, and I also

reached a greater state of equanimity. One of the classic reactions of

colonised peoples is to try to be like those over them, or to go in the 149

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

opposite direction and claim, like the colonisers did, that they were better than anyone else. A man who later became a Naga general

changed his last name to ‘Naga’ when he studied in Darjeeling. Others have done it, students, actors and so forth, in order to prove

that ‘we are not ashamed’. This is a response to the way the colonisers, British and then Indian, classified the Naga as lower and tribal. All

the colonial writings referred to the Naga as ‘primitives’ and ‘headhunters’. Those images and attitudes, and the treatment that followed

on, went deep into the Naga psyche, and became a spiritual crisis. In order to escape that, there is often a sudden outburst of artificial arrogance. ‘Oh, I’m better, I’m a Naga, so I’m better than everyone’.

I suffered from this when I went to college – I was so proud to be Naga, due to a deep psychological and spiritual crisis of trying to find who I was, who was the real me.

I realised that when you escape that thinking you become liberated

and enlightened. You become simply a human like anybody else and

you see the beauty in yourself – and others. You no longer have to prove that you are better than Indians or Burmese, and you don’t have to feel inferior to them either. I think my encounter with other

indigenous people through Keviselie led to a lot of these ques­tions,

and to liberation after difficult thinking about them. Keviselie pushed me to ask questions, which is the first sign of enlightenment.

Out of this came a strong confidence that I knew the history of

my people. I realised that many indigenous people, because of their historical circumstances, had lost much of their language and cul­ ture. They might be able to represent themselves more ably in the

cor­ridors of power because they have lived, are still living, with the colonial and Western culture. Thus they have interacted in the English

language and in arenas with white protagonists from the day they 1 50

T ouring with ‘ S ong of A sia’

were born. They can argue their point at the United Nations, whereas I and other Naga would find it very difficult to write a memorandum

or a report in an acceptable way for the United Nations. I could not write in French or in English with great skill or eloquence.

But I realised through interacting with Keviselie that we had kept

our culture intact, and continuously. Others are jealous of that. I realised too that the indigenous tribal people from Asia do, and will always, speak their own language and maintain their culture. The Naga are confident, because we have a culture. When I travelled,

I realised I had a rich culture that is intact and I did not have to prove it to anyone; because it was there. Such thinking spurred me on

to seek, through higher education, a deeper understanding of Naga history. So after ‘Song of Asia’ I headed to university.

1 51

Cha pte r 9

T H E ACA DE M IC L I F E After our rapid tour of Nagaland, Keviselie and I parted in Shillong

in August 1977 so I could return to study. It was a momentous decision after three years of a roving life with ‘Song of Asia’. I

wondered if I could settle down to study, yet my excitement about

studying Naga history and culture was palpable. I enrolled in a

Master of Arts in History at the North-Eastern Hills University. It was a new institution created for hills tribal people from the three

states of Nagaland, Mizoram and Meghalaya. The vice-chancellor

was a Christian from southern India and most of the lecturers came from Jawaharlal Nehru University in Delhi.

Each time I started at a new educational institution I had to face

being different. First I was a jungle boy and non-Christian without

pants and shoes; next I was too tall, too old for my class, or I was a Naga boy in an Indian institution. I was now again different; being a

mature man of the world in my late twenties. However, my difference was now an advantage, not a disadvantage! Only about two students

out of over a thousand had been overseas. I had travelled to at least a dozen countries, lived overseas for three years, and gained a broad

general knowledge from countless conversations with foreigners. I was certainly the only Naga to have entered the Arctic Circle!

T he Academic L ife

My maturity and experience of the world assisted my coursework

and minor thesis and my attitude to study. I went to the library and consistently read more than required. I did some general history

subjects on the United Nations and America, but mostly I studied

the history of North East India, of Sikkim, Bhutan, Nepal, Tibet and Nagaland. Students were only just beginning to study Nagaland

as there were few books, so we were making subjects, creating his­

tory as we went. We used archaeology in our history study and I

took the whole class to my village to see the monoliths and the

graves. I based many essays on Naga history, so I did very well. This was despite my essay writing still being imperfect, as our classes

were in English, my third language. One professor commented: ‘Unlike the students of this university, Visier is probably the most widely read. If he were to write as good as he speaks, he would be the top in the university’.

I devoured my classes and performed well, aided by my question­

ing nature. Many fellow students were passive learners. They would take notes in lectures, silently, and repeat these in the examinations.

They rarely questioned what they heard, unlike students in Western universities. I asked lots of questions, and several others did the same.

Andrew Khiangte, who was schooled in Australia as his father was an ambassador, questioned all he heard. Vanlalruata Rengsi, who

was very intelligent, also interrogated everything. He later became a

professor of History at North Eastern Hills University. Ruata under­ stood what Marxist history meant, which was important as many of our lecturers from J. Nehru University held that view. I found it

interesting, but not convincing, being now strongly Christian. The

Marxists attacked religion as an opiate of the masses and exclaimed

1 53

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

‘God is dead!’. But I was impressed by their ideas of colonialism as being the height of evil, for it explained Naga history.

Naga students were in some ways more enlightened than other

students. Regardless of their academic standard, they were more politically conscious given their experience of India. They knew much of their history, and of Indian oppression. Few students from

neigh­bouring states could articulate their colonial situation clearly.

They in effect said: ‘We are not really Indians, but we are Indians’. The Khasi, the indigenous people of Shillong, argued: ‘We are Khasi

by blood and Indian by accident’. The Mizo commented: ‘We’re not

really Indians but we are practical, pragmatic people – if you cannot defeat them, join them – so we’ll become Indians, get good jobs and

we’ll serve the Indian Government for our benefit’. That was often their philosophy; but Nagas were absolutely clear: ‘We are Nagas –

full stop’. Other small nationalities of that region commented, almost with envy: ‘The Nagas have political consciousness and they never give up’.

This questioning temperament and political consciousness of the

Naga spilled over into student politics. I was elected president of

the Naga Students Union, which in those days was very powerful. It had 4,000 members, revealing that most Naga students were actively involved in student politics and Naga nationalism. The Union

was a training ground for those aspiring to enter state politics, and some former student colleagues of mine rose to become ministers in the state of Nagaland. The Union lobbied powerful politicians, who would at least listen. One year the Chief Minister of Meghalaya

attended our annual function as our special guest. We also protested about conditions on the Kohima campus and other regional campuses,

154

T he Academic L ife

as the university headquarters in Shillong, where I was studying, neglected distant campuses.

While at Shillong I had very comfortable accommodation. My

uncle Niketu Iralu introduced me to Stanley Nichols. Stanley’s father

from the Khasi tribe was the first tribal person to become a member

of the Indian Parliament, and helped draft the Indian Constitution. Stanley studied in America and married an American woman named

Helen. They lived in a beautiful home called ‘Whispering Pines’, as

it was built above a pine forest. Their four children were studying in America and thus four bedrooms were vacant, so the couple said to

me ‘Why don’t you come and stay in the house instead of renting’. I

accepted their offer, paying a small amount towards food. It was the most marvellous student housing.

I was about eight months into my Master’s degree when I saw Helen

Nichols-Roy rushing across the campus clutching a piece of paper.

She arrived speechless and thrust a note into my hand on which she

had written: ‘Jakieno died this morning’. I was stunned into silence myself and felt a cold sensation rush through my body, numbing me all over. It was as if I had been hit with a heavy object. My favourite

person in life, my sibling closest to me in age and friendship, the one who had looked after me in the jungle, the one who loved and cared for me, and advised me through the big moments in my life, was

gone. Jakieno, who was so proud when I told her I was enrolling in a MA, would not see me graduate.

I caught a bus immediately to Gawahati and took a train to Dimapur

in Nagaland arriving at 5.00am the next morning. During the trip

I keep asking myself: ‘How did this happen? She was not sick. She was only thirty-one years old. What would become of her three boys

1 55

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

who were between two and six years old? How would her husband

Tsolie manage?’ These questions kept coursing through my mind. I

slumped against the train window as it rattled though the night. At Dimapur I caught a taxi from the station halfway to Khonoma where

the road petered out. I reached the village after two hours of walking,

impatient for answers, worried sick, and weighed down by a deep sadness. I arrived exhausted to find hundreds mourning. I gushed tears once I saw Jakieno being prepared for burial.

I searched for answers. It appeared that Jakieno contracted dysen­

tery and became seriously ill in the middle of the night. No cars or taxis

were available, and she lost a massive amount of fluid while waiting

to be taken to Kohima hospital the next morning. She arrived in a

grossly dehydrated state and was unable to be saved. If she had reached hospital a few hours earlier and been placed on a drip, she would have survived this serious but treatable illness. It made me all the more angry, then morose, as her death seemed all so unnecessary.

Jakieno was buried as a Christian, but amidst traditional practices

and wrapped in a Naga shawl. Everyone was in their ceremonial

shawls of their clan. There was much wailing, occasional cries like a war cry, and exclamations of Jakieno’s fine character. People said:

‘She was a wise woman’. Tsolie her husband lamented: ‘You have been

my guide, and my wisdom, and I do not know how I will manage without your guidance’. These expressions of loss and remembrance continued through the day. In the evening the pastor gave the last

Christian rites, and Jakieno was buried in the Christian way in her husband’s family’s land. A memorial stone was later erected in a different place, where it stands today.

It was a huge blow to us all. It is usual for a husband to remarry

after a year or two, especially when there are children to be raised. But 1 56

T he Academic L ife

Tsolie did not do that, and raised the three boys himself. He waited

until they all had left home and had jobs (two became doctors), and then he remarried. I went to the wedding, and saw that his new wife was a fine woman.

For me, I have never forgotten Jakieno. Whenever I have done

something in my life since that time, either good or bad, I have

reflected, saying ‘If Jakieno was there I wouldn’t have done that’ or

‘If Jakieno was here she would be so proud of me’. Recently I was in Sydney for a meeting and, feeling happy, I went to the restaurant at the point of the Opera House. I did something unusual and ordered

a glass of Australian red wine, and a good lamb roast, just for me. I was gazing at the beautiful harbour, feeling fortunate and my mind drifted to Jakieno. I said to myself, ‘If Jakieno was alive today, I

would send her the best towels from Australia’. In our time in the jungle Jakieno had keep my spirits up, promising that once out of the

jungle I would get a good education, a good job, and have the best, deep-pile towels available!

I returned to Shillong more determined than ever to research the

Naga. My minor MA thesis, which was more like a series of essays, focused on my tribe the Angami. I worked mostly from interviews and asked my elders about how and why the village was formed; about the clan structures and power relationships within the village;

and about ritual and ceremony. I was also interested in questions of

colonial­ism and the encounter between the Angami and the British. For that, I also worked from primary printed sources created by the British.

One complex source was by John Henry Hutton. He was an

English­man who joined the Indian Civil Service in 1909 and was

sent to the Naga Hills in 1912, rising to Deputy Commissioner of 1 57

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

the Assam region. In 1920 he also became Director of Ethnography

in Assam, and wrote several ethnographies, notably the classic The

Angami Nagas (1921), for which he earned an honorary DSc from Oxford. Upon retirement from the civil service in 1936, he became Professor of Social Anthropology at Cambridge University the following year.

Hutton was a man of great knowledge and very useful for my

studies, but despite his knowledge and genuine affection for the Naga, he expressed this in a paternal way, tinged with a sense of Western superiority about those he deemed ‘primitive’. Thus his work had to be handled carefully. Hutton described the Angami Naga as tall,

‘very fine, light, beautifully built, and powerful’, with great powers of

endurance. Their voices were musical, their faces ‘pleasant and often decidedly handsome’, and they were intelligent. Indeed, their ‘cranial capacity is little less than that of the average European’. Overall the

Naga ‘has mental attitudes and mental processes far more consonant

with those of the European than has the ordinary native of India, whose thought has for generations been stunted by the cumbrous wrappings of caste and Hinduism’.

Besides being strong, handsome, intelligent, Hutton believed the

Naga were loyal, hospitable, genial and independent. ‘Independence is its keynote, and wherever independence is found, frankness and honesty usually goes with it’. But for all this, the Angami were ‘primitive’ and not the equal of the British.

I completed my thesis both with the help of Hutton and by being

wary of him, and gained a first class mark. I travelled home to

Khonoma and applied for a lectureship at Kohima College, a regional campus of North Eastern Hills University. I was interviewed by the

University Grant Commission, and given a position at 700 rupees 1 58

T he Academic L ife

a month, which is $14 in today’s exchange rate. But a rupee bought perhaps ten times then what it can today, so the salary was quite

good. I was appointed to teach the preliminary first year, which provided entrance to the degree courses.

On my first day in October 1979 I mounted the stage before

300 eager students, all watching me intently. I had few nerves as

I had performed in ‘Song of Asia’ hundreds of times. There was no

microphone so I used my stage voice. My introductory lecture was on the nature of history. During it I recommended H.G. Wells’s A

Short History of the World (1922). This non-fiction work by the famous

sci-fi writer surveyed the history of the Earth: its life, culture and society from human origins to the First World War, in just over 300 pages. Twenty years later I received a letter from America, from a

Naga student. He wrote: ‘Your first class changed my life, and I took

History because you told me to read that small book and I did read it. I am now doing my PhD in History’.

I lectured in European and especially Indian history. The latter

was a course like that taught in the rest of India. We studied col­

onial history, the Raj, the War of Independence, and one of the most important moments in history for Indian students – the Sepoy

Mutiny of 1857. It was at first labelled as a ‘mutiny’, then a ‘revo­

lution’, and under Marxist influences it was called ‘the First War of Independence’. If you examine it closely and critically, it was more than a mutiny, but less than the first war of independence, because the participants were not thinking of independence at that stage. But it ushered in a revolution, because the whole Raj and British Empire

were affected. We discussed the differences of terminology quite a

lot in class, to make precise meanings in history, and to introduce critical thinking. I also began to teach the history of North East 1 59

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

India, which included parts of Nagaland, part of Assam, Arunachal,

Manipur and Mizoram. I did so because it was the local history of most of the college’s students, and it proved popular.

I was well liked by most students. I projected my voice well and

spoke loudly so all could hear. My predecessor, a woman, had a very

soft voice, and half of the 300 did not hear her words. I was very ex­cited by the opportunity to teach and worked hard on my prepara­

tion. My lectures were kept simple and easy to follow for those just learning what university study was and what was expected of them. I suppose being young I recalled my own struggles pre-university

while at St Joseph’s. I also took groups of students on educational

tours by train to Goa, Bombay and other Indian cities, to broaden their horizons as mine had been widened by travel. I also managed

sports teams for inter-college competitions. Our college was very good at football, which my Australian friends call ‘soccer’.

My parents were delighted I had this job and one not too far from

them after years of being so distant. They knew little of higher educa­

tion but people told them it was a prestigious vocation. Teachers were certainly respected in our village. With my first pay I bought them

some nice cuts of meat. After a while the University Grant Commis­ sion salary scales were applied to colleges and my pay went from 700

to 1,200 rupees per month. My parents and others were astounded by such pay rates. My uncle asked: ‘How much are you going to earn?’

I replied ‘Uncle, I’m going to earn more than a thousand rupees’. He was astonished, exclaiming: ‘My goodness! In our village a person

who saved a thousand rupees in his lifetime was called a rich man, and you are going to earn a thousand rupees a month!’

While teaching at the Nagaland campus of the North Eastern

Hills University I lived with my brother Perhicha and his wife in 16 0

T he Academic L ife

their small house in Kohima. Sometimes we were joined by a niece or nephew. Some happy years followed. For the first time I had more

than pocket money to spend, unlike when studying or performing unpaid with ‘Song of Asia’. Most work colleagues were bachelors

too – we visited girls in groups, went out for picnics and had much fun. I rarely saved for we were always out. I also travelled within

India for pleasure or meetings. At this time I met an Indian Profes­ sor of History from Hawaii University who was visiting Nagaland. She invited me to come and do a PhD at her university and said

she could offer me a teaching fellowship while I did the thesis. It sounded attractive.

I had to sit a language test, which was normal for those whose

first language was not English. However, tragedy struck our family as my mother fell ill and subsequently died. I was not only caught up

in family bereavements, but also my own grief for the one who had given me life, and succoured me through it. She never understood

much about higher education but was immensely proud of my

achievements. So I could not travel from Kohima and – so I missed the test, and the opportunity of a scholarship in Hawaii.

This offer set me thinking. I had been at the university’s Kohima

College for four years. I was earning good money and enjoying life, and had a job with prestige. However, I realised that there was no career path in this institution. Besides, Kohima College was underfunded and not well managed. Almost everyone was a lecturer, and

while the students called you ‘professor’, there was no real chance of career progression. There were increments in salary, but in those days very small ones. And there was no intellectual stimulation. Lecturers

stayed in their jobs for years, repeating the same lectures from the

same notes, year after year. Some recited their lectures by heart, of 161

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

which the students were aware, to their disgust. I realised I had to do something. The Hawaiian offer showed the way.

In 1984 I applied for a PhD scholarship from the University

Grant Commission, funded by the Indian Government. Scholarship

holders were paid their college salary for three years and someone was appointed in their place until they returned with their PhD. I

gained a scholarship, only a few of which were awarded to college teachers each year. Before I activated my scholarship I took leave and

travelled to Norway and Samiland to see my friend Keviselie for a few

months. We had many conversations, explored the countryside, and visited some universities, where I gave a few lectures on Nagaland. I returned to North Eastern Hills University at Shillong and began my

PhD, staying in ‘Whispering Pines’, the household of the Nichols-

Roys. As they often travelled to America to see their children, I had their big house to myself.

I began my PhD with relish, but soon found I was not prepared for

the task. I was a good teacher, but had insufficient academic writing

skills and inadequate knowledge of research methodology. So in the beginning I was quite lost. I borrowed books from the library but did

not know how to make the best analytical use of them. I was also thrashing around for a topic. My supervisor was very busy and could not or would not give me much direction. I knew a lot about being an

indigenous person in a colonial situation, and I knew about the Naga identity, Naga crises, and Naga history in my own way. But as for putting it down in a thesis, and attached to a particular and focused topic, I was, to put it bluntly, completely lost.

Fortunately, someone intervened, as was usual in my life’s journey.

I met Dr Rattan Lal Hangloo, who completed his PhD at the top

university in India, the Jawaharlal Nehru University, before teaching 162

T he Academic L ife

at Kashmir University. (He later became a professor and then ViceChancellor of Kalyani University in West Bengal and recently ViceChancellor of Allahabad University.) Dr Hangloo who was now at my

university was a Brahmin. Despite being a member of the elite caste, he was a very committed Marxist historian. When we met I talked

about Naga political issues, Naga nationalism, and Naga history. He was interested in all these issues and also perhaps saw me as a potential

convert to Marxist methodologies in history. He never convinced me of Marxist approaches, which were by the 1980s a declining academic fashion, but we nonetheless had many engaging discussions.

Dr Hangloo offered to mentor me, suggesting we meet most days

to talk history – which we did. We met in his house or mine and discussed topics, often over tea and sometimes dinner, as his wife was still to join him from Kashmir. He gave me private mini-lectures. They were enthralling, as he was a very emotional and enthusiastic

fellow and a clear and inspiring conversationalist. Dr Hangloo helped my thinking, my methodology, my writing, and assisted the shaping of my thesis subject. My topic became the village formation of Kohima and Khonoma. Kohima was chosen because it was the capital

of Nagaland. Khonoma was also an obvious choice. It was my village, the focus of resistance to the British invasion, and also the seat of Naga nationalism, being the home of both Phizo and Sakhrie. The

topic had not been done before, and if I used oral sources it would

be doubly new. Dr Hangloo and I were learning from each other. He once remarked: ‘I have not met anyone who knows more about Naga

history than you’. So I now had a direction, a topic, a methodology and an enthusiastic unofficial supervisor.

It became a fascinating topic and challenge. I met and talked with

and interviewed literally hundreds of people. In doing so, I realised I 16 3

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Visiting Phizo who was still living in exile in London, 1985.

was already well versed in Khonoma’s history and culture. I grew up

there, had practised the animist religion, and heard the elders telling stories since I was a child. I was a participant observer, one who was acquainted with the history from the inside. In fact I knew the his­

tory of Khonoma more than most of the people of my age. Because of my interactions with other indigenous people, especially in ‘Song of

Asia’ – Sami, Maori, Native Americans, Inuit, and the First Nations

of Canada – I was very aware of the encounters between indigenous

peoples and colonial power. That made it easier to put the pieces together. Also, I re-engaged with Hutton who wrote the classic study of the Angami, and other ethnographers and anthropologists of the Naga.

While doing the thesis I became clearer on why the Naga had a

different experience of British colonialism than other indigenous

people, and why we maintained our culture more effectively. The 16 4

T he Academic L ife

Naga certainly lost some of their lowlands, which were taken for tea gardens and transferred to the Province of Assam. However,

the Naga Hills proved harder to control. The people kept most of their Hills land and their economy of rice growing and use of jungle resources. The British had much of the power, but could not, or did

not, occupy this difficult terrain in great numbers, preferring to rule indirectly with a minimal British presence. So the Hills population was not uprooted and their culture and language survived more successfully.

Also, some British officials like Hutton and Mills, who were eth-

nographers, challenged the methods of American Baptist missionar-

ies. Evangelical missions believed the Naga had to be Westernised in order to gain conversions, forcing the Naga to abandon their clothing, body ornamentation, rituals and much material culture. J.P. Mills,

Deputy District Commissioner of the Naga Hills in the mid-1930s, who wrote many ethnographic works, argued that missionaries were

destroying a culture of which they were ignorant. Mills subsequently ameliorated missionary dominance.

My thesis gradually came together. I wrote sections by hand, re­

wrote them, and passed them to Dr Hangloo. He pulled my writing apart, saying: ‘No, change this, don’t do it like that. Write like this’.

I had the facts, the historical research and the oral history based on

fieldwork, but I needed some help putting it together and bringing out

the full significance of what I wrote. I continued rewriting section after section until my academic writing strengthened. I wrote some papers that were published in the North Eastern Hills University and Northeast India History Association journals. While in hindsight my thesis

might not be up to the standard of an Australian university thesis to-

day, in terms of academic rigour and research for the 1980s it was solid. 16 5

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

I sat on the executive committee of a group called the Research

Scholars Union. We protested about issues on campus, especially corruption in education. We wrote letters, submitted memoranda

and met with the academic council and the vice-chancellor. In­

appropriate lectureship appointments were an issue due to corruption. Bribery or nepotism was a problem and we tried to uphold the

standards of merit-based appointments. There was also misuse of research students’ work by supervisors. One science professor plagiarised an entire research paper of his biology student. He gave

it as a conference paper overseas and published it under his name. We made sure he was expelled by gathering evidence and prov-

ing the paper was the student’s original research. It was quite a breakthrough.

I submitted my thesis in 1988 after five years of work, although

not all was full-time. It was well received, as it was very different to the Naga history that had been written to that time, which was

mostly political history. I had instead written the history of a village

in this region, actually two – Kohima and Khonoma – and based on oral sources, which was also quite new. At my oral examination people were interested in the interviews and the fact that my thesis was based on observations of living traditions, chants and prayers. I

collected one song composed at the time of the Anglo–Naga War and the Battle of Khonoma in 1879. Composed by a woman, it had not changed due to the fixities of rhyme and rhythm, unlike storytelling,

which changes from generation to generation. The song put us in touch with 1879! The song related how the British came from across

the sea far away. They looked ghostlike, had strange weapons, and

razed Naga villages. Now, the song warned, they are approaching

our village. The teller invoked the young warriors: ‘Rise up, defend 16 6

T he Academic L ife

your land, and we will continue our beliefs as our ancestors have given us this land’.

The external examiners gave their response in good time, about

six months, and passed the thesis with very positive comments. A

distinguished vice-chancellor from an Indian university presided over the convocation, which conferred my degree on 25 February

1989. I became Dr Visier Meyasetsu Sanyü, the first Angami PhD in History! As soon as it was submitted I returned to Kohima Col­

lege to resume teaching, but six months after my convocation I shifted to the campus of North Eastern Hills University; that is,

I shifted from being a college teacher at the pre-university level to being a university lecturer. My salary increased, which was im­

portant as I had recently married, but that is a story for the next chapter. My responsibilities enlarged too. I was invited to start a

new Department of History at the university. And there was the promise that the frontier campuses of the North Eastern Hills University in the states of Nagaland, Mizoram and Meghalaya

would soon become independent universities. This eventuated, creat­

ing Nagaland University, Mizoram University, and North Eastern Hills University as the Meghalaya campus became known.

As potential head of department I wanted to determine what was

taught. I appeared before the Academic Council and argued it was ridiculous to teach Ancient Indian History, which is taught in every

other university in India, We should teach Naga History. The pro-

vice-chancellor agreed, saying: ‘Why teach Ancient Indian History in Nagaland; we will change the direction of the department’. Not

only was Naga History to be taught, but the department became the Department of History and Archaeology. I had argued: ‘We don’t

have written history, and oral history has a limit, but if you have 167

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

My friend Rajmohan Gandhi introducing me to the Dali Lama in Delhi, 1991.

archaeology we will have added strategies to discover our history’. They agreed.

The new Department of Archaeology and History was created

and I applied successfully for the job as head of department. I was

in charge of everything with the help of a private administrator, secretary/typist, a sweeper/cleaner, and security guard. As soon as I arrived each morning, one of the staff brought me a cup of tea,

which is how it worked back then. I found it funny, but in that system

someone would bring tea whenever you arrived at work. Then my secretary asked ‘Sir, what can I do today?’, so I dictated letters for

typing and signing. I was like a little prince in an ancient princely state of the North East!

It was a very exciting time, and yet there were no students and

no other staff in this department. So I toured colleges, recruiting 168

T he Academic L ife

students for the coming year, offering up to thirty places. I gained about twenty promises from potential entrants for the coming year

and then hired some staff. I appointed a retired professor, who was very keen to come to Nagaland from Assam to gain more work. Then another retired professor followed. So there were three of us with me

the junior party as head. But when the first year of teaching opened

we did not have twenty students, but 150 enrolments for thirty

places, all to study History! We bought more furniture and seats for the classrooms to enable us to admit extra students. I also appointed two young Naga lecturers to manage the increased teaching load. We

had to build up the library’s resources, so I gave one of the former professors the task of purchasing books. He went on a spending spree. The funny thing was that I was told by students that these books included purchases for his own library. However, we needed

books and perhaps he needed to relieve himself of some volumes. The university began a boys’ residential college, and I was made warden, which gave me a further responsibility.

My department taught Indian history, and the history of North

East India, which included the history of Assam, Manipur and

Nagaland. It was a revelation to many students. Most of them had

done some history at school and were a bit familiar with British

his­tory or the major events in Indian history: the Sepoy Mutiny, Aurangzeb, Shah Jahan, the Moghuls, and about the Nizam of

Hyderabad. But few students knew of Sukapha who invaded Assam from Thailand and Burma in the early thirteenth century, crossing

the Naga Hills with elephants. He rivalled Hannibal’s feat, who

invaded Italy with elephants across the Alps in 218 BC. Sukapha’s

army overwhelmed the Naga and smashed their villages, conquered Assam, and ruled a kingdom there for 700 years, known as the 169

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Kingdom of Ahom, which the Burmese, then British, later defeated. The rulers produced a chronicle known as Ahom Buranji in the Tai language, which means ‘The Chronicles the Ahom’. It recorded early encounters with the Naga.

I focused on the colonial period too, how the British annexed

region after region following the Anglo–Burmese War and the treaty

of Yandabo in 1826, which made the North East of India part of the British Empire. They knew few details of the battle of Khonoma in 1879, after which the Naga made peace with the British. They were vague about the Memorandum submitted to the Simon Commission

in 1928, which expressed the aspirations of Naga nationalism. Finally

I focused their efforts on the history of their own village. It was an exciting time of enlightenment for most students.

These years were exciting and happy for me too. The university was

small and had a friendly atmosphere. The staff from the other de­

partments – English, Economics, Education, Science and Agriculture – mostly got on well. The only cloud was corruption. At first it took the form of people trying to bribe their way in. An Indian policeman

wanted hostel admission for his son, and when I told him places were

limited, he tried to induce me to change my mind with money, but I refused. People tried all manner of things, even leaving chickens

on my doorstep. However, the news soon spread that you could not gain admission through bribery, despite what went on at other

universities, where large sums of money changed hands to secure students’ admission to prestigious institutions and courses.

Part of my happiness at the North Eastern Hills University was

due to my now having a wife and family. I must relate how I met the love of my life.

170

Cha pte r 10

I N T ER LU DE – M EE T I NG PA R I While I was studying for my PhD at Shillong, something unusual

happened. I was living with Stanley and Helen Nichols-Roy at

‘Whispering Pines’ as I had done earlier while studying for my MA. For some reason I came home from campus very early one

day. I arrived to find that Helen had some guests. When I popped

my head in the sunroom door, Helen said: ‘Visier, will you come and join us as we are going to have tea’. The guests were Mrs

Thansiami Sailo and Zorampari (hereafter Pari) Duncan, her niece. I immediately saw that Pari was a beautiful young woman in her mid-twenties, and so naturally I said ‘yes’.

We chatted together over tea. I learned that Pari’s father and

Stanley Nichols-Roy had studied together in America. I also found

out to my delight that her father’s grandfather, S.J. Duncan, served in Nagaland as an administrator, and a suburb in Dimapur was named after him known as Duncan Bosti. Pari had just completed

a Master’s degree in Social Work and had returned home to Shillong and was looking for a job. I remember saying as we parted that I might

come and visit her sometime. While I said this, I was thinking to myself, this must definitely happen, as she is so gorgeous! Fortunately Pari politely replied, ‘That would be nice’.

When I arrived at Pari’s house ‘Pheridale’ in Upper Shillong a

fortnight later, I was probably already in love with her. I had not

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

stopped thinking of her since that first meeting. When I saw her

again after I alighted from a taxi and arrived at her home, I knew that I was deeply interested, as she looked even more beautiful than

I remembered. As we talked that day, I also realised that Pari was very unusual. She was different from other girls. She wanted to talk about the world and learn things about what I considered important.

She did not just accept things and was prepared to discuss issues that I too was interested in: the identity of tribal people and their rights

for instance. Pari’s heritage is Mizo-Khasi. Her grandfather had

Scottish heritage, hence her surname Duncan. After speaking with

her I realised Pari was far more interesting than other girls I had

met. Indeed, I never met another girl in university with her intellect and her caring and compassion. I thought to myself: ‘She is a very unusual girl’.

It seemed like a propitious time to meet such a person. I was then

in my early thirties and getting close to the end of my PhD. All my friends from Khonoma and from university had married, many of

them while in their twenties. Most had children already, some at school. My family were always pressuring me to get married, and I was beginning to think it was time. So I began to visit Pari regularly

and soon there was a strong mutual interest. By then Pari had gained work, but out of Shillong at Aizawl in Mizoram. We managed to

see each other occasionally, wrote many letters, and then I was able to visit Aizawl for a few weeks. It was then we began to make plans.

I visited Pari’s parents and spoke with them about my intentions,

saying ‘I want to marry your daughter’. Her mother, Thanchhumi Duncan, replied: ‘I just want someone to marry my daughter who

will love her, it doesn’t matter who they are, or about their wealth, but it has to be someone who loves her’. I cannot recall exactly what 172

I nterlude – M eeting Pari

Pari and I on a hike from Khonima to Kohima January 1987, just after our marriage. It was taken on my automatic camera.

Pari’s father, David, said, but he was a tolerant and educated man, being a bureaucrat in the Naga Hills area like his father. He no doubt replied in the vein of his wife. David Duncan and I soon came to

like each other. His friends were my friends. My best student friend in the university was his friend. They talked about politics, history,

and current affairs. My friend commented: ‘He’s so nice to talk to, he doesn’t behave like an old man, you can talk to him like a friend’.

We chose 17 December 1986 as our wedding day in Shillong and

the ceremony was held at the Shillong Presbyterian Church. Pari’s

parents had to do most of the arrangements as Pari was still working in Mizoram. Her family had never run a wedding but it turned out well. Some of Pari’s family travelled a long distance, just arriving in time due to a landslide on the road. About twenty of my relatives

travelled from Khonoma and Kohima including some of my siblings,

nieces, nephews, uncles, cousins and my friends, Dr Viu Meru and 173

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Nidelhu. My friend Charles Chasie was the best man at our wedding.

Some had never travelled from Nagaland before. An uncle arrived

the next day due to car trouble. After the ceremony we adjourned to the Shillong Club where we enjoyed a beautiful afternoon tea. My

brother Perhicha proposed a toast, welcoming Pari to the family and

wishing us a life of happiness. As evening beckoned, we moved to Pari’s home, ‘Pheridale’, for a traditional Khasi feast.

We settled into married life. I resumed my thesis writing with

Pari’s skilful help as typist, editor and close critic. Pari fell pregnant, which was wonderful news. However, the happy time of Kevisato’s birth was dampened within weeks by the death of David Duncan,

Pari’s father, in November 1988. We intended to move to Kohima once my thesis was finished, as I had to resume work at the college,

but this was precipitated some months later by another tragic event.

My father Theyievizo had a stroke. We packed up everything in a few hours: our possessions, my unfinished thesis, and journeyed home to

Khonoma. We reached my village by vehicle in the dead of night. My

family were gathered and it was decided to take my father to Kohima hospital once the day had dawned. He survived this crisis, but died not long afterwards. He was buried as a Christian, following his late

conversion from the traditional Naga religion. My mother, Niditono, refused to convert at first, but died as a Christian some years before I had married.

I had not lived in Kohima since my early schooling, having been

educated at the Sainik School in Bhubaneswar, then Darjeerling and Shillong, both picturesque and clean cities, before travelling in parts

of Europe with ‘Song of Asia’. Compared to these cities, Kohima

was almost like a giant slum as it had grown fast with little planning and fewer jobs. Pari, Kevisato and I lived in a house owned by my 174

I nterlude – M eeting Pari

My PhD graduation ceremony, North Eastern Hills University, Shillong, 1989.

brother Perhicha in the very heart of town. Pari took to it with a

brush when we arrived and by hard work scrubbed it clean. It fronted a dirt and pot-holed road, like most in the neighbourhood, skirted by open drains and sewage. Kevisato, still a toddler, walked from our

house one day and felt into a drain up to his chest, and was covered

in absolute muck and sewage. Despite such dismal surroundings the people of Kohima were happy as many still had their roots in

the village. Like many, we enjoyed good social relationships with neighbours and many dinners and gatherings with friends. Soon our family expanded further with the birth of our daughter Visopiano, and then our second son Megosiezo (hereafter Siezo).

After I finished my PhD, I became head of the new Department

of History and Archaeology in the new Nagaland University, which

emerged from the North Eastern Hills University under an Act of the Indian Parliament in 1989. At the same time, more splinter

groups emerged among the Naga Nationalists, leading to renewed rivalries and factional fighting. By the early nineties the university became a field of violence, like every other place in Nagaland. 175

Cha pte r 11

F R AT R IC I DE A N D R E SI L I E NCE Violence had always cast a shadow over Naga society. Each village traditionally was sovereign unto itself and had to defend its heritage. Villagers lived in villages atop hills, which were designed to resist

attack. Young men were invested into a proud warrior tradition, with

codes of honour and ritual rewards for their valour, and at times displayed their valour in combat. But tradition always shaped and contained the extent of the violence. The colonial incursion changed and intensified this ancient cycle of violence.

The Naga battled with the British for forty years from 1832 and

this warfare included the burning of villages and their granaries.

After 1880 the British extended their control, mostly through local agents, who levied taxes and dispensed justice. The Naga lost control of their destiny, and as a colonised people were subject to the violence

of colonial thinking that they were barbaric and inferior. In 1947 the Indian Government became the new colonial rulers and fighting

soon erupted between Indian and Naga nationalists over Naga inde­

pendence, leading to the longest colonial war in the modern era,

and one of the most brutal. A portion of Naga Hills country was incorporated into India in 1963, while other Naga remained under Burmese control. The Naga, sometimes manipulated by the Indian

F ratricide and R esilience

Government, fell out among themselves at various times on the key question of how to deal with the Indian occupation and statehood. The death toll in the diverse power struggles climbed towards 100,000 as

the twentieth century progressed. I, and every other Naga, lived with this violence all our lives, as fighting simmered, then flared, between the Indian Army and Naga fighters, or between Naga factions.

In the early 1960s after a decade of conflict with India, three

mediators, J.P. Narayan, B.P. Chaliha and Rev. Michael Scott, the

British human rights activist, proposed a halt to hostilities. A cease­

fire with India, later called the First Ceasefire – for there have been

many – was signed in 1964. It stimulated six unsuccessful rounds of

peace talks led by the head of the Nagaland Government. Divisions emerged among the Naga Nationalists through this process. On 1

November 1968, the Revolutionary Government of Nagaland was formed, in opposition to the Government of Nagaland that was the

governing body recognised by India. Renewed fighting broke out against the Indian Army.

One of the peak periods of the violence occurred after more

peace initiatives and another ceasefire failed in 1972. The Indian

Army mounted sustained attacks on Naga forces, due to the Naga’s uncompromising insistence on independence, and also because of clear evidence of support for Naga fighters from China, by way of

training and munitions. The Indian Intelligence Service made some

successful infiltrations of Naga military groups in this period. Under extreme pressure, Naga leaders of the Revolutionary Government of Nagaland met the Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi in August 1973. This led to 1,500 Naga troops surrendering to the Indian Army.

In late 1974 ruthless military operations put other Naga forces

under extreme pressure. Many were killed or captured after being 17 7

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

surrounded in jungle hideouts. However, Thuingaleng Miuvah and others managed to escape to China on a goodwill mission to seek further support. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi declared a National

Emergency on 26 June 1975, abrogating all fundamental rights.

About 2,000 Naga soldiers had been captured or forced to surrender, and the Naga forces routed. Phizo, the main Naga leader, remained holed up in London and was rendered ineffective.

Peace talks recommenced at Shillong. The Governor of Nagaland,

acting for the Indian Government, insisted that a pre-condition of any discussions was that Naga Nationalists completely drop any

idea of independence and accept the Indian Constitution. Six Naga

leaders, led by Phizo’s brother Kevi Yallay, continued to demand the right to discuss the terms of their inclusion in the Indian Union, and that Phizo be allowed to return to Nagaland to participate in the

talks. Both requests were flatly denied. There was to be no discussion, only compliance, and no participation by Phizo.

The Shillong Accord was signed on 11 November 1975 by Naga

representatives of the ‘underground organisation’, who had little

choice in the face of recent Indian military victories. However, the governor agreed to keep the terms of the Accord a secret, to allow

the delegation to win over their supporters. It contained just three clauses. First, that the representatives of the Naga ‘underground organisations’ accept of their own free will the Indian Constitution. Second, all arms currently hidden were to be lodged at designated

places. Third, that Naga representatives should formulate other matters for discussion before a final agreement.

The Shillong Accord of 1975, which was signed while I was

tour­ing with ‘Song of Asia’, had terrible repercussions for Naga

groups. Miuvah, the Secretary of the National Naga Council and 178

F ratricide and R esilience

his followers, all of whom were then in China, immediately repudiated the Accord. When twelve of them travelled back to Nagaland

for discussions with the group that signed the Accord, the travellers, deemed communists, were murdered. In 1980 the remnant of

this China-based group formed the Nationalist Socialist Council of Nagalim, choosing Nagalim not Nagaland as the name for the national homeland. It eventually became one of the strongest fac-

tions. Other Naga leaders formed a new Naga National Council, called ‘Non-Accordists’. At least four groups finally splintered from the Naga National Council. Then in 1988 the Nationalist Socialist

Council of Nagalim itself split into two factions in a bloody fallout.

One faction was headed by Miuvah and Isak Swu (NSCN-IM); the other led by S.S. Khaplang (NSNC-K). Their enmity led to renewed killing – even massacres, the burning of villages, and subsequent starvation, due to the destruction of food supplies.

The bitter factional fighting spilt over into the 1990s and flowed

into every household across the population. Violence happened to

people we knew or people in our neighbourhood. A person might be a dinner guest one evening, and after you farewelled them and they walked into the night, they could be shot on the journey home. It was

a horrible and taxing time. People were shot in the neighbourhood

every week. You felt angry, frustrated and powerless in the face of

such acts. But you just had to survive and endure it all, as this was our home, and where I earned my living at the university to support the family. But it was nonetheless quite frightening and like the Dark

Ages, when your friends or someone you knew were shot dead – just like that!

I worked with Pastor Shimray of the Tangkhul tribe and Neidonuo,

President of the Naga Mothers Association, on a project for the Naga 179

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

In Geneva 1993. Isak Chisi Swu (left) and Muivah (right), leaders of a faction of the Nationalist Socialist Council of Nagaland.

Student Federation. It was a big gathering and after it was over we

were given money to cover our expenses. We had lunch at the pastor’s place and Neidonuo said: ‘Visier and I have a paid job and you are

not as well paid by the church, so you take all this money we were

just given’. Pastor Shimray was so grateful to receive several thousand rupees (worth a few hundred dollars), saying: ‘It is so good of you, so kind of you, to understand my situation. I have six growing children’.

We left feeling good, but shortly after we learned he was shot dead in his home in front of his family. They were terribly traumatised by the shooting. However, twenty years later I heard from the oldest

boy, who is working in India and supporting his younger siblings at university. He told me how his father died, but that the family has forgiven the killer, despite them being orphaned. 18 0

F ratricide and R esilience

Most violence episodes were intensified because tribal factions

generally aligned with political factions. The pastor’s death was caused by such rivalries. Just prior to this, General Povezo of the Chakhesang tribe was assassinated by a member of the Nationalist Socialist Council of Nagalim (NSCN), which was led mainly by the

Tangkhuls. The general’s tribe issued a signed declaration placing

a quit notice on the Tangkhul people, warning them to leave the Chakhesang area. In reply, the NSCN group made death threats

against the signatories of the quit notice – ‘Unless you withdraw the quit notice, you will be assassinated’ – and stated a deadline for its revocation.

Pastor Shimray was negotiating with both the parties to withdraw

their quit notice and death threats. They finally agreed to do so and pledged to announce it publically in the local Kohima newspaper,

so all tribal members would know. For three days the pastor went early each morning to check the newspapers, but there was no

announcement. On the evening of the third day he was shot dead. The announcements were published the next day calling a halt to

this feud, but too late for the pastor, who had helped broker the end

to this particular episode of violence. His son lamented to me years later: ‘My father did not see the news. Had he survived one day longer, he would have lived to see what he had achieved’.

The cycle of violence was inflamed by the presence of the Indian

Army and often orchestrated by the Indian Intelligence Service. By

supporting one faction over another with funds or influence, they gained leverage for their own ends, and also diverted Naga violence

inwards, instead of towards the Indian Army. The Intelligence Serv­

ice also dealt with some Naga officials of the Nagaland Govern­ment,

who gained money or greater power in the factional manoeuvring. 181

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

So the situation was a confusing mix of tribalism, politics, ideology, nationalism and corruption.

The Indian Army were ever-present. During the 1980s and 1990s,

every single day and every single night that you stepped out of your

house, you would see Indian Army tanks. They patrolled the roads,

their turrets revolving, allowing the crew within to watch every movement in the street. One day a tyre of an Indian Army truck

burst while passing in a long convoy through Kohima. The Indian soldiers believed they were taking fire. These young recruits from an Indian village, with thoughts of guerrilla fighters on their minds,

reacted blindly and without hesitation. They fired wildly in the street, killing some, including young children. A friend of ours was at home and bullets came whizzing through her window. The Indian Army continued to receive the protection of the Armed Forces Special

Powers Act. This meant that if a Naga was seen carrying something under his or her shawl that looked suspicious, or if shooting was heard or believed imminent, an Indian soldier could open fire on

suspicion alone and would not face prosecution. These were the fears and oppressions under which the entire population was living. It was like walking on eggshells.

Even children were deeply affected. One day Pari was in town

with Visopiano, who was about four. While traversing some stone steps in a little alley, they encountered two young Indian soldiers

who were running. Pari and Visopiano were alarmed and the soldiers seeing their surprise, just laughed. It took some time for Pari to calm Visopiano, assuring her the soldiers were just having some fun. On

the way home in the bus Visopiano turned to Pari and asked, ‘Are the Indians also humans?’

182

F ratricide and R esilience

Pari and I with our children in Kohima on the eve of travelling to Australia, January 1996. From left to right, Kevisato, Visopiano and Siezo.

I experienced news of such violence on a daily basis for eight years

from 1988 to 1996 and of course it had been part of my childhood as well. My village had been burned when I was five and we were forced to flee to the jungle. So we lived with this state of affairs all our lives

and it led to a grim humour as a way of coping with the stress. So people would look at the newspaper, and say: ‘Oh, this newspaper

looks very boring today, because no-one was shot yesterday, not one

person was shot yesterday’. The expectation was that each day you got out of bed was a day people would die in the fratricide. And that is usually what happened. But there were more positive ways of

surviving than grim humour, and many Naga showed great resilience amidst their war weariness.

18 3

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

The people of my own village of Khonoma remained positive in

this period of strife and refused to let the Indian oppression, or the

fratricidal violence, overwhelm them. In the 1980s they began to

think of the Centenary of the Khonoma Baptist Church, ten years distant in 1997. A village committee was formed mostly of elders.

But younger men were appointed too; those old enough to be wise, but youthful enough to still be in their middle years by the time of

the celebrations in ten years’ time. I was the youngest one chosen, then being in my mid-thirties. They pondered: ‘How are we going to celebrate this great event?’

The village committee after much deliberation decided that they

would plant trees, a teak plantation, so that every person in the village

would have at least one teak tree to pay for the education of their children, and their children’s children. They also decided to begin

carpentry workshops headed by a villager named Neingusalie, to

enable people not only to make items for their own use, but for sale. Indeed, they resolved to start workshops in other parts of Nagaland,

to spread the skills. They held a fair, where items they had produced were sold, raising a significant amount of money. But above all, these efforts created a wonderful spirit.

Another initiative was made in Kohima by a young man Neichute

Doulo, who together with a group of young people decided to fight turmoil and oppression by highlighting the dignity of labour and community. So in the summer of 1990 they all worked together on

menial work around the town, cutting firewood, cleaning houses and

working on construction, to model civic behaviour in the midst of

violence, corruption and despair. People could take control of their destiny by such actions. We had wonderful meetings in people’s

houses where positive action was stressed. The group chose the name 18 4

F ratricide and R esilience

‘Beacon of Hope’ to describe their efforts. Neichute and Nukshi Velebný (nee Ao) were its most dynamic members. Neichute has since

won prestigious national awards for leadership, including the Social Entrepreneur of the Year 2016 for the whole of India awarded by

the Schwab Foundation, a partner of the World Economic Forum. Neichute also won a three-year scholarship from the Ashoka global network of social entrepreneurs to assist him to implement his

ideas for social innovations for change. Ashoka’s slogan is ‘everyone a changemaker’. Nukshi many years later opened a jewellery shop in England.

So Naga culture proved to be vibrant and resilient in the face of

these troubled times. But the atmosphere could be weird – even to the point of being bizarre. At the very time when people were being

shot on the streets of Kohima, a Miss Nagaland Beauty Pageant was held indoors in the same neighbourhood. Outside in the muddy

roads of Kohima there was extreme violence, while Naga beauties paraded on stage. Inevitably, people were striving for normalcy in the face of horror.

Many Naga, but not all, sought support and comfort by connecting

to global indigenous movements. In 1993, I was invited through the filmmaker Patrick Bernard to travel to the United Nations in Geneva

to address the Working Group for Indigenous Peoples on current Naga issues. Such a move was not unanimously approved by Naga people. Many thought the Naga cause was different to that of other

indigenous peoples, who being minorities within nation states were generally asking for land or cultural rights, not sovereignty. They

argued that Naga were not part of India and that the Naga drive for sovereignty would not be served by such associations. Indeed, the leaders of a faction of the Nationalist Socialist Council of 18 5

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Nagalim, Muivah and Isak, who held such views, were in Geneva at

the same time, seeking support from human rights, not indigenous, groups. Many other Naga – and I was among them – believed that

relations with other indigenous peoples, and a connection to the United Nations’ efforts for the rights of indigenous peoples, could

only strengthen our cause. It is true that each situation is different, but I believed we could use the momentum of a united indigenous

voice to argue for our unique Naga case. While in Geneva a group of indigenous people formed the World Foundation for the Safeguard of Indigenous Peoples. I was elected the first honorary president.

This foundation has supported many projects of indigenous peoples

around the world. Indeed Patrick Bernard has made a documentary on the Nagas with the assistance of this body.

In 1993 I had the idea of celebrating a World Indigenous Day in

Kohima as part of the United Nations Year of Indigenous Peoples.

At that time many Naga still did not identify readily as ‘indigenous’, and as being part of a global network of indigenous people. It was not a word that they used when thinking about their identity. And,

as I realised after going to Geneva, a segment were strongly opposed

to identifying as such. However, many Naga welcomed such an association. I thought we could celebrate World Indigenous Day with a seminar. I imagined a hundred might attend, but the idea caught on and quickly expanded into a massive cultural festival.

A joint committee was formed by the Naga Students Federation

and the Naga Peoples Movement for Human Rights. Money was raised from the community and materials were donated by business­ people to create stalls and facilities. The word spread further and hundreds more from all over Nagaland indicated they would attend.

Soon it became known that people were walking all the way from 18 6

F ratricide and R esilience

Burma to come to the festival. We began to construct makeshift

bamboo accommodation for them. All this was done without a gov­ ern­ment grant or assistance. The event turned into a festival called

‘Naga Week’ from 1–5 December 1993 with the theme ‘Towards Our Rightful Place through Healing of the Spirit’.

A stone plinth in traditional Naga style was to be erected to com­

memorate this week. A massive stone was dragged from the football ground in the heart of Kohima some kilometres through the town

to the park where the celebrations were to be staged. It was decided

to move it in the old way, so jungle vines were procured to haul this

stone. As the stone was bound with vines, each turn and knot was an affirmation of Naga tradition, and of the survival and endurance of

its people amidst chaos. Thousands of people lined the streets to view

the strenuous hauling of the stone. Pari and the children watched as

it passed our house. The effort needed was enormous and, as groups

tired, the elders urged them on, saying: ‘Oh, come on! Give it your best! Give it your best, we’re still here!’ Some voices suggested getting

a tractor to pull the stone, but the majority wanted it done traditionally. Tribe after tribe took their turn to pull and eventually the stone was

hauled to the park. It was inscribed with the words: ‘Go and live out

what you have heard from the other side of silence’. Thejao Vihienuo consulted with Niketu Iralu on the inscription, who suggested words suited to what became Naga Solidarity Park, a place of mown lawns, ponds and treed walkways to promote thinking and solitude.

Song-making had all but died in the troubles, but at this time a

Naga comedian, Methaneilie, began writing humorous songs about social change. Also, Khrielie Kevichűsa, a genius musician, composed spiritual and patriotic songs. His musical, ‘Prodigal Son’, became a

classic piece in Tenyidie literature. All these cultural expressions were 18 7

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

further evidence of a new spirit of resilience. Indeed, since then many young Naga composers and singers have emerged.

There was no interference in the preparations for ‘Naga Week’. The

Naga factions did not object in any way to such an expression of

nation­al spirit. The Federal Government of Nagaland also supported us, even though not officially. The Indian Government did not dare

oppose it in any way, as it had become such a popular movement. Despite the unprecedented inflow of people to Kohima and the cul­ tural expression of Naga nationalism, it was powerless to prevent the

event. It did not even use section 144 of the Indian Penal Code to

control the activities or movement of people, although I am certain the Indian Intelligence Service was actively watching every move. Those on the committee were under surveillance. It was proposed that I be

made chairman of the day, but I suggested it should be a Naga student, which was accepted. I recommended that the King of Manipur, whose

family had been deposed by the British, be invited to the opening as the guest of honour, as the recent monarch of our neighbouring state

to the south. Also, it was suggested that Her Highness Bebu Devi,

the Maharani of Tripura, a neighbouring Indian state to the southeast of Nagaland, be invited to close the week’s festivities.

On the opening day, the King of Manipur, His Highness

Okendrajit Pareihambas Ningthouren, attended in his regalia and gave his blessing to the event. About ten thousand people crammed

into the festival on that day, the sports ground being full of handi­craft

and food stalls, and marked by cultural events, singing and dancing. Many workshops were held and I conducted a few. About 100,000

attended over the course of the week. It had become a massive event and was possibly unique. Many other celebrations of the Year of Indigenous People around the world appeared to be smaller, more 18 8

F ratricide and R esilience

muted affairs, and were rarely such national events. It was a shame

none of us thought to invite some UN representatives to observe the occasion, and celebrate Naga nationalism and cultural revival.

The festival was not repeated, but today a Hornbill Festival is run

each year, initially in the same style as our festival. It is operated out of Kisama, a village specially constructed by the Nagaland Gov­

ernment, not by the people, and is increasingly for tourists. Some say it is not authentic, but it still allows a forum for Naga culture and handicrafts to shine.

These events were but an interlude in the cycle of violence

that spread into all parts of our society. Soon it entered the new

University of Nagaland, where I was head of the Department of Archaeology and History, and also in charge of a residential col­

lege. The university was still in its formation stage with plenty of Indian Government money pouring in, so the factions saw it as

ripe for influence. One faction was collecting taxes from university

lecturers. It was protection money, mafia style, and the practice was rife through the business world of Nagaland. Some factions demanded up to 50 per cent of one’s wages and it was pay up or be shot. This is what our nationalist movement had become! A friend

of ours at the university who was Indian, and a progressive and

bright academic, was captured and tied up by one of the factions, questioned and threatened.

This factional infiltration affected our new university, for the

best academics were too scared to take appointments there. Who

could blame them? To have your hands tied behind your back and to be given the third degree was just sheer terrorism. So too

was the assassination of a pro-vice-chancellor of the university. The factions also began to control appointments at the university, 18 9

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

including those high in the administration, even the registrar and

vice-chancellor. I was the President of the Teachers’ Association and well-connected in my Angami tribe, so money was never demanded

from me. But when I began to voice concerns about the actions of

the vice chancellor, and the illogical plans by a politician to shift the university campus to a small rural village named Lumami, I began to receive threatening letters and phone calls.

I was never formally a member of one of the factions, but my

family and clan had always supported the Naga National Council.

But in reality, everyone had to take sides. It was impossible not to do so. I was always careful, and thought it possible that I could be shot,

as educated people were seen as targets. Like every Naga individual, we lived with the apprehension that something might happen. This

tension just ground you down. Pari and I tried to act normally for the children’s sake, but the constant apprehension was always there. We came to realise that the fratricide was affecting our family. We were living in a traumatised and unstable society, which was a major reason why many young people, including my nieces and nephews, abused alcohol and drugs. Five of them died from the impact of substances.

In 1995 I met my old friend Rob Wood from Initiatives of Change

and ‘Song of Asia’, while I was visiting Shillong. He suggested we come to Australia and stay at the group’s Melbourne centre, called

‘Armagh’. It was the right idea at the right time. It meant our family

could escape the fratricide and other violence for a year. It would be a wonderful experience for the children and I could resume my

research on Naga cultural life and history. I spoke with my uni­ versity, which granted me sabbatical leave of a year, as I had been

working full-time for six years since returning to Kohima. I wrote to La Trobe University in Melbourne seeking a visiting fellowship, 19 0

F ratricide and R esilience

which it granted. I organised a hand-over of my duties at Nagaland

University and as warden of the men’s college. We packed furiously

for a year away and farewelled our family and friends. Our departure was unfortunately complicated by a health issue for Pari and a serious injury to Siezo’s eye.

191

Cha pte r 12

E S CA PE T O AU S T R A L I A We flew into Sydney in February 1996 amidst an air of expectation

in our family. Kevisato our son, then aged eight, and Visopiano our daughter, aged six, had revelled in the flight as a great adventure. Siezo our youngest son and third child, who turned five on the day we landed, exclaimed in his delight as the plane banged onto the

tarmac that he just spotted a kangaroo. I am sure his imagination was sparked, as he was bandaged and suffering from a serious accident to

one eye. Besides, I later realised there was little chance of a kangaroo being at Mascot Airport. Siezo had unfortunately poked a knife into

his left eye three months before our departure and we had spent an anxious time in a hospital in Chennai as he recovered from eye sur­ gery. Also in the months before our leaving, Pari had a horrendous

health scare due to a brain lesion. Side effects of the medication

caused some worrying seizures as well. Fortunately a CT scan taken at Delhi just before departure revealed she was in remission.

The excitement of these positive health results and of travel was

mingled with anxiety, indeed trauma. I had travelled extensively but not with my family, so I was a little on edge just because of that.

More to the point, we had just left a ghastly situation in Kohima

E scape to Australia

Our children, Toorak Primary School 1998, left to right, Visopiano, Kevisato, Siezo

marked by the daily killing of Naga by Naga, a fratricide that had simmered for decades, but was again full blown, fuelled by the pres­ ence of the Indian Army on the streets. We were about to spend a year in a new and alien culture, living in a communal house, with new schools for the children. There was still a worry that Siezo might

have permanent eye damage and Pari was still heavily medicated. And I was to write a book at an institution I knew nothing about. In a sense we were lucky. Nagaland University paid me for the

year, which allowed me to gain a visa for my sabbatical year. But our

savings and my pay went little further than our airfares and Siezo’s and Pari’s hospital bills, leaving us with no spare cash. Initiatives 193

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

of Change offered us free board and lodging for the whole year at

their premises in Kooyong Road, Toorak, called ‘Armagh’. This

was a wonderful gesture and meant the trip was possible, but there was no cash income attached. La Trobe University offered me a room and use of the library and research facilities, but, as was normal

with visiting scholars, no stipend or travel money. The whole adven­ ture would have been manageable, even exciting, but we had lived through several years of nightmare back in Kohima, and the pent-up stress of that reality soon weighed heavily on us.

We moved into Armagh, which was a very large house, a mansion

really, on a few acres, with land around it and a swimming pool. It had belonged to Cecil McKay, fourth son of Hugh McKay. McKay

the elder had built and owned the successful Sunshine Harvester

agri­cultural machinery factory at Sunshine, probably the biggest fac­

tory in Melbourne around the time of the First World War. Cecil McKay, his son, was a captain of industry in interwar Melbourne,

managing director of HV McKay Massey Harris Pty Ltd after 1937,

and chairman after 1947. In a magnanimous gesture Cecil McKay donated Armagh to Initiatives of Change in 1956 as a study centre

for peace. It was a sprawling mansion of over twenty rooms, some of them as large as half a house, with a ballroom and huge kitchen.

It was gargantuan compared to housing in Nagaland and rather

ludicrous for our family as we were penniless. Although we had the run of the house, we actually stayed in a small and modest cottage outside the main house. There was a strong sense of community at

Armagh, as it was an international spiritual community dedicated to

reconciliation and driven by a strong faith that God would provide. All those who worked there, including us, did so unpaid.

194

E scape to Australia

Of course we had to contribute in return for our board and lodging.

My task was to assist with community visitors at Armagh, and to tutor and lecture to students undertaking short ‘life matters’ courses at the centre. I also taught yoga, meditation, and spoke about my own

life journey. I was present at many evening meals as well, to entertain

guests. It was very stimulating, but kept me away from the family. Pari and I decided that the children needed to have their meals at

the cottage and at a suitable time of day for them, but it meant I was often away from the family dinner table. Indeed, I often did not come home from the main house until after their bed time. This also put extra pressure on Pari who had to cook and manage dinner time

without my help. And her days were as busy as mine. She had to ready three children for school, often walk them there or home, and do domestic community work at Armagh, such as laundry work on

two days and some kitchen duty. It was quite taxing for Pari as she had not lived in such a community before.

We were both suffering culture shock as we did not know how to

do the simplest things in Australia when shopping, catching public transport, or connecting to services. How did one pay and where were things collected? There were many mysteries and a different sort

of help than back home in the village or even Kohima. In Nagaland

if you did not know how to get somewhere or do something, some­ one would take you or show you. In Australia, people would tell you

how to do it. So when a challenge arose, someone would explain what to do, but not do it for you. Westerners had learned the Chinese

proverb well: ‘If you give a man a fish, you feed him for the day, if you teach him how to fish he’ll never be hungry again’. It was the right thing to do, but it made it hard for us, as we began everything from scratch. At least we spoke English.

195

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

The children experienced fewer difficulties. They enjoyed every­

thing about Armagh. First of all they had a huge house and grounds

in which to play. There were innumerable hiding places in the house, stairs to run up and down, and huge chairs and lounges in which

to slump. The grounds provided much outdoor adventure and the swimming pool was there to use in hot weather. It was like living in

a palace as it was so huge to their small frames. There was endless

stimulation from young people of many different countries who ‘lived in’ while studying at Armagh. The cottage was a good place for the children to retreat when a rest was needed. But I was missed by them at meal times. One night Visopiano awoke and sleepwalked, banging

on the door of the main house, calling ‘Apfü! Apfü!’, the Naga name for father.

It was difficult living in Toorak, which was and is the most presti-

gious of Melbourne suburbs. Our children attended Toorak Pri­mary

School in Canterbury Road near Toorak Village. Tram fares were a problem, but fortunately Jonathan Lancaster, who was also living at the centre, had children attending the same school. He kindly drove

the children every day to school during 1996. Pari walked each day to collect Siezo from the kindergarten in the middle of the day. She often carried him halfway home as he was tired after the morning’s

kindergarten. It was also difficult to find funds for uniforms, shoes

and fundraising chocolate drives. On one occasion when Kevisato’s shoes split, Pari taped the upper to the sole and covered it with black

boot polish, but it soon split again. Some­times the mothers at the school had a gathering and Pari struggled to provide a plate. How-

ever, we were absolutely astounded by the generosity of some people once they sensed our difficulty. One woman decided to give Pari $40

every month, quite a sum in 1996, saying she knew how hard it was 19 6

E scape to Australia

to manage with three children. This way we knew we had that dependable sum each month.

The children liked the school and were warmly welcomed there.

They were a bit of a novelty coming from Nagaland, which nobody

had heard of, and because most of the children were of Caucasian

background. Kevisato entered Grade 3 and Visopiano was placed in

Grade 2. However, they found they were ahead of the other children academically as they had done the work at home already. The struc­

ture of classes was more casual than Kevisato had experienced. How­ever, Visopiano had gone to an independent-thinking school in Kohima, to suit her personality, and fitted well into the way of

teaching at Toorak Primary. They both adapted; Kevisato being good

at sport and Visopiano soon became one of the popular girls with lots of friends. Siezo adapted well to kindergarten and soon became

very Australian, like his sister, but as his schooling progressed he was hindered by a learning difficulty.

We became involved with a Baptist congregation in Brunswick.

A woman parishioner named Meewon from Brunswick drove us to

and from church. Once the congregation discovered our financial

predicament, they decided to extend an interest-free loan to us of the large sum of $1,500, saying ‘just repay us when you can’. Pari and I

were overwhelmed! I remember sitting in their church, which was cracked and falling apart, with tears in our eyes. We were so grateful. Their own church was crumbling and yet they loaned us this money,

and we were living in a mansion, but with little cash. Pari remarked that it was a very strange juxtaposition of realities. We later joined

South Yarra Baptist Church which was closer to Armagh. Pastor Nathan Nettleton and his wife Margie Wellsford showed great com­passion for our plight.

19 7

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Others were generous too in a practical way. It reminded me that

Mother Theresa once declared: ‘When a hungry person comes to your house, it is no point praying for them, all they need is a plate of

rice. When a man is dying on the road it is no use trying to convert him, all he needs is a cup of rice, to die peacefully’. Dorothy Hicks, who was a teacher and had never married, adopted our family and

became an aunty to our children. She supplied a cake for every birth-

day and important occasions, and helped with goods and money. Alan and Liz Weeks contributed $50 monthly for Siezo’s medical

needs. Others helped, including Roger and Stephanie Dundas, Mary Whiteside and Heather Telfer. Richard Broome chauffeured me to La Trobe University. We were indeed fortunate.

When I arrived at La Trobe University to begin my sabbatical, I

was warmly welcomed. The first thing the office staff in the Depart­

ment of Sociology and Anthropology asked was: ‘What kind of com­put­er do you use at your university in Nagaland?’ I looked a bit puzzled and replied: ‘I have never seen a computer’. She in turn was

shocked that a head of department did not have a computer and had never seen one. Also I had never heard of email. At La Trobe email

was by 1996 becoming a standard form of communication. I went

to the library to borrow a book and was presented with a comput­ er cat­a ­logue. I was scared and frozen to the spot. Fortunately an Indian aca­dem­ic passed by, and sensing my bewilderment quizzed

me. I replied I had never seen such things and he warmly said, ‘It

is simple. Just do this and this, and press this and this’. He went through the process and I repeated it several times and a list of books appeared! I copied the numbers down and found the books. I made a lot of mistakes, but I soon learnt to use a computer and email. Things

looked promising as copies of my book written from my PhD thesis, 19 8

E scape to Australia

A History of Nagas and Nagaland: Dynamics of Oral Tradition in Village Formation (1996), had just arrived.

However, my new book project to be written while in Australia

did not work out. Despite being given a room, a computer and other facilities, I just could not concentrate, given the trauma of the past

few years. It preyed on my mind even though I was safe. Then things became much worse. Three months into our stay something terrible happened: Dr I. Singh from the Education Department was shot dead in the corridor. He was Meitei and completely apolitical and

took no sides in Naga debates. His department was also uncontrov­

er­sial, unlike my Archaeology and History Department, and yet he was assassinated. Pari and I could only speculate that one faction

was attacking the office of the college warden. During my absence he had replaced me in the role of warden of the men’s college. His

fate perhaps awaited me. Soon after, two friends were gunned down, one in Kohima. The other, Tubu, Secretary of the Naga National

Council, the faction my family and clan supported, was shot dead in his house in Dimapur in front of his family.

I might have made some headway on my book if I had a mentor to

guide and encourage my new project, but everyone was preoccupied

with their own work or perhaps did not sense my predicament. A lecturer in Sociology, Lucinda Aberdeen, assisted me a great deal, but most others were too driven by a competitive culture within the

university system. It was such a different environment from Naga­

land University where, if someone dropped by your office, the tea cups came out and a conversation unfolded. However, while the book

project stalled, I acquired the skills to work in a modern university.

I attended seminars and discussions and talked to many La Trobe

University academics, including professors Joe Camilleri, Robert 19 9

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Manne and Robin Jefferies, and also Ian Copeland at Monash University. I met many wonderful people, passionate about human rights, who wanted to make a difference to Australia and the world.

By late 1996 the security situation in Nagaland remained grim.

Some of our friends urged us to stay longer. So we successfully applied

for a year’s extension to our visa. Two friends in Armagh, Jean and

Mike Brown, gave us, not loaned us, $750 to tie us over. At the end of 1997 we applied again for an extension, as little had changed back home. Again it was granted due to the political situation.

In late 1998 Pari and I faced a further visa extension. Kevisato, who

was almost eleven, would soon encounter the challenges of youth.

Back in Kohima there were many problems for young boys: alcohol,

drugs and AIDS were prevalent, as Kohima lay near the ‘Golden Triangle’, and addictions were fuelled by unemployment. Some of

our nephews had died from such scourges and we were desperate to avoid that. But if we extended just once or twice more, Kevisato would return home at a vulnerable age. Then there were the other

children to think of. Visopiano, and especially Siezo, would have

fewer educational advantages back home. We decided to apply for a more permanent status to remain in Australia.

We applied for protection visas, which were granted due to the

documentation of fratricide in Nagaland I supplied. Pari and I were greatly relieved, but worried about our refugee status. My friend Alan Weeks sensed my concern and asked, ‘Are you worried about

your status?’ I said ‘yes’ and he replied ‘I am also refugee – from England’. I learned Jesus Christ was a refugee and that two great

thinkers in the world, Karl Marx and Einstein, were also refugees. I

decided that I could not aspire to such greatness, but was content to be an honest hard-working refugee, like 50 million others on Earth. 200

E scape to Australia

Pari and I were now permitted to undertake paid work. I taught

yoga, washed dishes, sold mobile phones and worked as a furniture

removalist, anything I could to do to make money. Pari started cleaning houses. This was the typical story of an educated migrant

having to begin at the bottom. Pari gained a first class degree in

social work but was cleaning houses. In Melbourne, I met a former ambassador of Afghanistan who did menial work; a Russian doctor

forced to be a beautician; and ministers of third world countries who had jobs in Australia as labourers. This is not wrong or shameful – it is just the way it is for a new migrant. But it is a waste of skills.

The decision to remain and its approval increased our security, but

also our discomfort. We were now physically and spiritually alienated

from Nagaland on at least a semi-permanent basis. And our children by now had all but lost their language, and to a degree much of their culture. Back in Nagaland Pari and I had spoken different languages

in the home to teach our children what they needed: English, Nagamese and Angami. Before my sabbatical our children spoke all of them to differing degrees of efficiency. Kevisato, the eldest, spoke

fluent Nagamese and Angami, which is our tribal language. But in

Australia we spoke mostly English, as we thought this was a way, during our one-year stay, to greatly improve their English. Besides, it was the language of their schooling at Toorak Primary. But once we

stayed, their Nagamese and Angami skills faded, and were eventually lost. I told myself ‘we are going back home one day, they’ll pick it

up again’. But over time they all lost their language. I tried teaching them at home, but without a Naga community around them, or a

disciplined approach like a Saturday school, it was hopeless. It is a

great cultural loss for them, which I deeply regret, and for which I have never forgiven myself.

2 01

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

In 1999, after three years living in Armagh, we decided to move

into a place of our own and rented a house in Blackburn. It was a great shock for all of us. We went from a community in a huge house, to a Melbourne suburb where neighbours did not mix very much, or at least not with us. Besides, we were often out. Pari and

I each worked several part-time jobs trying to make ends meet, and the children were busy adapting to a new school. Our finances were

always on a knife edge so it was wonderful that Dorothy Hicks gave

us her second-hand car to help us manage in the suburbs. But of course we had to run it, which further strained our resources.

Social interaction in the suburbs was not always positive. I had never

experienced racism at Armagh, the Baptist Church or at La Trobe

University, but I met it sometimes in the street, on public transport

and in the workplace. I was packing coffee at one place, and at first I was a bit slow and made a few mistakes. I was abused by one man,

who basically said in colourful language: ‘If you can’t learn our system,

go home’. While selling mobile phones from a van in Adelaide I had a co-worker who made racist claims, implicitly directed at me, such as

‘Asians can’t drive’. We almost came to blows when I sat in a seat in the van he claimed was his. While driving in Melbourne I experienced road rage with a racial tinge. I was called by another motorist ‘a bloody

terrorist’. If he had yelled at a non-Asian driver he would have called him a ‘bloody idiot’, but an Asian is called a ‘terrorist’.

Over time I developed an antenna for potential abuse. Ninety per

cent of people are tolerant but there are always a few who will lash

out and you have to be ready. Unfortunately too many people watch on, unprepared to assist, perhaps out of shock, rather than a lack of

202

E scape to Australia

sympathy. I certainly have been shocked by such events. At times I would come home to our rented home in Blackburn and just sit in front of the television. This was not normal behaviour for me and I guess I was depressed.

Fortunately the children did not experience such rejection at school

in Blackburn, but it was not always easy for them, as they missed the community feeling at Armagh and found living in the suburbs alien-

ating. It had been easy for them to move from Kohima to Armagh

because of the constant interaction with people. But Blackburn was different, and our first Christmas there was very lonely. In the New

Year Kevisato entered Grade 6 at Blackburn Lake Primary School,

Visopiano Grade 5 and Siezo Grade 3. At first it was difficult for them as by the final years of primary school friendships are more

fixed. However, Kevisato finally found acceptance because he was

good at soccer and Visopiano and Siezo generally were able to blend into a group of friends.

From Blackburn Lake Primary, Kevisato went to Forest Hill

Sec­on­dary School in 2000, with Visopiano following a year later. Both were disappointed with their education as many of their classmates lacked ambition. Kevisato also became quite critical of

Australian values at this time, partly due to his youthful resentment about still being in Australia. He lashed out in his unhappiness, saying to me once: ‘Why are you always talking about Nagas.

They are a dying race, dying people, forget about the Nagas’. Of

course the Naga were not a dying people, although fratricide and other violence was killing individuals. And Kevisato did not really

mean what he said, he was just angry about being in Australia.

203

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

A rare visit to Khonoma Nagaland while in exile in Australia, 2001. Pari with my uncle Niketu Iralu and my traditionalist brother, Niyiehu.

Happily, Kevisato made several friends at Forest Hill Secondary:

Wilson Chen, a Chinese student, and an Iranian, Armin. They were

quite academic and had high expectations, so Kevisato developed similar aspirations. In Year 8, Wilson sat for the entrance examination

for Melbourne Boys’ High and convinced Kevisato to do likewise. Both gained a place. After a family meeting it was decided that

Kevisato would enrol there in Year 9. Visopiano, who was also aca-

demically minded, decided to apply for MacRobertson Girls’ High

and also gained a place. So by 2003 our two oldest children were going to the most prestigious state high schools in Melbourne! Siezo attended Forest Hill College, which brought out the best in him.

In 1997, my second year in Australia, I also began to study. We

had extended our stay, but my book project on Nagaland had stalled

due to the trauma of my migration and the continuing fratricide back 204

E scape to Australia

home. I decided to enrol in another degree to ensure I did not return home empty-handed. I met Rev. Malcolm Mackay of the Uniting

Church who suggested I might try Theology. I approached the principal of Whitley Baptist College, part of the Melbourne College of Divinity based at the University of Melbourne. I explained my

background, why I was stranded in Australia, my desire to study Theology, but also my inability to pay fees. He kindly agreed to waive

tuition fees. As most of the lectures were at night, I was able to ful­

fil my obligations at Armagh, and once I gained a protection visa, to seek paid work during the day.

I began at Whitley with great excitement, although the prospect

of a four-year degree was daunting, and in the end proved to be

much longer as I studied part-time. The choice of Theology was due

to my search for meaning, especially at that time of alienation and

uncertainty. Besides, I had always wanted to know more about this Christianity brought to the Naga by American Baptist missionaries,

and which I had embraced at nineteen. However, it was not easy becoming a student again, and in the computer age. Some of the

younger ones were extremely skilled and fast on the computer, which

made me feel very inadequate. Fortunately a mixed group of students were studying Theology, ranging from school leavers seeking ordination; those retraining as pastors; and retirees searching for greater

understanding – some of them engineers or PhDs in Chemistry. I recall one saying: ‘I’m retired and I’m going to search for something deeper for my life’.

I think it took me several years before I became comfortable with

studying again. Besides I was still living with trauma. I remember one day Rev. Alan Marr reported on his visit to the Karen refugee 205

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

camps in Thailand and I just started crying. The lecturer consoled me

and asked me to see him after the class in his room, but I shrugged

it off, saying: ‘I’m fine’. I did not go as I was embarrassed that I was

out of control. But I later realised I was expressing compassion for others in the strife I found myself in, being marooned in Australia.

I had reached a deep crisis in my life, having lost everything or so

I thought – my home, my job, my parents, three brothers and my dearest sister Jakieno, not to mention seven brothers and sisters who had died before I was born.

The degree took me seven years part-time, as I did not graduate

until 11 April 2003. But I learned profound lessons while studying Theology that shattered my existing thinking and shaped my future

life. This journey was perplexing and difficult, but in the end deeply satisfying. Studying Theology was for me an encounter with God

who showed his love for me. Theology was my faith, seeking under­

standing, and the attempt to bridge the chasm between the human and the divine, the finite and the infinite. It was a process by which I

intellectually examined my faith and transformed myself into a new creation through understanding Jesus Christ.

I also learned that Theology is an imperfect and unfinished dis­

ci­pline, for theological interpretations are coloured and shaped by

culture. This is why many stories in the Bible are unintelligible in terms of our current cultural understanding and context. From my

early years back home I was never comfortable with the missionaries’

version of Christianity and the loss of Naga traditions. But now I realised clearly why. Christianity came to the Naga in a Western cloak. The American Baptist missionaries were extremely ethno­ centric and went into the world with a belief in the superiority of

their culture and religion. They forbade Naga converts from per­ 206

E scape to Australia

form­ing traditional rituals and taking part in festivals, urging them to dress in pants and change their hairstyle to show their

conversion. These attitudes not only undermined the priceless values

of my people’s culture, but also resulted in chaos and confusion for generations. The present moral crises in Nagaland involving drugs

and alcohol are often expressions of cultural crises, arising from loss of traditional cultural roots without acquiring new foundations.

At Whitley I came to realise that Christ is for all cultures

and Christianity must work through culture. St Paul said to the Corinthians: ‘And unto the Jews I became as a Jew, that I might

gain the Jews … I am made all things to all men, that I might by all

means save some’ (1 Corinthians 9:20-22). I even wondered if there could be a Naga theology or a Naga source for theology. In the

traditional concepts of Naga spirituality and ritual practice, there were many things that could be a source and inspiration for Naga

Christian faith, thus making Christianity a Naga Christianity.

Kekinyi, the feast of peace or kethezie-kedzunya, which embraced all the qualities of love, are deep-seated Naga cultural values. They

resonate in perfect harmony with Scripture, needing only a con­ textualised theology to bring both alive with meaning and relevance to the Naga.

While studying Theology the trauma of my own life and of the

Naga people caused me to turn to yoga for meditation and relaxation.

I prayed and internalised my yoga practice into a Christian form and then founded the Naga Yoga Institute in 1999. In four years, over

a thousand people attended my yoga classes, including students, Christians, businesspeople and others. I often taught two or three classes a night and many were helped by them, as was I. But there

was some resistance. Some Christians associated yoga with the occult 207

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

and thought it dangerous and un-Christian, while others thought that

yoga, being a Hindu tradition, could never blend with Christian­ity.

And some Naga, because of their dislike of India and things Indian,

could not see that there could be Naga yoga. What is Christian yoga and Naga yoga, and is Christianity and yoga compatible?

I first experienced yoga in India in the early 1990s, when I studied

under Father Joseph Pereira, who was a Catholic priest and famous Yogi. I had lost some nephews through drug addiction and thought

it might help me through the distress of these deaths. Yoga is India’s greatest gift to the world. It is derived from a Sanskrit word which means ‘to bind, join, yoke, or union’. In the practice of yoga, one is

seeking union with God, by yoking all the powers of body, mind and spirit. It offers not liberation from the human condition, but the realisation of freedom through spiritual practice, while living. A Yogi thus unites the human and the divine. While studying with Father

Pereira I was startled by his remark that, as a Christian Yogi, he

recognised Jesus as the Supreme Yogi. Because Jesus was in perfect union with God, he is truly the perfect Yogi.

When in Australia and in need of meditative healing, I remem­

bered what Father Pereira had said. I also read on the subject and

found that some people had discussed Christian yoga. Thomas Ryan and Father Dechanet in 1965 and Thomas Ryan in 1995 had written about it, and even Carl Jung had stated: ‘The west will have to create

its own Yoga – Yoga built on Christian foundations – and in time it will do so’.

I thus began to teach and to think about Christianity, yoga and my

Naga culture. I later wrote an article to distil my thoughts entitled

‘Naga Yoga. A Christian Practice’. It was through my practice of yoga, my daily internalising of my Naga-ness and Naga spirituality, and my 208

E scape to Australia

daily meditation on the words and the life of Christ, which led me

to Naga yoga. Both Christianity and yoga had been contextualised and thus indigenised and made Naga. This cultural internalisation,

through body, mind and spirit, gave me a deeper understanding of

the sufferings of Christ and his love and sacrifice for me. Taking yoga as a physical act, an embrace of ancient Indian spiritual mysticism, it was my Naga body and mind that was involved – thus a mystical synthesis was developed through the physical and spiritual.

While in India a decade ago I visited the Morarji Desai Yoga

Institute in Delhi. I met the Secretary for Education in India and

mentioned that I was teaching Naga yoga in Australia. He was

astounded and excited, reminding me that ‘naga’ in Sanskrit meant ‘serpent’, and that Naga yoga was the highest form of yoga. This was outlined in a book called The Serpent Power: The Secrets of Tantric

and Shaktic Yoga by Sir John Woodroffe (Arthur Avalon) in 1919,

who argued there is a serpent-like coil in the six chakras (or spiritual centres) of the body. When that serpent is awakened by yoga prac­

tice, a spiritual power called the kundalini is released, in which you

are so empowered and enlightened that you start doing things you have never done before, and you can do things that you can never imagine possible. The person becomes totally different because the power of the serpent is awakened, and the serpent is Naga.

I never experienced an awakening of my serpent-like power of

kundalini, but through Naga yoga I began to heal myself of my trauma, my anger, and my sorrows. I still felt sad, there is still to this

day a deep, deep sorrow in my life, a deep sadness about the things that I cannot get back. But my practise of what I call Naga yoga and my study of Theology helped me to move on. Some of my fellow students became ordained after graduation. I considered it but never 209

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

took that step. However, that chapter is not closed. I have a friend

who presses me from time to time, saying: ‘I think you’ll be a good pastor’. Occasionally he sends me the forms to complete, but as yet I have not done so.

During my years of study we made another decision: that we

would apply for Australian citizenship. Although the violence of the late 1990s had subsided somewhat in Nagaland, we were still in fear of what might happen. Factional feuds in Nagaland run deep and the

factions have long memories, so it was possible that as an academic I would still be in danger. At times we had wondered if we could be in

danger even here in Australia. Besides, I had no job there anymore, and my children had now been in Australia for four years – which was more than half of their lives.

When I became a citizen of Australia in 2001 I broke down and

wept with mixed feelings. I was so proud to be an Australian. Our

adopted country had been so wonderful to us, and now I had an Australian passport to travel freely for the first time in my life –

anywhere. However, I now seemed to be separated from my home forever. My friend Tom Ramsay, sensing my anguish, placed his

hand on my shoulder and said: ‘We all came from somewhere and we had to leave behind our old country to make Australia home’. I was like everyone else, and was now Australian!

210

Cha pte r 13

WOR K I NG W I T H R EF UGE E S I was beginning to find some harmony in my life. I was now a citizen,

a graduate in Theology, and was finding peace through theology and my thinking and teaching of Naga yoga. But with a young family

still at school I had to find a full-time job, and one in which I could make a contribution to my new society. Academic work seemed out of the question as competition for such jobs was fierce, and my

expertise in Naga and Indian history was not much sought after in Australian university faculties of humanities. Also, I was not ready to commit to being a pastor. So I chose the next best thing: I would try

and work with refugees. Such a job would reflect my life experience

and my personal situation and need for healing. I hoped to help their integration into Australia society and their reconciliation with other Australians.

In early 2004 I successfully applied for a job with the Commission

of the National Council of Churches in Australia, a coalition of about twenty major churches and Christian groups in Australia. The Council began work in 1948 to tackle the massive refugee crisis

in Eastern Europe after the Second World War. It operated under another name, but its overseas aid effort became known in 2007 as

Act for Peace, which was headed by a commission, itself part of a

world network of 140 organisations called ACT Alliance. This

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Alliance aims to create positive and sustainable change in regions and

communities around the globe facing conflict or natural disasters. It runs programs to reduce poverty and increase health and educa­tion

and to empower communities to manage their own develop­ment. It assists peacemaking efforts, and aids refugees to find safety in wellmanaged camps.

I was delighted to be in paid work and involved in a global effort

to help those fleeing conflict and natural disasters. It was important work that reflected my own story of being a victim of the Indian

Army in 1956, of angry Indian students in 1968 and being forced to flee from fratricide in my homeland in 1996. I had worked in a refugee

camp in my Gap Year assisting refugees in the Indian–Bangladesh War in 1971, and had campaigned for peace while touring with

‘Song of Asia’ in the mid-1970s. I seemed to be destined for this job as Refugee Programs Officer and took to it with a will.

My initial task was to travel to Thailand for a few weeks and

report on the delivery of services in refugee camps on the Thai– Burmese border. Act for Peace helped fund the Thai–Burma Border

Consortium, a body that oversaw several camps there, one with over 90,000 people, another with 60,000. These camps were over twenty

years old and many inhabitants had been born there and were thus

stateless. This limbo nightmare existed because they were not allowed to enter Thailand, and did not wish to return to Burma, from which

they had escaped. Indeed, refugees fled to the camps every day by swimming across the river at the border. They merely existed in the

liminal space of the borderland and were fed and sustained by giving through Act for Peace and other agencies. While there, I saw Karens

who had fled Burma, suffering under the Burmese military junta, as did the Eastern Naga.

21 2

Working with R efugees

I spoke to many classes in the refugee schools, and taught some

lessons of history and English while there. To my great surprise and delight, I found my niece Aleno from Nagaland, teaching English at

the refugee camp. Her college had organised a year’s teaching for her

as part of her degree. It was a tough trip for me. I can never forget the

centre for victims of land mines; all of whom had lost an arm or leg or both, or my visit to the house for orphans, which broke my heart. Many refugees asked me to help them to resettle in Australia, which was a beacon of hope for them. I tried for one family, but a chance to resettle in Norway arose, which they accepted. But they emailed me later, thanking me for trying.

After I returned to Melbourne I was hardly in the office. There

were always meetings either at the Refugee Council of Australia,

the Asylum Seekers’ Resource Centre or elsewhere. There was a

lot of advocacy, educational activities in schools and churches, and telephone or Skype conferences with my fellow officers in other states.

I went to Tasmania as well, often for two weeks, as they did not have

a Refugee Programs Officer in that state. The Council office there arranged my schedule. I would speak in six churches, do several TV or radio interviews, and visit two schools per day.

I received a message one day from a Father Delaney, inviting me

to speak at an annual conference in Tasmania of Catholic priests. I

agreed, despite feeling overawed at the prospect. I was educated at

St Joseph’s College in Darjeeling, a Jesuit college, and knew Jesuits to be highly educated. I decided I would not give a homily or an

intellectual lecture on the refugee situation in the world, for they would know all that. So I told simple stories of how refugees are struggling, and how it is our responsibility to welcome them. Our Lord says: ‘I was hungry, you gave me food. I was naked and you 213

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

clothed me. I was sick and you visited me. What you do to the least of my people you do to me’. I reminded them that the Gospel asks us

to look after the most marginalised people, the poorest of the poor, and the refugees are the most marginalised people. We need to care for them.

My talk before a hundred priests was well received. I enjoyed

speaking and advocacy, which was far more satisfying than meetings, fundraising and administration. Above all, I enjoyed developing three projects that I created: the Healing Trail, the Refugee Festival and the appointment of Refugee Ambassadors.

The first Healing Trail occurred in late 2004 after considerable

organisation. The idea was to ease the trauma of being a refugee and to smooth their resettlement in Australia. The government provided material help, but from personal experience I knew refugees needed a warm and welcoming connection with Australians. I decided to organise refugees to meet Australian families, and focused on country

communities where people had far less frequent contact with ref­

ugees. Assisted by Jane Knight, I chose Port Fairy as my first point

of contact. We phoned churches in the town and gained hosts for a weekend visit by refugees.

I journeyed to Port Fairy with a busload of forty refugees, mostly

Sudanese and Burmese. We arrived on Saturday afternoon and pro­

ceeded to the Town Hall, which I had booked for a performance. These newest Australians performed their own culture’s songs and

dances and told stories of their journeys. We then adjoined to a hotel for a dinner where more stories were shared as people ate and talked. The children, as was to be expected, speedily broke the ice and began

to play. After the dinner each family hosted a refugee for the night where dialogue continued. The next day the refugees attended five 214

Working with R efugees

or six churches to again tell their stories, followed by a combined

picnic with all their hosts. After many goodbyes we headed back to Melbourne.

I did not expect that the program would also help Australian

families. However, after the visits many of them declared: ‘It was such a unique experience for us; we had no idea how they lived and suffered until I met someone from a refugee camp – it was a healing

experience for me too’. The parting at the end of the weekend often produced tears all round. Some of the families became firm friends leading to repeat visits. I met a Chin refugee family from Burma

recently and they had been to Sale five times, because their host family invited them for Christmas and other functions. They also passed on second-hand furniture, whitegoods and a television. They

in turn visited the refugee family in Melbourne and were welcomed and feasted with Burmese cooking. Confused feelings could arise.

One Burmese lady cried on the bus trip home, remarking ‘They were so kind to me, they looked after us so well. But even the bed of the dog in their house is better than my bed in Burma, and the dog has better food than what I had in Burma’.

I conducted the Healing Trail two or three times a year for several

years and visited a number of towns across Victoria – Port Fairy, Shepparton-Mooroopna, Bendigo, Lancefield, Ballan and the

Morn­ing­ton Peninsula. It was a lot of effort, involving paper­work and legal re­quire­ments to arrange transport, meetings, dinners, and

overnight stays, and after several years, it slowed to once or twice a

year. I wrote a manual to ensure it was done properly, which was a large task in itself.

Two retired Uniting Church ministers, Reverend Gail Pritchard

and Reverend Alistair Pritchard, asked how they could contribute 21 5

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Group on a Healing Trail trip to Sale, 2008. I am on the extreme right hand side.

to the work of the National Council of Churches. I replied, ‘You can organise the Healing Trail in future’, to which they agreed. They

took to the work with great energy, organising Healing Trails as I

had done and being guided by my manual. They also organised an annual international dinner in Refugee Week. A refugee community would cook dinner for ticket holders and donors, who would feast

and listen to a guest speaker. I was invited to attend a number of

times and asked to speak about the achievements of the Healing Trail. The program that I began became so successful that people in country areas declared: ‘We want to resettle some refugees in our

community’. In the Bendigo area a committee resettled some 600 refugees. A Buddhist monk was among them and a Catholic priest

in Bendigo said: ‘Oh, I’ll take him in’. It became a great story that a Buddhist monk was living with the Catholic priest.

My second creation and achievement was to institute an annual

Refugee Festival. It evolved from a request in 2004 by my boss Jeff 216

Working with R efugees

Wild for me to organise a seminar for Refugee and Migrant Sunday. When I asked rather puzzled what this day was, he explained that for sixty years the last Sunday in August has been designated Refugee

and Migrant Sunday. It was created to raise awareness of the prob-

lems of the refugees and migrants who came to Australia after the Second World War in the largest intake of non-British permanent

new­comers Australia has ever seen. Over 180,000 refugees came from Europe as Displaced Persons over several years, when Australia’s population was just seven million, one third of today’s total.

I set to work. I met Father Mark Raper, the Jesuit expert on

refugees, who agreed to speak. I next organised performances by an opera singer and a refugee who danced. The seminar was held in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral and seventy-two people came. It seemed

an awful lot of work and donated talent for such a small, but respectable, attendance. I started to think how it might be different. I proposed to transform the Refugee and Migrant Sunday seminar

into a community event, and to open it to a wider audience. Many churches celebrated this Sunday, but in their own local churches, and with small attendances. So I proposed a community-based Refugee Festival to be held on Refugee and Migrant Sunday. My boss agreed and I was given freedom to follow my star on this.

I rang the City of Whitehorse in my local area and made an

appointment to see the City’s Multicultural Officer. I met with

Leonie Boyle and said: ‘This is the situation: refugees are coming to Australia and some people are getting nervous. People are get­ ting false information, and there are myths about refugees; that

they are queue-jumpers and illegal arrivals’. I pointed out that it was not illegal to seek asylum under the United Nations Refugee

Convention that Australia had signed. We needed to educate the 217

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

public, and we must celebrate what they have done. I added that ‘Out of the eight billionaires in Australia, five of them came from a refugee background’. Many wealthy and leading Australians today,

such as Frank Lowy and Sir Gustav Nossal, were refugees. Their contribution and that of many other refugees to our society was of great benefit, and they were not a threat. Leonie Boyle offered the

Box Hill Town Hall free of charge, and the Whitehorse Council agreed to co-sponsor the festival.

I contacted the Charge d’Affairs of the Governor of Victoria

and asked if the governor would be the honoured guest and open the festival. My boss thought I was crazy, saying such people often steered clear of church activities. But the governor’s aide replied shortly after, saying the governor, David de Kretser, would be

delighted to open the festival. I contacted Kavisha Mazella, an Aria Award winning singer, and she agreed to perform. Then I rang Jill

Singer, a leading television host, and again she readily accepted the role of MC of the festival.

On the day, the Box Hill Town Hall was almost packed with over

500 people present. My Aboriginal friend, Uncle Reg Blow, did a

welcome to country on behalf of the Indigenous original owners of the Box Hill lands, followed by a didgeridoo player. All the refugee

groups provided singers and dancers. I took to the stage with a woman, who was 196cm tall. I exclaimed: ‘I am not short but look

at her, our newest Australian. I tell you in thirty to forty years’ time the Australian basketball team for the Olympics will be from Australians of Sudanese refugee background’. The audience laughed

and applauded loudly, cheering her. I followed by performing a Naga chant. The next year and the year after that, it was even bigger. I knew we had to move to a larger venue. 218

Working with R efugees

I chose the St Kilda Council as my target and approached its

Multicultural Officer, but the response was not the same as at Box

Hill. We gained access to their facilities, but had to pay this time. Nevertheless the public response was electric. I managed to get access to the popular Red Symons breakfast radio program on the

Australian Broadcasting Commission’s radio 774. They repeated my interview with him as a promo for a week and it gave the festival

a great deal of publicity. On the day, a thousand people crammed into the St Kilda Town Hall, and there were hundreds milling around outside in the corridors and the street because they could

not fit in. The Age newspaper, SBS and ABC TV, all reported the

festival as celebrating the refugees’ contribution to Australia. It was a wonderful success and gave great publicity to the National Council

of Churches, potentially boosting its community profile and its fund

raising. It was perhaps the biggest event the Council had ever hosted and I won great praise from my bosses.

As the Council’s senior management were in Sydney I endeav-

oured with some success to get someone down for the annual Ref­ugee Festival to witness its success for themselves. The director

came one year and was surprised and impressed. However, as the National Council of Churches is a national body, we could not keep

funding a Victorian Refugee Festival without one in the other states. So the Victorian annual Refugee Festival was suspended after six

years. Whether it was an absence of the right staff or other reasons,

sadly one has never been held in another part of the country. This is worry­ing given that the Refugee Council of Australia and other respected bodies estimate that at the beginning of 2015 there were

over fifty million refugees in the world. The number continued to grow throughout 2016, and Australia’s response to this crisis 219

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

continued to harden. In terms of resettlement of this vast number, Australia ranks 46 th in the world in terms of raw numbers, but if this is adjusted for population Australia ranks 63rd. If judged against

GDP, Australia ranks a mere 81st globally – sad statistics for an affluent and safe country that was so welcoming to me.

The third creative area of my job as Refugees Programs Officer

was also my idea, but beyond the idea itself, I had to work out how

to do it without any structure, guidelines or funding. I was given

the task to create Refugee Ambassadors for Act of Peace. I knew many refugees and refugee groups by this stage, and so I selected ten

individuals from ten refugee communities. I chose those who were

the most articulate, the most outstanding, and the most educated of

their group. But they must also have gone through the experience of a refugee journey. Those chosen included members of the Sudanese,

Afghan, Burmese, Hazara, West Papuan, Tibetan and Palestinian communities.

These outstanding people had to be skilled in media work as well.

I sought help and was delighted that people provided professional advice for free. An Australian actress trained the Ambassadors in

voice projection and stage presentation. I also gained the free services

of a television producer who taught them how to speak on camera and on radio. The idea was that the Ambassadors would address the media, public meetings and churches, to educate people and to

demystify their fears of refugees. They had to be volunteers; that was

a firm stipulation of the Act for Peace. But we paid them during their training and for all their travel expenses to speaking engagements.

The Ambassadors gained invaluable skills from our training. Two

of them later wrote their autobiographies. David Nyuol Vincent, the

child soldier from Sudan, was one. His book is called The Boy Who 220

Working with R efugees

Wouldn’t Die. It contains a photograph of us together. The other was Essan Deleri, whose autobiography was published as Growing Up in

Conflict. He recently became a Victorian Refugee of the Year. Both

books, which have sold well, have spread refugee stories to thousands of people. David Vincent, a popular speaker, is currently a community coordinator for Diaspora Action Australia, and a director for Peace Palette that funds community development in South Sudan. All

these things came out of the Ambassador Program. It and the

Healing Trail are legacies of my work with the National Council of Churches, of which I am proud.

During my time with the Council I sought to restart my writing

project on Naga history. I approached the Monash Asia Institute at Monash University. Despite hopes of gaining a competitive research

grant being bleak, the Director of the Institute, Professor Marika

Vicziany, hoped I might write a paper about Nagaland and present it to a seminar there. As so often happens in my life, someone inter­ vened to provide me with an unexpected chance. At a dinner, I met the

Vice-Chancellor of Monash University, who asked me what I did. I told him I worked with refugees, but before I came to Australia I was

an Associate Professor of History. I shared my desire to recommence

researching the history of Nagaland, and told him of my meeting with the Director of the Asia Institute. His interest was sparked

and he asked me to come and see him at Monash with the Director of the Asia Institute, and a one-page proposal.

I was to meet with the director an hour before seeing the vice-

chancellor to talk tactics, but I was delayed, and so we only had five

minutes to discuss our approach. Once in the interview, Professor Vicziany proposed that I be appointed to a part-time fellowship. The vice-chancellor agreed to fund this for one year. It was quite 2 21

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

incredible, but that two-day payment as a researcher was worth more than what I earned in three days at the National Council of Churches in Australia.

I began with great enthusiasm and aimed initially at writing a

book. Like La Trobe University a decade earlier, most people were too busy with their own work to give me much time or guidance. I had thought I might place Nagaland in its geopolitical context. The director kept emphasising that unless my book was controversial it would not sell. So I pondered a scenario where the two superpowers

of Asia – India and China – were headed for confrontation and probably war. That seemed controversial. But then I realised that in two days a week for a year it was not possible to write a book.

So I changed tack and started to work on an article concerning

the biggest and most intractable problem in Nagaland – the peace

process. I had actually spoken on this issue at the Centre for South Asian Studies at Monash University in 2000. The peace process has been stalled for ten years since 1999. Many scholars who discussed it worked from models of nationalism or statecraft, some seeing India playing out strategies of divide and rule and of spying, inspired

by the writings of Kautilya in Arthashastra over 2,000 years ago. So I decided to look at peace the way I had looked at indigenous

spirituality, Christianity and yoga. How did the Naga view it, and

what indigenous processes might they have used in the past or could they employ in the future. I recalled that Naga spirituality had been

used in my village to reconcile clans. So I decided to investigate that and within a month had given a preliminary paper on my project to

the Asia Institute staff seminar. It engaged people and there were a lot of questions, more than in most seminars, partly as Nagaland was still largely an unknown entity.

222

Working with R efugees

I attended many seminars at the Asia Institute and enjoyed the

discussions sparked by many fine scholars there. However, during one discussion I found the Dalai Lama was being criticised for being

a total failure, indeed harming Tibet with his talk of non-violence. I vigorously argued the opposite and probably became too emotional and not fully intellectually rational as I might have been. People were

a bit shocked. But one woman spoke very quietly, saying: ‘I think he

has a point. I also feel that the Dalai Lama has done something for

Tibet’. I enjoyed my year at Monash, not least because I published an

article in 2011 of which I was proud, on the Naga peace process. It is to the Naga and the peace process that I must now turn, for despite my years in Australia, my homeland still called strongly to me.

223

Cha pte r 14

N AG A C ON N E C T IONS I now realise that despite living in Australia, my longest stay in one place so far, I had never really left Nagaland emotionally. It was

and is always in my thoughts, as my extended family, friends and associates are there. Indeed, they are even closer in this day of air

travel, mobile phones and social media. These things have enabled me to be president of the global Naga diaspora. My history and cultural

roots lay there as well. I am the maternal grandson of Lhulevo, the only Angami man to have celebrated the Feast of Merit five times,

earning great prestige. I am the paternal grandson of Khriekrulie, who became a kambura, the fourth such village head in our family.

I was bound to home too, by the constant thoughts of peacemaking.

Also I was drawn to home due to the honour of being installed as a chief of the Thangnokniu in Burma, called Myanmar after 1989, but which I will refer to here as Burma.

During my first ten years in Australia I dreamt every night, but

only of Nagaland. Sometimes I dreamt of relatives, friends or events from past times in Khonoma. It was wonderful to see my village and my past so vividly. But most dreams were chaotic. Often I was being chased in the Naga jungle by the Indian Army. It was wearying to

be constantly running in my dreams, crashing through undergrowth

and across streams in fear of being shot or tortured. These recurring

N aga C onnections

nightmares revealed that deep down I had little control over my

life – I had left my homeland, lost my job, my extended family, my friends and I was struggling in Australia. After a decade such

nightmares of dread receded. But on one occasion I recall my sister

Phono appearing in a dream. I asked her: ‘How is our brother? How is Dozo?’ She replied: ‘Didn’t you know, he died when you were in

Australia’. I awoke startled, unsure of the truth of what I had dreamt. I had received no bad news of Dozo. But sadly within one month, Dozo was dead!

In waking moments I also had constant home thoughts, but always

about Khonoma, not Kohima or Dimapur. How would I repair my

house, maintain the family’s paddy fields, and upkeep the fencing on our land? My family’s house, which is now empty, is falling apart. It

is mine now and respected by the villagers as such, even though it has been vacant now for twenty years. Land ownership in Naga villages

is marked by stone plinths or walls, so everyone knows exactly which part of the paddy-field or village property is yours. This is the traditional Naga way, which still holds strong in the village. No-one

encroaches on land, no-one steals crops or property. If they did they would be punished by the clan. But things are different in the towns

where tradition does not rule. People build on any land they can, on government reserves or the land of others. If you get a piece of land

in the city of Dimapur, the first thing you must do is put a fence on its boundaries, otherwise somebody will come and encroach upon it, or try to claim they bought it from someone else.

How did I come to be installed as a chief in Burma, which

bound me firmly to home? Naga people in Burma occupy an area considerably larger than Nagaland in India. When the British Raj

collapsed after 1947, artificial boundaries were drawn to create the 225

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Map showing the Ancestral domain of Naga people (inside the dotted line) being much larger than Nagaland itself. (Drawn by Icon inc. Melbourne)

226

N aga C onnections

new states of India and Burma. Lines on a map took no account of

peoples or places, only geopolitical zones. They bisected the land of many villagers, including the house of the chief of Longwa village:

his bedroom went to India, his kitchen to Burma. The British com­ ed­ian Michael Palin decades later made great merriment of this in a

film documentary, in which he straddled the border while talking to the chief about whether he sought a visa from Delhi or Rangoon to move about his house.

The Naga people were divided up like this too. Many Naga

villages were consigned to India in 1947, others remained in Burma.

India sealed off Nagaland for fifty years, and the Burmese military government also closed its borders to foreign influences, ending most

contact between the Naga in the troubled Indian state of Nagaland and the Eastern Naga in Burma.

The Eastern Naga were very isolated and still very traditional.

Renewed contact between the Eastern and Western Naga was reestablished in the late 1960s. This occurred after the Naga Army fled to the east to avoid the Indian Army, and while en route to China to

obtain arms and training. The Eastern Naga assisted the Naga Army

and some joined its ranks, causing the Burmese Army to make ar­rests

and burn Naga villages. Some Eastern Naga sought refuge and work in Kohima; and education, as there were few schools in the Naga

villages of Burma. These refugees often stayed with Naga families – some of them distant relatives. When I was teaching in Kohima,

our family gave refuge to a sixteen-year-old Naga girl, Chunglu. She minded our children in the day and attended school at night. After her return to Burma, I sent medicines and clothes to her family.

In 1993 I decided to make contact with this girl’s village of

Chinkiu and other Eastern Naga people. Shapwon Hemi, the leader of 2 27

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

the Naga National Council in Burma, organised the trip. I journeyed there with a young friend Asti Dolie. We walked to the border from

the last bus stop, due to the area’s inaccessibility, and because neither the Indian Army nor the Burmese Army welcomed such contact.

We trekked secretly into Burma over steep and winding mountain tracks, being informed at each village that Chinkiu was not too distant. In fact we walked each day for weeks to get there. The Naga

Hills were formidable, but porters eased our burden and the Naga at each village extended great hospitality. When we finally trudged

into Chinkui, the villagers welcomed us amiably. Chunglu greeted

me warmly, addressing me with respect and attachment as ‘Uncle

Uncle!’ We gave her gifts of baby clothes as she was now a mother. Her family went into a frenzy of hospitality, chasing down a chicken to cook for us.

We were received as VIPs as Shapwon told the villagers I was a

professor who was investigating the conditions of the Eastern Naga.

The whole village donned their best attire and a pig and chickens

were killed in our honour. Then discussions began. Those villagers who had visited Kohima and spoke Angami acted as interpreters, so the conversations flowed quite easily. These Chinkiu villagers, and

others we met, spoke of their problems with the Burmese Army; of beatings, rapes, and boys pressed into service as porters. Conditions in their villages were Spartan enough, there being no roads, no schools,

no health centres, so if people took seriously ill they died without help. However, sometimes they lost everything if their village was burned by the Burmese Army.

The villagers believed we represented the United Nations. Some

requested schools and health centres. At one village, the chief asked:

‘Can you please help us build a bridge because in the rainy season 228

N aga C onnections

we can’t go to our rice fields and farms’. The interpreter interposed saying; ‘They are not builders. They’re the wrong people to be asking’.

We confirmed that, but committed ourselves to recording and reporting on the atrocities of the Burmese Army. On my return I

spoke to several people in the United Nations High Commission for Refugees and submitted a report to the United Nations Human

Rights Commission. Those I spoke with had little or no knowledge of the Naga in Burma.

The requests were constant. At the village of Thangnokniu, one

of the chiefs through an interpreter suggested: ‘Come back and we

will adopt you and make you a chief of our village. We will perform

liamke, the feast of peacemaking’. I had noticed there were no tra-

ditional drums in the village, indeed in many villages. This was due to the impact of Baptist missionaries in the early twentieth century,

who had found their way to the Eastern Naga as well. The missionar-

ies and the first Naga evangelists who followed them believed Naga traditions were pagan and had stopped them. The great drums were burnt as symbols of the Devil. Michael Oppitz, Emeritus Professor of

Anthropology at the University of Zurich, and colleagues have written

in depth about the meaning, use and disappearance of the log drum in Naga Identities: Changing Local Cultures in the Northeast of India (2008).

I replied to their wonderful honour of making me a chief: ‘If you

are going to make me a chief, the symbol of this will be the return of the sacred drum. We’ll bring back the sacred drum as a mark of

my investiture’. I explained: ‘Becoming Christian is not wrong. Naga people to the west in Nagaland also became Christian, but we don’t

have to destroy our culture. The drum is not a sin. Indeed, European

Christians now play guitars and pianos in church and so we can play the drum’.

2 29

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

After listening intently, the chiefs and villagers responded with

great enthusiasm. They agreed to carve a large tree in the forest into a magnificent drum. It would take many months alongside their other work. I responded with pleasure, but expressed regret that I was

unable to give them a feast of merit. But I promised to pay for mithun

meat (the traditional sacrificial animal of the Naga) for the feast and also to bring other provisions when I returned. I would also arrange scholarships for their children to study in Kohima. Our agreement

was delayed by the outbreak of fratricidal violence in Nagaland, which caused me to be marooned in Australia after 1996. It took twelve years to fulfil!

For the next ten years I kept in touch through Eastern Naga stu­

dents studying in Kohima and via Shopwon Hemi. He is an educated

man, who speaks fluent English, Burmese and a number of Naga dialects. After our visit to Thangnokniu, he suffered a shocking

experience, being attacked by a bear on a mountain track. His face

was severely mauled on the right side. With the help of others we raised $13,000 to pay for facial reconstruction and an artificial eye. He now prefers to wear sunglasses most times to hide his significant disfigurement. Since then he has been hunted by the Indian Army, the

Burmese Army and some Naga factions as well, and has found refuge in the jungles of Thailand. His wife and six children live in Kohima.

In 2005 it was opportune for me to return to Thangnokniu in

Burma. I send word of my plans so the carving of the drum could

begin. I also alerted a French anthropologist and filmmaker, Patrick Bernard, who I had met in Shillong in October 1987. He was keen

at that time (and since) to make a film about Nagaland. How­ever,

foreigners were forbidden to enter Nagaland. After attaining a forged visa he entered Assam and make a film on the Zemi 230

N aga C onnections

With my Eastern Naga bodyguard on my secret trip into Burma to Naga villages including Chinkiu and Thangnokniu, 1993.

Nagas. How­ever, his repeated efforts to enter Nagaland proper were thwarted. He once camped in Delhi for a few months, seeking per­

mission, but to no avail. For years I tried unsuccessfully to obtain a Restricted Area Permit for him to enter Nagaland. In the meantime,

he invited me to Paris to attend his lectures and to speak at meetings.

It was Patrick Bernard who helped organise my invitation to speak

to a United Nations meeting during the International Year of the Indigenous People in 1993. After the 1997 ceasefire agreement between the Government of India and Nationalist Socialist Council of Nagalim was signed, restrictions gradually eased. By 2005 it was easier for foreigners to enter Nagaland.

When he received my call in 2005, Patrick responded enthusi­as­

tically to the chance to film the making of a chief and the return of the drum to this isolated Naga village. He gained a visa for Nagaland, but not Burma, as it was forbidden for anyone to enter that country. 2 31

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

He arrived in Khonoma with his cameraman Ken Ung, and after a

tour of my historic village, we headed for the Burmese border by jeep. Near the border the roads were mired in deep mud, so we abandoned the jeep and walked to the border. We crept into Burma along steep

jungle paths, 3,500 metres above sea level. The Burmese Army kept

Burma locked tight against foreign influences, so we had to move

warily and remain watchful. As we left Nagaland I chanted to the

Naga Hills to express deep love for my country, singing in a haunting chant:

Oh Ukepenuopfü! Do not allow the sun to set today,

So that I may glaze upon my beloved land for a longer time. We began the arduous walk, which took weeks as it did in 1993 when I was just over forty. Now I was in my mid-fifties, and softened by

living in Melbourne for a decade, a city at sea level and with few hills.

We all found the walking tough as we trekked day upon day, up and

down narrow, slippery and steep mountain paths, always watchful

for the Burmese Army. We were welcomed at villages along the way, smoothing our journey, but after a week of strenuous walking I developed knee trouble, and had to use a stave to continue.

Finally we reached the village of Thangnokniu. Sentries dressed

in full regalia, brandishing Naga dao and shields, cried shrilly and I replied with the same Naga welcome, made by flicking the tongue

quickly while making a high pitched cry. The sentries danced in reverse in a line of ten pairs, chanting a welcome as they hopped and swayed backwards, all the while facing us as we advanced through

the village gates. Smiling villagers lined the path, children raising

2 32

N aga C onnections

their hands in welcoming salutes, as we processed along the narrow earthen paths, lined by stone and wicker fences.

Many greetings and formalities followed as we settled in for two

days of meetings. We had to be quick as Burmese soldiers, who were

only three days march from the village, might learn of our arrival. After feasting, there was much talk in the morung that night, and after

a sound sleep we rose early. Final planning was underway. Food was

prepared by the women and the men caught a mithun in the forest. The drum was also making its way to the village hauled by scores of men and boys. The village was on a hill top, as was usual with Naga villages

for defensive reasons, and the drum had to be dragged from the valley floor. With the help of several neighbouring villages, teams of men

hauled the drum up a steep slope using jungle vines, which attached to

others that bound the drum. The sacred drum was massive: being as

long as a cricket pitch, with a circumference of almost two metres, and was hollowed out inside, leaving a girth of wood ten centimetres thick.

Its ends were steeply tapered, giving it a fine boat-like shape. Progress up the hill, with a hundred or more strong men and many young boys

hauling on the ropes, was still slow. The men chanted and pulled in

unison with each chant, grunting and encouraging each other as the

drum inched forward. The thick green vines were stayed around strong trees, which took the weight between heaves.

There had been no such event in the village for a generation or two.

However, it was of concern that today was Saturday and tomorrow

would be Sunday, but not any Sunday, for it was Easter Sunday. The

village was Christian and the pastor looked concerned as this was the day of the Resurrection of our Lord, and yet they were to make

me a chief and reinstitute the traditional drum. I assured him that

2 33

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

The pouring of tea from vessel to vessel at my investiture as a chief of Thangnokniu, 2005.

tomorrow was a very appropriate day for the drum ceremony and my

investiture, as we were reclaiming our culture, bringing new life to the old ways. This was not in conflict with our Christian beliefs and

it was a resurrection of sorts. We were bringing the two together

to form a truly Naga Christianity. In the end he expressed pleasure about this conjunction.

At daybreak next morning preparations restarted and soon reached

fever pitch. The mithun, which resembled a large steer with massive

horns, was paraded around the village square to chants performed by a group of young men. The large beast, being tethered, was pow­ er­less to resist these swaying movements, its eyes wild with fear. The

mithun’s legs were bound and it was brought to the ground. The

Chief standing over it asked the mithun’s forgiveness for being a sac­rifice, sprinkling rice wine near its mouth by way of an offer­ing.

The beast was speared through the heart several times, its head 234

N aga C onnections

severed for mounting above the door of the morung, and its precious and seldom-tasted meat was prepared for the day of celebrations. It was honoured in death, gazing over the proceedings for the rest of the day.

Meanwhile, a larger group resumed hauling on the twenty-metre

drum, which weighed many tons. Finally it breached the summit of

the hill and was pulled more easily along the flatter village paths.

Its progress became rapid compared with its inch by inch progress uphill. Many sat on the log in triumph as their fellows hauled with

less effort. The drum eventually slid along the soft earth of a small

slope into the village, as everyone gave shrill cries of welcome and delight. Men unbound the drum from its vine constraints, rolled it onto massive wooden chocks and admired its splendour, the work of months of carving, shaping and hauling to the village.

To booming sounds of men beating the drum with the ends of

large clubs, I was summoned to the ceremonial ground. The chief of the village, Pashen, welcomed me and presented me with the regalia of nokpao, a chief – my tribal shawl, the dao and my headdress

of feathers, wool and bones. I presented the village with a symbolic packet of salt, and wished the villagers good fortune and freedom from sickness and misery. Pashen led the village in prayers, with all praying fervently out loud. A line of village girls holding long-spouted vessels

ran hot tea from one vessel to the other and into my cup to symbolise

social unity. Then feasting began, the villagers relishing the mithun meat as they generally ate rice with spiced vegetables, but rarely meat.

There was much talk and dancing. Soon it was time for goodbyes as we dared not linger for fear of the Burmese Army. We were escorted by Pashen to the limits of his village lands, and then we headed on the long journey home via a different route to avoid detection. 2 35

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

In return for my elevation to the high status of chief, I must extend

my care and protection to the village. The film by Patrick Bernard helped fulfil my duties as chief. It was released in 2006 under the

title Forbidden Burma: Return of a Chief and screened on television in

Europe. It was re-released a year or so later, under a new title: Return

of the Sacred Drum. In this way we raised more money from royalties, some of which flowed to the Naga. I have also shown the film many times in Australia to raise money for the Eastern Naga.

I have never had the wealth to give the village a feast of merit, but

in other ways I have assisted those under my chiefly care. The people

of Thangnokniu passed word to me that they desired a new village

building to house the drum and keep it safe. If it remained constantly wet, it would not last in the weather. A building large enough to

shelter the drum would cost 100,000 rupees, equal to a few thousand

Australian dollars. Despite my own limited circumstances, I found the money to keep the drum safe. I also supported one student from the village and was able each year to raise sufficient money, mostly

with the help of the Templestowe Uniting Church, for his fees and a laptop computer.

Money is coming from people in Nagaland to help the Eastern

Naga, and others are pitching in. Patrick Bernard sends proceeds from

the film and lectures each year, which fund over a dozen scholarships annually for Eastern Naga studying in Kohima. Pari and I founded

the NagaRa Foundation in Australia (‘NagaRa’ literally means ‘Naga homeland’) to raise money for a hostel in Kohima, to enable Eastern

Naga students to study there. The Chief Minister of Nagaland

promised two acres of land, but after this fell through a businessman Neichute Doulo donated a smaller parcel of land. We aimed to house twenty initially, but eventually several hundred students. 236

N aga C onnections

There is great hope for the power of education. For instance,

an Eastern Naga family fled into the jungle after their village was burned by the Burmese Army. The parents and some siblings died,

but one son who survived was led across the border to Kohima by

an uncle, and placed in an orphanage. The boy was named Michael Kaita. A lecturer at the University of Nagaland offered him a home,

pledging ‘If you cook for me, wash my clothes, clean my house, I’ll

give you an education’. Michael became the first Naga law graduate from Burma, led the Naga Students Union in Rangoon, and is now practising law in Burma.

Education can prevent the exploitation of the Eastern Naga.

Tourists and traders will inevitably come and buy everything, includ­

ing Naga antiques and priceless artefacts. It happened in Nagaland. I was once told that there are more Naga artefacts in Europe now than in Nagaland. Beautiful brass armlets, ivory carvings, jade jewellery,

headdresses, beads made from ancient clays and bone, and iron weapons have all disappeared from Nagaland because traders came

and bought things at ridiculous prices, often only ten dollars. They fetched a thousand times that price in Europe.

Education can also produce community knowledge and wisdom.

In 2005 the Government of Nagaland declared my village a ‘green’ village. This stopped hunting and logging, helped preserve Khonoma’s

culture, and promoted eco- and cultural-tourism. The Maori of New Zealand have controlled tourism. I visited Tamaki Village, which is a thriving business where the Maoris show their culture, but don’t

sell or diminish it. Some indigenous peoples in Burma have vanished

due to uncontrolled tourism, which made them like zoo exhibits. My task as chief is to help prevent this being the fate of the people of Thangnokniu, and of the Eastern Naga more generally. 2 37

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

The Eastern Naga also have to survive Burmese officialdom. The

Burmese Government administers the Eastern Naga in a colonial

way, just like India’s rule over Nagaland. The Burmese are bent on assimilating the Naga and other ethnic peoples under their rule. They are schooling the children in the Burmese language and culture,

insisting they wear Burmese dress while in a Burmese school. There is also pressure to become Buddhist. The Rohingyas of course face the severest pressures because they are Muslim and at the moment are not recognised as citizens of Burma with rights. Certainly, the

Burmese Government created an annual Naga festival in the Hills

area for tourists to see traditional dancing, singing and other aspects of Naga culture, but it is closely controlled by the government and tourists find it difficult to meet Naga people.

The Burmese Government also has continually altered the name

and boundaries of the Naga area in Burma. Initially it was called the Naga Hills and was large, about three times the size of Nagaland in India. Then it became Sagaing Division, and now it is called the Naga Self-Administered Zone. Each time it is redefined, it is diminished

in area. The name ‘self-administered’ is a joke, because the Burmese

Government controls the region, no doubt because of the teak forest

and jade mines in this region. There are of course Naga members of parliament in Yangon (formerly Rangoon) who wear Naga dress and

ornamentation. They are supposed to promote Naga interests, yet it is all show. They were hand-picked by the Burmese Army.

The other problem for the Eastern Naga was that Naga factional­

ism intruded into their region. The Naga National Council and the Nationalist Socialist Council of Nagalim each have their supporters

in Burma. This led to bitter disagreements and even fatal clashes. The Tangkhul tribe dominates the NSCN and its party chairman, 2 38

N aga C onnections

Thuingaleng Muivah, is a Tangkhul. S.S. Khaplang, a Naga from

Burma, formed his own faction, the Nationalist Socialist Council of Nagalim – Khaplang, known through its anagram the NSCN-K.

This latter group organised a coup on 30 April 1988 and attacked Hangsen camp and killed reputedly over 200 of the Muivah group. The killings continued until June that year. Many more of Muivah’s

supporters died of starvation in the Burmese jungle after villages and food stocks were destroyed. Some years later, Murviah’s group, the

Nationalist Socialist Council of Nagaland – of Isak Chisi Swu and Muivah, known as NSCN-IM, published a book which listed only

eighty-three names that were slaughtered by the Khaplang’s soldiers in the coup.

The NSCN-IM remained the most powerful faction. This group

in turn accused the Khiamniungam tribe of supporting the Naga National Council and the Shillong Accord of 1975, which they ada-

mantly opposed. NSCN-IM attacked and burnt their villages and destroyed food supplies, causing many deaths from starvation. These villagers, who had never heard of the Shillong Accord, in which

the Naga signatories had agreed to give up arms, were nonetheless caught up in factional war. The fratricidal fighting in Burma has caused hundreds of deaths.

The fratricide since 1956 kept Nagaland constantly on my mind.

My whole life has been lived in the shadow of the struggle between

those who would live within India and those who aspired to sover-

eign independence. This struggle rent Khonoma asunder, for both Sakhrie and Phizo (who developed different visions for the Naga na-

tion) came from my village. Sakhrie was seen as a traitor to Naga nationalism, kidnapped and killed. Sakhrie had played a pioneering part in conceptualising with Phizo the idea and vision of the 2 39

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Naga struggle, in addition to being its brilliant articulator. His killing as such was a most damaging tragedy for the rapidly accelerating

and expanding national movement. The accusation of treason made

against him was reckless, propagandist and unjust. All tragedies reveal the compulsions that caused them only when it is too late,

and the consequences become the inescapable burden of all involved. Sakhrie started to see the need for the Naga struggle to take stock

and re-strategise according to the shifting paradigm. His bold expression of his perception clashed with the struggle he had nurtured and helped to lead with conviction. The struggle he had helped foster brought about his death.

As a consequence, the national movement split as did the khels with­

in Khonoma. The Shillong Accord of 1975 split the Naga National Council into four, each group blaming the other for betraying the

Naga cause, while claiming legitimacy for itself. The formation of the NSCN in 1980 intensified the factionalism. It also split in 1988,

creating waves of violence that took lives and destroyed families with every ebb and flow. And through it all the Indian Government and its Secret Service continued their tyranny, which forced me from my village home and kept the Naga in sorrow since the 1950s.

In 1994 a small group of concerned Khonoma leaders, some in the

village and some now settled in Kohima and Dimapur area, banded themselves together ‘to heal and restore the inter-clan relationships’, which they all knew had been seriously damaged during the most dif­

ficult initial years of the Naga struggle. Clearly it was an idea whose time had come, because all the clans readily responded to the honest conversation started by the group. All clan leaders, and all the different

age groups lower down, took part in an exhaustive series of meetings to deepen the search, focusing on the splits between the khels. One 240

N aga C onnections

session brought forty-six village elders together for three days. Elders

met in the traditional way, sitting in silence in a circle until someone felt moved to speak. The early sessions were painfully silent, but as some found the courage to speak, talk on the difficult issues flowed. It was agreed that the clans should no longer keep alive old resentments dating back to 1956.

The village decided that 3 September 1995 was to be a penia day,

a traditional sacred day. On this day, all the villagers refrained from work to examine their spiritual life. The day started with a call made to the whole village at 6.00am to observe at least five minutes of silence.

Families rose early, washed and dressed in clean clothes to observe the time of silent reflection. One village elder later remarked the village

became so silent even the domestic animals scurried away to hide and fell silent. Each person, young or old, was encouraged to think of the

village and the Naga nation, and to reflect on their own failures and

wrongs that had harmed the community, forgetting for the moment

where others had done wrong. The rest of the day was devoted to understanding the healing by which the village was attempting to put

things right. An elder reflected: ‘I was certain the Spirit of God had come down to bless us and our effort’.

In August 1997 the Naga Students Federation hosted a seminar

at Wokha to commemorate the unsuccessful Naga declaration of

inde­pendence in 1947. My uncle Niketu Iralu outlined his strategy for the future. Those who collaborated with India to form the state

of Nagaland in 1963 should be re-included into the national story, despite the natural resentments of those ‘who had borne the brunt of sacrifice and suffering in the villages and jungles and felt they

had been double-crossed and their struggle hijacked’. All needed to

admit error to begin the ‘healing of the wounds and resentments 2 41

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

in the hearts of our people. No one can claim to be completely

blameless’. The Naga future depended on a change in the ‘mode of thought’ towards each other and the future. Niketu concluded that our future is like an out-stretched hand. The thumb represents our goal of sovereignty, a flag, a seat at the UN, an identity. But we have

forgotten the fingers, which represent mental, spiritual and personal character and economic growth. The fingers must work with the thumb for the hand to be fully functional.

Peacemaking encompassed unexpected connections. Captain

Richard Channer who fought at the famous battles of Kohima and

Imphal in 1944, which turned the tide of the Japanese advance in Asia, was invited to Khonoma to assist in peacemaking between

the Naga factions. It seemed an odd request, but Captain Channer’s great-grandfather, Captain Annersley de Renzy, had been a surgeon

with the British Army in India. He was wounded in the battle of

Khonoma in 1879. Some Naga thought that if Channer came and

reconciled with Khonoma villagers, it might provide a positive model for the Naga factions to also reconcile. Channer arrived in 2004 and had frank and open discussions with Naga. They asked him why the

Brit­ish in­vad­ed in 1879, why the British later abandoned the Naga to India in 1947 and why the British had drawn borders that separated

the Naga. Channer apologised for these decisions and also thanked

the Naga for their rarely acknowledged help in defeating the Japanese in 1944.

The strange thing was, I had met Richard Channer in 1970 at a

conference in India, before I entered university. In talking we had discovered that his great-grandfather and both my grandfathers

were present at the battle of Khonoma in 1879. His great grandfather, Captain Annersley de Renzy, was a surgeon with the British Army at 2 42

N aga C onnections

Kohima. My maternal grandfather Lhulevo was a young warrior who

reputedly severed the heads of three Britishers as trophies of war, while my paternal grandfather Khriekrulie, then only five, escaped into the jungle carrying a chicken, as the victorious British burnt Khonoma.

After a decade of discussions initiated by Niketu, the village’s

main social body, the Khonoma Rüffüno, created the Khonoma Public Commission to pursue reconciliation between the Naga in

Khonoma. It used traditional ideas to pursue its goals. On many occasions, commissioners sat around the hearths of families, sipping tea and listening to their grievances. Heartfelt apologies were made

for wounds inflicted during some of the most difficult years of the Naga struggle. Doubts, fears, guilt, regrets and bitterness held onto for years were expressed with great difficulty. The commissioners lis­

tened to the grievances with deep empathy, sometimes several times over. It took more than three years of intensive effort and prayer­ful

reflection to make peace among the wounded and estranged fam­il­ies and clans.

The commissioners used the traditional reciprocal custom of

kethezie-kedzünya to promote healing and forgiveness. Traditionally,

two clans or contiguous villages performed a grand feast of friend­ ship marked by days of food and rice-brew sharing, dancing, singing

and storytelling. The Angami word for this feast is Kekinyi. The feast concluded with a covenant of partnership and was sealed by

the elders, who pronounced pledges and blessings on each other’s

clan or village. If a relationship was breached by conflict, there were rituals to induce a truce, and then a negotiated peace agreement

called vitho. Elders made public oaths called rüse, in which they

swore the truth of their pledges, staking their reputations on their words.

2 43

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Ultimately these rituals rested on Ukepenuopfü, the mother god­

dess of the Angami Naga, who was considered to be present in every

aspect of Naga culture. Through the process the Commission and the people committed themselves to Ukepenuopfü.

When the Commission’s work was presented, my eldest son

Kevisato and I travelled to Khonoma for a gathering of the clans on 18 November 2007. The purpose was to unveil a monolith raised by Khonoma Rüffüno to commemorate the 50th anniversary of

Sakhrie’s death as an act of reconciliation. The erection of monoliths or menhirs is of great spiritual and religious significance in Naga culture. By doing so, the villagers of Khonoma made peace with

each other through a traditionally-based process, which could be applicable elsewhere in Nagaland. Over 5,000 Nagas representing

NGOs, the Church, civil society, all tribal Hoho (parliaments),

and the Federal Government of Nagaland came to pay tribute to Sakhrie. T. Sakhrie’s son, Labu, moved everyone with his humble words of forgiveness, saying in part:

The story of our people is one of tragedy, where every family

has been affected one way or the other. Pain and sorrow have spared no one. Today as I stand before you and see

the name of my father inscribed on the stone, I feel grateful

and happy but also sad as I think of all the children of the Revolution, strewn across the land. At this moment let us

remember and honour them in our hearts for the role each one played in the struggle for our rightful place under the sun.

Ahu Sakhrie, T. Sakhrie’s nephew, in the spirit of kethezie-kedzünya

and vaketsü, resolved ‘to forgive all who were involved in his 244

N aga C onnections

[T. Sakhrie’s] death and that all bitterness, humiliation, remorse, pain or hurt feelings [were] to be shelved in the realm of history’.

Kevisato and I were extremely moved by the ceremony, which was

so deeply connected to my own personal journey since 1956. It bound

us closer to Nagaland and to each other. I wrote an academic article while at Monash University about the Khonoma Peace Commission, which was published in a book by Professor Rattan Lal Hangloo, my

PhD mentor, and now the Vice-Chancellor of Allahabad University. I hoped to promote traditional Naga peace rituals, to add to the usual Christian and secular diplomatic strategies of reconciliation.

In March 2009 I travelled to Kohima to attend the Naga Con­

sultative Meet called by the Chief Minister of Nagaland, Neiphiu

Rio. While there, a group of us who had travelled from Australia,

Japan, the UK and USA formed the Overseas Naga Association, with me as the inaugural president, a position I still hold. Professor Paul Pimomo of Central Washington University, USA, became the

secretary general. It was formed to support the peace negotiations. While some overseas Nagas not present at this meeting protested

its creation on procedural grounds, the Overseas Naga Association continues successfully to represent the Naga diaspora. This diaspora

dates to the late 1940s, when Vichazelhu Iralu studied in America, and after his PhD became head of Microbiology at the Philadelphia

College of Osteopathic Medicine. The Naga diaspora, now several thousand strong, is composed of influential people: scientists, dip­

lomats, professors, doctors, theologians, writers, artists, fashion designers, musicians, and businesspeople, all of whom adhere to their national identity as Naga.

To everyone’s surprise all Naga factions, which had been bitter

enemies for so long, came to the 2009 Consultative Meet in Kohima. 2 45

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

After three days of talks, the meeting passed six resolutions and six recommendations. Among them were: to bring an immediate end to the violence and fratricidal killings; to forge a ‘common Naga

platform’ that would allow Naga people to have ‘One Dream, One

Voice, One Future’; for all national factions to endorse the peace efforts; to seek ‘recognition’ for the Eastern Naga ‘with a definite

territory for an all-round development’; and finally to create a centre

for peace. Unfortunately, this common platform collapsed once the NSCN-IM backed out, to seek its own settlement with India.

I was still pondering the problem of peace six years later when

I attended an international conference at the Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, in March 2015, organised by Naga on the theme ‘Rethinking the Nagas in the Contemporary’. I pursued ideas

for Naga peace which have emerged from my own experience of travelling to Burma several times and of living overseas for two-

thirds of my life. I argued for the need for a new Naga mind-set

that is realistic, and goes beyond the unattainable slogans of a total

sovereign ownership of Nagaland and associated Naga lands in the Indian states of Manipur, Assam and Arunachal Pradesh, and the Sagaing Division in Burma. This is how I see the current situation.

The nationalist agenda was set in 1929 when the Naga Club

aspired to independence; consolidated on 14 August 1947 with the

Naga declaration of independence (a day before India did so), and affirmed by a Naga plebiscite on 16 May 1951, in which 99 per cent

voted for independence. In this vein the Naga Nationalist leadership pursued the goal of an independent state of Nagaland, which at first seemed realistic, given other national aspirations of the time in the postwar era of decolonisation. India itself was gaining independence so why not Nagaland? But India refused to accept an independent 246

N aga C onnections

Nagaland for strategic reasons, as did Burma on whose side of the

border more Naga were trapped. This led to over sixty years of Naga–

Indian, and in due course Naga–Burmese, conflict, and also Naga splits and fratricide over how to deal with India and Burma.

As the years wore on, it was increasingly obvious that a divided

group of Naga living on a sensitive border could not win against India with a billion people and a resolute government. And yet many

Naga leaders repeated their unattainable promises of independence

and sovereignty over Naga lands. The Naga Army, once formidable, has disintegrated in recent years, becoming untrained and poorly

motivated. Rather than fight the Indian Army, many Naga soldiers turned to extorting their own people and have thus lost much pop­

ular support. With a declining military to pursue effective armed struggle, the Naga bargaining position with India is further eroded.

The peace talks to end armed struggle have been endless and

gen­eral­ly unproductive, amidst the loss of 100,000 lives and van­

ished opportunities. There is now a need for leaders who are not captive to past policies, personal ambitions and grand visions. Leaders who are flexible and open to new opportunities can reshape

the future. The Khonoma Peace Commission has shown how old factional enmities and allegiances can be put aside for realistic

future goals. But such chances can be lost due to fossilised thinking that perpetuates the ideas and hatreds of the past. There are many

Indians and Burmese of good will, willing to work with the Naga in their quest for a political solution.

I believe that new policies must be built on two things: a broader

base for Naga identity and nationalism, and the recognition of the

difference between nationalism and state formation. Naga people now live in four states of India, in Burma and in a diaspora of several 2 47

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

thousand people across the world. Similar ethnic diasporas reveal that

a people, no matter how geographically fragmented, can develop a united identity and voice. Despite the setbacks and disappoint­

ments, Naga in all places retain a strong sense of their Naga identity.

This Naga national spirit will only grow stronger as the process of globalisation improves communications.

National movements which use overseas countries as a base have

long drawn support from their diaspora of refugees and migrants, both to collect funds and recruit talents to serve the national vision.

In the last decade this model of political and cultural activism has

been further enhanced by the use of social media on the World Wide

Web. Nationalist movements, such as the recent Scottish attempt

to gain independence from the UK, made effective use of social media to recruit support from their diaspora. The combination of a Naga diaspora and new social media has similarly created new opportunities for Naga activists. But we must find a new spirit of

collaboration and unity with the Naga in Burma to consolidate Naga nationalism. It will pay dividends. The Government of India and

Indian intellectuals have realised that the Naga desire to preserve their identity cannot be defeated by military power, and must be met with talk to find a solution.

The second step is for the Naga to realise that in the current

situation the development of Naga nationhood and unity can occur with­in a shared sovereignty with India and Myanmar (Burma). Nations

are different from States, since by definition States control territory. Whereas many States with sovereign territories are also nations of

people with a unified vision, not all nations are States – that is, have home territories over which they have sovereign control. There are

many constitutional arrangements where extraordinary autonomy has 248

N aga C onnections

allowed a nation to pursue many of its national goals, while re­main­ing part of a larger sovereign State. Scotland in the United King­dom is one good example of a people who have a strong sense of na­tion­al identity, and enjoy a large measure of political independence, while remaining

part of Great Britain. In the recent referendum over Scottish inde­ pendence, a majority of Scots preferred limited autonomy and

continued links with Britain. They realised that the expression of Scottish national pride and identity does not necessitate the existence

of territorial sovereignty. Scottish pride and identity can flourish alongside economic and political links with Great Britain. In an uncertain world, the Scottish people voted against a romantic return

to the past, and took less dramatic, but more practical, steps toward building their future.

Nationhood does not have to be all or nothing. Naga on both

sides of the Indian–Burmese border, and across the world, can help build a similar united political identity, even though in physical

and geographical terms they respect the sovereignty of the States within which the Naga now exist. This vision of Naga unity achieved

peacefully in a ‘virtual world’, and implemented separately in two

States, is a starting point for rethinking a new vision of Naga nation­ hood. Indeed, under this scenario Naga can still own land individ­ ually, practise culture and maintain their villages, which are the locus of their national and traditional identity.

Many difficult conflict situations have been solved by the goodwill

and determination of people. The human desire to live in peace is

so great that, given the right opportunities and leaders with vision, communities that have in the past fought and struggled have put

aside their differences and worked out a peaceful way forward. With

realism, the right attitude, and the growth of trust between leaders, 2 49

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

seemingly impossible conflicts are worked out peacefully. This has

happened in post-apartheid South Africa and the successful peace process in Northern Ireland. However, a successful negotiation

between the Naga and the Indian and Burmese governments should

not be viewed as the end of the Naga journey toward nationhood, but as the beginning of a new, peaceful political and cultural process.

The Naga leadership in India and Burma can pursue a goal of stron-

ger autonomy using peaceful means. Although divided geo-politically,

Naga can be united in a broader cultural sense. In this changing world, we can all look beyond old colonial boundaries and draw strength from an emerging vision of Naga national identity that is rooted in our traditional homelands, but has spread to encompass Naga across the

world. A new Naga mind-set can assist this process. Naga youth, who are better educated, are seeking change. They are ex­plor­ing options in new forums such as the Naga Blog, TNB, Naga Spear and other

online communities. The Naga Blog, full of ideas and com­ments, now runs to hundreds of pages and has over 65,000 members.

My constant thoughts about peacemaking and the Naga future drew

me ever closer to my Naga homeland. As Pari once said: ‘It requires intense innovation to enable us to hold onto the best in our culture of origin, and at the same time adapt to and embrace the best that our

adoptive and welcoming country offers’. Fortunately, mobile phones,

email and social media keep us in constant contact with home to talk politics, peace or personal news. Family members can be reached daily

through social media. News of births, deaths and marriages, illnesses

and celebrations are shared by Naga families, which have a high rate of mobile phone and computer use. Pari added: ‘I’m deeply grateful for technology that allows personal contact through various apps as I connect in real time to my loved ones far way, and also those here 2 50

N aga C onnections

in Melbourne or other parts of Australia’. Even if the connections

are intermittent at times, calls and emails constantly strengthen ties

between kinfolk. All these webs of connection with home generated thoughts within me of one day returning to Nagaland.

2 51

Cha pte r 15

W H ER E I S HOM E? After fifteen years in Australia, home thoughts were stirring deep within me every day. Australia was now my new home and for that

I was extremely thankful, but the restlessness for Nagaland grew stronger with each passing year. By 2010 my children had finished

their secondary education, the reason Pari and I had decided to stay in Australia beyond those first years of refuge. They were now able

to make their own way in the world and make their own choices,

and Pari and I were able to do the same. Could I contribute more

to others and especially my fellow Naga by being here in Australia, or by going home? This is the question with which I constantly wrestled.

I am very happy in Australia, despite the rare racial abuse I have

experienced. I always remember our unpleasant welcome to Ring­

wood in 2005 when a stone was thrown through our window the

night we moved in. But after that incident the problem of racism has been only intermittent and confined to work and public places, not

church or university. Thankfully, my children suffered very little or

none of it. I realise it happens out of fear and ignorance, and I hope that, with more engagement with others, these feelings will recede in the hearts of those harbouring prejudice.

W here is H ome?

I feel totally comfortable here in Australia and totally integrated

into Australian society. And I am proud to be an Australian. But still,

I see myself as a Naga villager. When I visit Nagaland I fit in quickly, despite having spent more than half my life studying, working and living elsewhere. I complain about the lack of electricity and the

roads, worry about the factional fighting when visiting Nagaland, but I fit in socially and culturally – like I was never absent. I have many

extended family members still there who make me so welcome. Yet I feel the same in Australia where my own family and many of my friends live. So I am totally and confidently Naga and Australian at

the same time. Indeed there is no place on Earth like Australia. My

city of Melbourne has once again won the title of ‘the most liveable city in the world’ for the sixth year running, as judged on an index by the Economic Intelligence Unit. Personally I would rate Australia

as number 1, and I have lived in India and Norway and travelled to many other countries.

Australia is a unique country. It is close to the size of the United

States (minus Alaska) and of Western Europe, but has a tenth or less of

the population of those regions. It has a liberating sense of space compared with Nagaland, most of Asia, and many other parts of the world

I have visited. Nagaland would be about half the size of Tasmania with four million people in that space, eight times the population of

Tasmania. It is also so difficult to move about in Nagaland. A trip to from Kohima to Dimapur of seventy kilometres is a three-hour journey through hilly country. I have fallen in love with Australia and its

diverse terrain, the eucalypt forests, the red desert of the Outback, and the coastal fringe, all so different from the Nagaland Hills and jungle.

Australia also has such peculiar and interesting animals. It is a giant land, with a giant future. I feel so much a part of it now. 2 53

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Australia is somewhat heart-shaped and has the potential to have

a great heart. I like the Australian experiment of multiculturalism. I

am not naïve enough to say it is perfect, as I have experienced some

of the failings, but as a society it is striving to make multiculturalism work. America, which is also a migrant country, tries to make every­

one become American. Indeed, that is the way in many countries: China, India, Europe, and even African nations. But Australia is dif­ fer­ent. It is perhaps the only country that says ‘You are Greek and Aus­

tralian, you can be Maltese and Australian, and you can be Chinese and Australian’. So it makes people of many ethnicities feel proud to contribute, and gives them the security to belong. My children are

accepting and accepted. They are proud to be Australian. My son identifies when the Socceroos play, and exclaims ‘We won, we won!’ – feeling very patriotic, very nationalistic. I am proud of his attitude.

Australians are also coming to terms with Indigenous people, the

original owners of this land. I know there has been a dark history.

Aboriginal Australians were not treated well, but they have survived.

Anglo-Australians, whose ancestors made mistakes, are now trying to undo those mistakes. Kevin Rudd when prime minister apologised to the Stolen Generations on 13 February 2008, which was a very

positive thing to do. Australians are acknowledging that Aboriginal

people have a rich, ancient civilisation, which is the foundation of the nation. I learned much of this through my friendship with

Aboriginal people. Archie Roach and Ruby Hunter, whose home in Reservoir we visited many times in our early years in Australia, made

us feel so welcome. Reg and Walda Blow, both now sadly passed on, became very dear friends. Reg was a community leader with a

vision for promoting Aboriginal culture and fostering understanding between Aboriginal and non-Indigenous Australians. 254

W here is H ome?

It makes me very happy that these two groups are being slowly

reconciled. It is another reason why I don’t feel like a foreigner in Australia. I have spent a lot of time in Norway, where Keviselie,

my Sami brother, lives. It is a beautiful country and the people are

kind and generous. But I would never think of settling in Norway, as you would always be a foreigner there, as Norway is a monoculture.

Most of Europe is like that, so for instance I would never settle in Switzerland, which is a beautiful country as well, or England for the

same reason. I love visiting England because of its history, culture and language, and because of the Naga’s connection with Britain.

The people are individually fine, but English culture is very stiff, proper and alien – and there is racism there. Besides, it is too wet and damp.

Australia is very different. Although its traditions are British, it has

been very influenced by many other cultures in the last two genera­

tions, and also by its climate and geography. Australians are more open-minded, very adventurous and positive, and happy-go-lucky.

This country has been a wonderful place for our children to grow and be educated, and Pari and I are immensely proud of them all.

Kevisato, our eldest, went to Royal Melbourne Institute of Tech­

nol­ogy (RMIT) after he left Melbourne Boys’ High School and completed an Advanced Diploma of Marketing. He took a job with

the Wilderness Society in their fund-raising department and was

consistently in the top three fund-raising performers in Australia. He then undertook a Bachelor’s degree in Music Industry also at

RMIT, but did not complete the final year. He was too busy with

work at the Wilderness Society and with other interests, particularly running the ‘Life Matters’ course at Armagh, and organising basketball camps and the Asia-Pacific Youth Conference for Initiatives of 2 55

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Change. In 2014 he commenced a part-time Batchelor degree in

Innovation and Entrepreneurship at Swinburne, but after doing so

well in the first year was invited to study this degree at Masters level. Kevisato changed focus at the Wilderness Society and organised

community environ­mental campaigns, being involved in the fight to save the Tarkine old-growth forest in Tasmania. He has now moved to full-time study.

After Visopiano left MacRobertson’s Girls’ High School, she did

a Gap Year in England working at the Godstowe School, which has

a relationship with MacRob. Her board, lodging and small stipend enabled her to do much travel through Europe and Scandinavia that

year. She stayed with Kevieslie in Norway and attended conferences in Switzerland. After that, she completed a Bio-medical degree at

Monash University. While there, she was selected for the Vice Chan-

cellors Leadership Group, which gave her a great deal of confidence. She commenced a medical degree at the University of Melbourne and will graduate in 2017. She completed placements at Shepparton,

Ballarat and also one in Nagaland. She found the latter both challenging and life-changing. She was among a group of medical stu-

dents who created the public health group REACH in Melbourne. It

offered free community health clinics each Saturday in Kensington,

Visopiano being Director of Community Engagement. Together, they won a Victorian Premier’s Health award for ‘achieving a highly

capable and engaged workforce’. She was also Graduate Student of the Year at the University of Melbourne in 2013.

Siezo attended Forest Hills College, which brought out the best in

him. He left after Year 9 and completed his Victorian Certificate of Applied Learning at the Holmesglen Tertiary and Further Education College (TAFE). He then did a series of other TAFE courses. Siezo 2 56

W here is H ome?

has a work ethic of which Pari and I are proud, and has always found

part-time jobs while studying. He worked for instance at Hungry Jacks fast food outlet for several years, doing cleaning and kitchenhand work. He undertook a Certificate 3 course in Horticulture, Parks and Gardens at Wantirna TAFE. He enjoyed the course, has found

work in gardening, and this training will hold him in good stead if he

returns to Nagaland. Those who work the land are still highly valued

in that society. Siezo will face challenges in life, but he has always shown a great willingness to take on things and stick at them.

After gaining her citizenship with the rest of the family, Pari

ceased cleaning and other casual jobs. She gained a full-time position

for seven years, training teachers at GymBaroo, a gym program for children. Pari then successfully applied to have her social work degree from India recognised by the National Overseas Qualifications Unit. Since 2008 she works as Manager of Community Support Services

with Camcare, a not-for-profit community support group in the City of Boroondara.

Pari recently summed up our family’s odyssey in Australia: ‘We

have weathered the journey of cultural and spiritual dislocation, loss

of language, and the search for identity, creating family dynamics

and processes in the absence of clan or extended family, managing grief and loss – and acknowledging the added loss of those very

rituals which would normally allow us to navigate significant life moments if only we were back home’. Despite these difficulties, she added our family is one ‘that contributes to our adopted country, a

family that honours and holds to our roots, and a family that values

each personal journey no matter what stage we’re at’. We have forged friendships here in Australia that ‘create our sense of community welcome, belonging and place’.

2 57

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

In 2012 something eventful happened in my life. On 15 June I had

lunch with my old friend Richard Broome, who was soon to retire as Professor of History at La Trobe University. I have known Richard since 1996 when I first landed in Melbourne. Indeed, he kindly drove

me to La Trobe and back from Armagh on many occasions that year. Thereafter, I delighted in introducing him to friends as ‘Professor

Broome – my chauffeur’. Richard had rung and suggested we catch up for lunch. During our lunch in The Causeway off Little Collins

Street in Melbourne’s CBD, I expressed a great wish of mine that had been rolling around in my head for some months. I said: ‘It is my

great hope that someone will help me write my life story’. Richard paused over his salad, put down his fork, and replied: ‘I would be delighted to help’. I was ecstatic and we immediately started to discuss the project and how we might collaborate on it.

That evening I emailed him: ‘Meeting you today was a serendipity.

My people believe God sends the right person to meet you at the right time. I have been praying for help for my book for quite a while and out of the blue you rang’. The next day I emailed again: ‘I am very excited about this project but I realised the process will be long. I will start right now, but it will take years to put together. I need

to do some research as it will be part of the Naga saga’. Intermittent emails followed over the next six months as we planned what the

book might look like, and how we would do interviews and research.

We even planned out chapters. Richard proposed we do an interview about each aspect of my life, one a week on Friday nights after work.

That would have been hard after a busy day, but I was prepared to do

it. In January 2013 we planned our first interview for 15 February; I was so excited.

2 58

W here is H ome?

Then a bombshell struck in late January. I was retrenched from

my position as Refugee Engagement Officer with the National Council of Churches in Australia during a restructure, after nine

years of working there. It was a big shock as we have a mortgage and I enjoyed my work with refugees. The National Council of Churches

wanted to emphasise digital communication and fund-raising, so I

and two others were made redundant. When I told Richard I put it positively, emailing him on Australian Day 2013: ‘I have just been made redundant. While this is sad news, this also means I will now

have time to work on our project. This is something I really want to

do so in a way it is also a blessing’. I shaved my hair for my farewell luncheon on 13 February, which is a sign of sorrow in some Asian

traditions. My boss from Sydney, who was kind enough to come

to my farewell, was jolted by my appearance. I was thrown by the

change to my life and the prospect of finding work again, competing with many younger people.

However, on 14 February, the day after I finished with the

National Council of Churches in Australia, Richard and I did our first interview. We agreed to do it at my house in Ringwood and

to record each session, which would then be transcribed by Mandy

Rooke, Richard’s transcriber over many years. So we made a start and recorded twenty-two interviews, one a week and each one of over

an hour’s duration. We completed our last formal interview on 25

July 2013. I prepared carefully for each one, which had a set theme, and they seemed to go well. After each interview, we would have

lunch together. I usually cooked rice and dal with chicken or beef. Richard would then deliver the recording to Mandy, pick up the last one transcribed, and email it to me for correction.

2 59

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

With my family in 2015 at Armagh. From left to right, Siezo, Kevisato, Pari and Visopiano.

260

W here is H ome?

So we proceeded happily, interview after interview. I continued

to prepare carefully for each one, and things flowed well. It was wo­

nderful for me as it was a time of great healing, not only from my recent retrenchment, but from all the traumas and worries in my life.

I decided that each and every one of us should do this at some stage in their life, or at least reflect deeply and in an extended way, about

who we are and what has shaped us. After the interviews finished I had to wait until Richard was free to begin the book, and it was not started for almost two years! But at least I knew the interviews were done and we continued to meet, talk and plan in the meantime.

During the interviews with Richard, his wife Margaret Donnan

put me in touch with a marvellous out-placement service operated by

Dale Simpson called ‘Bravo’. Over the next few months Bravo’s staff boosted my confidence and helped me to revamp my CV. I began to consider the job market, albeit with trepidation. But in June 2013

I could not believe my eyes when I saw an advertisement for the position of project officer for ‘Welcome to My Place’, a scheme with

World Vision. It was a position that exactly fitted my qualifications of working with refugees, as I had all the essential requirements for the

role. I really thought someone has written this position description for me. Of course many candidates applied and I was interviewed

two times before I was selected. On 17 July, a week before my last

interview with Richard, and on Visopiano’s birthday, I joined World Vision full-time as a project officer. The year 2013, which had begun badly, was now turning out very well.

I was delighted to be part of World Vision. It is an ecumenical

Christian, worldwide NGO founded in 1950 by an American mission­

ary Dr Robert Pierce. It began in Australia in 1966 and is now led by Rev. Tim Costello. I had encountered Tim over the years and 2 61

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

always found him to be inspiring. World Vision is a huge organisation staffed by over 22,000 people who work in the Asia-Pacific re-

gion, the Middle East, Africa, South America, Eastern Europe and Australia. It survives by donations and moneys given by AusAID, the Australian Agency for International Development, as well as United Nations’ agencies such as UNHCR and UNICEF. Its Aus­ tralian headquarters are located in the Melbourne suburb of Burwood

East, in the aptly named ‘Vision Drive’. Its Christian mission emphasises programs I believe in too: emergency relief, transformational

development, promotion of justice, and Christian engagement, all framed through the story of Jesus – of faith, hope and love.

My role as Project Officer for ‘Welcome to My Place’ was to

cultivate a generous, open-hearted hospitality among Australians

towards asylum seekers and refugees, thereby shifting the prevailing

community attitudes and understandings through shared relation­

ships and experience. The issue of asylum seekers had been a hot topic even before I myself became one, and it has remained highly

controversial in Australian politics and media to this day. Whatever our opinions are on the best way to deal with people coming to

Australia to seek asylum, as Christians it is incumbent on us to love our neighbours as ourselves. It is part of loving God.

World Vision believed the ‘Welcome to My Place’ program was

necessary to counter the shock and anger generated by the treatment of boat people. Their trauma was caused by fleeing conflicts and wars

in their countries of origin, living in overseas and Australian refugee

camps and detention centres, and risking their lives in perilous boat journeys. Successive Australian governments implemented strong

and often harsh policies to deter asylum seekers to this day. However, many people across Australia were determined to ameliorate such 2 62

W here is H ome?

treatment and smooth the trauma by welcoming these people, who were literally fleeing for their lives.

Just as I had developed the ‘Healing Trail’ on behalf of Act for

Peace around meetings of families, I organised ‘Welcome to My Place’ around the idea of refugees and asylum seekers being invited

to Australian homes for dinner. I was given the task of writing a

manual to organise the program and to train and introduce it to ten churches in Melbourne, five in Sydney and five in Adelaide to begin

this new program. The aims were: to build a network of churches and their members to welcome asylum seekers and refugees, and, by so doing, to cultivate a generous, open-hearted hospitality among

Australians towards asylum seekers and refugees. At the end of my first year, I had trained over 400 supporters from over 100 churches

in Adelaide, Melbourne, Perth and Sydney on how to organise and run a successful dinner event in their homes or churches for church members and asylum seekers.

By July 2014, thousands of refugees had either been invited to

homes or attended a community dinner in church halls. One church

organised a ‘Welcome to My Place’ program during Ramadan, to invite Muslim asylum seekers to non-Muslim Australian homes, to foster hospitality and mutual respect.

The success of the ‘Welcome to My Place’ initiative was astound­

ing. The CEO, Rev. Tim Costello, was both surprised and delighted

at the achievements of the program. Working with World Vision was

the most satisfying thing I ever did in Australia. My co-workers were

extremely qualified and efficient and it was a pleasure to work with such highly professional staff. I have no doubt now why World Vision has such a high reputation for its work for development and human

transformations. Also, while there I came to see how the spiritual 263

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

health of a nation really does depend on how it welcomes strangers, and treats the marginalised in its midst.

At the end of 2014 I left World Vision, for I had decided over the

past year that my intention to return to Nagaland someday had to be

greatly accelerated. To prepare for this I needed more free time, in part to finish my life story with my collaborator, and in part to hone the skills that I would require to live successfully and fruitfully back home.

Pari and I also made the decision to shift house to Armagh in

September 2014 for my final time in Australia. We moved in together

with Visopiano, who had a year of her medical degree to complete, and Siezo. Kevisato was living in a shared house in Coburg. I took on the role of events manager, which is quite a big role as seminars are

regularly held and guests come and go quite frequently. The move to Armagh was a complex decision and one not without dangers. Our move was partly a financial decision. If we moved there, we could rent

our house in Ringwood and improve our financial position, now the poorer as I had left World Vision. This rental arrangement became a

financial nightmare as we had very difficult tenants in our Ringwood house. Either they did not pay, or complained about everything, which necessitated much expenditure in the first year. We made little or no

income during that time. Our real estate agent was so frustrated that he suggested we terminate the tenants, which we did.

However, it was mostly an emotional decision to move back to

Armagh. We have deep feelings for it and the group of people behind

it. We wanted to set things right after leaving in somewhat strained circumstances fifteen years earlier. After all my interest in healing, we

needed to practise some ourselves, and Armagh was the right place to do so. Pari and I were now different people and more at ease with

ourselves, having worked through much of the trauma of our leaving 264

W here is H ome?

Nagaland and resettlement in Australia. We needed to see if it would work differently this time. Besides, I also saw some symmetry in the

move. We had first come to Armagh when we landed in Australia, and it had saved us, despite some difficulties. Now I wanted to leave

Australia for Nagaland from Armagh. But who would leave with me? Pari decided she will follow when I have built a house and have

a garden established near Khonoma. As she put it succinctly: ‘I am not coming until you have a kitchen and toilet!’ Until then she would continue in her role as a social worker at Camcare. All our children,

Kevisato, Visopiano and Siezo, are now in their twenties and they

have to make up their own minds, although we share big decisions as a family. None of them speak much Angami, and Naga society has

many social problems and challenges at the moment, so any move

will not be easy. In the end it is their decision. So I will leave it to them to explain their own feelings, each in turn, as to who they currently think they are; what they think of Australia; and where they might live.

Kevisato When I went to Melbourne Boy’s High School I was very aware from my parents of being Naga. They proudly said: ‘Kevisato, you

will be the first Naga at the school’. It did not matter that I did not know the language or much of the culture: it was in my blood. Like at Forest Hills High School, my friends at Melbourne Boys’

were mostly of non-Australian backgrounds. I continued to be very

judgmental during my teenage years and rejected Australian culture

and thought it was beneath Naga culture. We supposedly had purer values of community, generosity and tradition. I thought Australian 265

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

culture was corrupt, being individualistic, materialistic, and that Australians did not strive hard enough.

However, things changed in 2007 after I went to Nagaland with

Dad for the Khonoma Peace Commission. I had not been home since the age of six, over eleven years earlier. It was a difficult trip and I

did not see what I had imagined I would see. Kohima had very poor infrastructure and I became aware of all the social problems of the city. Global culture has intruded through the internet, introducing Western ideas and diluting the culture. Crime and drugs were prev­ alent and many young people were not in work. I met Dad’s family

and friends. They were real people with idiosyncrasies, not what I had idolised them to be, after hearing Dad’s tales of them.

Upon returning to Australia I thought a lot about myself. I realised

I had a lot of resentment in my heart, a product of the last decade

in Australia, which I had not worked through. I tried alcohol and

drugs to work it out and it really was not a healthy option for me. So when I was eighteen or nineteen, I decided that I would embrace

Australian culture. I went to the pub to meet Australian friends and also changed my accent – or tried to do so – even using ‘g’day mate’ and other such colloquial expressions. My sister Visopiano teased me that my attempt at an Australian accent was ‘awful’. I

also tried Australian humour. In Naga culture if you want to joke with friends you say how wonderful and good looking they are. It is humour through mock affirmation. But in Australian culture it is

the opposite. To your friends you give mock criticism, saying how

hopeless they are and try to bring them down a notch. It is called ‘taking the piss out of someone’.

Through this experiment I realised there were positive things in

Australian culture that I had been rejecting through my blanket 266

W here is H ome?

dismissal. However, in the end I decided I am not quite Naga, and

not quite Australian. Rather, I belong to a global subculture. I in-

teract with a lot of people from overseas, and a lot of my friends are

backpackers or tourists who come here every once in a while. Other friends and colleagues at the Wilderness Society where I worked and

who I have known for years are also globally oriented. They have a set of values based on environmental awareness, and a strong sense of community. This subculture is global. It is the same here as in New York, Delhi or Lima in Peru.

I often identify as indigenous, not Aboriginal of course, but feel

akin to Maori, Native Americans and other indigenous people, with

whom I share core values and beliefs, and a deep sense of connected­

ness to our land and culture. Also we share a struggle for survival over colonial adversity, as each of our peoples were conquered by the British. So when I talk to them and they me, there is an instant

rapport. That word ‘indigenous’ encompasses a whole range of experiences.

I had always thought I would go home to live in Nagaland, which

still has a lot of emotional attachment for me. When I sing Naga

songs with my family, we are singing about a deep longing for our

culture, and the majesty of the hills and forests of Nagaland. But my experiment with being an Aussie changed me. I feel more grounded

now in Australia, having lost my resentful judgments of Australian culture, and sometimes now call Australia ‘home’.

Perhaps I will live half the time in Nagaland and half in Aus-

tralia, but that is not really practical and perhaps even unfair when I have a family. Besides, I have become too accustomed to life in

Australia and the material and practical comforts. Nagaland is extremely under­developed and the whole of the country is still under 2 67

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

severe trauma. If I lived there I would want to help family, con-

tribute to the community, and generally make the place better, for

I have learned from my parents the importance of social justice. But to do this you need to be strong, and so resolved in your vision

and your mission. You need a moral fortitude that I am not sure I possess.

I could live in India, say in Delhi, the reason being that I feel I

belong to a culture that exists globally, and I am part of a global

village. These days many people are migrating back and forth across the globe. So if I did go to India, I would not be going to a new

culture, but a global culture that exists there. People will share the same values, the same outlook on life. I could live there, and be close to Nagaland and to my parents and extended family, without having

to be half a world away, as I am in Australia. This is how I feel now, but it is not the same as the rest of my family. Visopiano, for instance, thinks somewhat differently.

Visopiano When I went to school in Australia at the age of six I entered a new and exciting world. From my first few months in Australia, I fitted

in very well. I learned to speak with an Australian accent from the first weeks and soon tutored my family in the ‘right’ way to speak. I

had Australian friends and this continued at MacRobertson’s Girls’

High School, for I did not hang around very much with girls from other parts of the world. I just felt very Australian from the out­set. This was helped by the fact that my mother had introduced us to English literature that she loved, and both my parents listened to

Western music, like Simon and Garfunkel and the Beatles. So I was 2 68

W here is H ome?

at home with the cultural background of the school girls with whom I associated.

My connection to Naga culture was problematic. I remember

when I was about seventeen the question of my Naga identity was becoming an issue for me. I did not speak the language, but learned

much of the country and some of the culture from my parents at home. I had relatives in Nagaland too, but some were dying of drug

abuse; even first cousins. I felt guilty that they were dying and I was not there. I remember that every time someone passed away, I went

to the shower and just cried and cried. But I could not do anything.

I was mourning more than just that one person, I was mourning the loss of everything. I felt inauthentic, and had a strong sense of being a pale reflection of a real Naga. I was born in Nagaland and spent

my first six years there, but was also Australian. I felt confused and wanted eventually to go to Nagaland to sort this out.

This all came to a head during my Gap Year before I started in

Bio-medicine at Monash University. I spent it in England but visited Norway to stay with Dad’s Sami blood-brother, Keviselie

(Hans Ragnar Mathisen). He has a very strong sense of self and his indigenous culture, which I found absorbing. We were having dinner at a Norwegian man’s house and there were two Naga girls present,

who had migrated to Norway in their mid-teens. They spoke their

language, and were very Naga. Our Norwegian host said to me: ‘Do

you speak your Dad’s language?’ I replied, ‘No, my parents speak English with each other, so I speak English’. He replied in quite a facetious way: ‘Oh, so you’re not a real Naga?’ It was a harsh thing to say to a seventeen-year-old, and it made me feel more anxious.

Then I joined my parents in Switzerland at the Centre for Initia­

tives of Change. I attended workshops and met people from all over 2 69

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

the world who reflected on their lives and cultures. That was when

I really started thinking about culture, and realising it is a lens that you employ to see the world. It is the creation of all the different experiences that you have accumulated. I realised that sometimes it is actually a disadvantage, perhaps even dangerous, to belong only

to one culture, and not to be able to have the experiences our family have had.

So I became comfortable with not being the same as other Naga,

or other Australians. Realistically, any one of us is not the same

as anyone else. When my parents return home to Nagaland they will have that same issue. They have left home and had many new experiences. People here in Australia might not understand their

experiences of home. When they return to Nagaland, people there

will not understand what they have gone through here. Naga think Australia is quite glamorous, and so they will never understand the

hardship that my parents experienced during their resettlement in Australia.

Despite feeling very Australian I have experienced anguish at

times. I think my family sometimes thought I was becoming too

Western. At times of uncertainty as to who I was, I suffered, but took the attitude that I just had to keep going and get through these

periods. So while I now identify strongly as being Australian, I still feel very drawn to Naga culture. For instance, when our family

ran a cultural night to raise money for the Nagara Foundation at

the Ashburton Uniting Church in 2013, I felt really proud. I was also quite emotional when we sang as a family in our Naga shawls

and skirts, before many people we knew personally. It was a family song for us, in the Naga language of course, one we have sung

often at home. Our family always talks of Nagaland and I am quite 270

W here is H ome?

open about it with friends, who know our personal history and our background.

I have become very interested in social justice which has always

been at the core of my parents’ values. They are very different people,

but have always shared this value of doing what is right for those less

fortunate or less powerful. Kevisato and I have both taken it on. As a

medical student, I am really interested in community health, indeed

in global health. And, like my older brother, I am interested in the concept of being a global citizen, which I think I first learned while at MacRob. It is also founded on having a Naga father and a Mizo mother, but who have so many common threads that bind them.

But where will I live? I have always wanted to go back home to

Nagaland for a few years to relearn the language, and hopefully I will

pick it up quite easily. That is one reason I went into medicine, so that I could eventually do some work back home. I have already done one

medical placement in a Kohima hospital in 2014. But I think that

I will probably live in Australia most of the time. It is where I feel most comfortable. If not Australia, then in another Western country where I will practise medicine. But I will visit Nagaland, or fly my

parents and Siezo to see me wherever I am. My education has given me that luxury.

Siezo When I arrived in Australia I was five and still carrying an injury after an accident with a knife that I had poked into my left eye. I

quickly liked living here and especially in Armagh. I was with my family and loved playing with Kevisato and Visopiano in the large

house with its big lawns, hedges to hide in, trees to climb and a 271

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

swimming pool. After we left Armagh I attended Blackburn Lake Primary School and later Forest Hill College. I found many good friends in primary school.

One of my friends, a Japanese boy called Kuhie, loved martial arts

and he suggested we attend the Bushidokan dojo or gym. I loved it

straight away. We all wore gi, the special heavy white cloth pants and top used by martial arts students, held together by the coloured

belt of their grade. Our dojo was in Heathmont and run by Vincent Buttelesi, who we all call ‘Shihan’.

I have been practising Bushidokan for over ten years and have

now risen from my white belt with stripe, through fourteen grades to become a black belt, but I still have to achieve my First Dan. Even though I am back living in Armagh, I drive to Heathmont four

times a week to attend the dojo. I just love martial arts and think it is good for me. It is a very disciplined sport, particularly for one’s

mind, as it takes a lot of concentration to do each move correctly. You have to practise continually moves, slowly at first, but faster once

you master them. The constant repetition helps me learn. Each time

you practise a move, you have to strike the right pose and assume the right posture, then execute it perfectly. Many of the routines are done with a partner, so I made many friends at the dojo.

Bushidokan is mentally hard but it has given me greater confidence.

I have progressed from a white belt to a black, and through the grades of stripes attached to each coloured belt. The confidence has come also

from having to perform in front of others, although as yet I have not entered competitions. I feel good about myself as I sometimes assist with the younger students at the dojo. Bushidokan has also made me very fit from the constant exercise.

272

W here is H ome?

My fitness has helped with my other great interest, which is gar-

dening. I developed this while doing my Certificate Three Horticul-

ture, Parks and Gardens course at Wantirna TAFE. I worked in a gardening business in 2014, and, since returning to live at Armagh, I have had plenty of scope to continue this. When we moved back here

in 2014, the garden was in a great state of neglect: lawns were long,

and garden beds overgrown. The grounds around the house are quite large and the current gardener was hired to work only a few hours a week. This was not nearly enough time to keep the garden in order.

Now I help Fran the gardener two days a week. A great trans­

formation has occurred in how the garden looks. Things are now under control and Fran and I can plan further improvements. I

enjoy gardening, for it gives me pride and satisfaction to see what I

can achieve, and it just makes me happy to be out in the fresh air. I recently travelled six hundred kilometres alone by train to Wagga Wagga, New South Wales, to see our old friends Ron and Cynthia

Lawler, with whom Apfü shared part of their honeymoon trip. I moved a lot of soil and helped establish a veggie garden for them.

But where will I live? Will I go to Nagaland to join my father or

stay in Australia? I am not sure. I have few memories of my own about Nagaland, as I left it when I was five. Of course I have heard

about it all my life from my father and mother and other family. I

cannot speak Angami, but am told many young people speak English these days. I am sure I could help Apfü in the garden, which he will use to grow food to live on over there. Perhaps I might like to learn to

raise pigs with him. However, I love living in Australia and consider

myself Australian, although with a Naga heritage. I have lots of mates with whom I go out, and love to go to the footie. I would miss

273

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

that, yet I would miss my parents too. It is a hard decision, but at the moment, while my mother is still here, I will stay in Australia.

* * * So there you have it from our children! I am going home to create

my Healing Garden to contribute to peacemaking among the Naga;

I will also revive the Nagara Foundation Project to build a hostel for the Eastern Naga in Kohima, allowing them to study and to enter the University of Nagaland. Of course I will also make a garden and

a house to sustain myself. Pari will then follow. Siezo may also come

to stay permanently. But Kevisato and Visopiano will most likely not come – but one never knows for certain in life. My family is now part

of a global migration story, of the constant search for where is home. Our Naga odyssey is also a direct consequence of a great sadness, the

tyranny of India and the subsequent fratricide and division of the Naga that pushed us from home.

274

Cha pte r 16

RETURN I boarded my plane on 3 July 2015, six months short of twenty years

after arriving in Australia. I settled back for the long flight to New Delhi. Within minutes of being airborne I began to think of my life

in Australia. Many, many things flashed across my mind: the places I had lived, the jobs I had done, my theology degree, the friends I

made and who had helped me, the joys and difficulties I endured, and images of the Australian landscape.

These things scrolled before my consciousness through the thirteen-

hour flight, interrupted by a stop-over in Singapore and periods of

dozing and food. I thought also of family and how they would fare without me – and I without them. The last few months had been

hectic and memories of that rolled across my mind. I had taken a course in permaculture to hone my farming skills. I began to wrap

up all my commitments in Australia. In April Richard had finally

set to work on our book. He was writing furiously out of our 22 interviews, amounting to about a thousand pages of transcriptions,

and utilising other things I had written over the years. Chapters came almost every week to be assessed, discussed and corrected. I

was doing background research for the book and passing Richard things to read. We had hoped to finish a draft before I left but that was not to be. But there is always email!

Then I thought about my farewell at Armagh. It had been a good

decision to move back there, as many friendships were renewed, and

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

many things resolved. On Saturday 6 June over 120 people gathered to farewell me. There had been a frenzy of cooking for days by Pari,

Visopiano and friends from Armagh. Kevisato, Seizo and my nephew Vipulie had set up the old ballroom to accommodate everyone. The

children organised a silent auction where people bid for Naga shawls,

jackets, bags and other items to help fund my garden once I reach Nagaland. The afternoon was a wonderful success. My friend Suzette

Herft sang a beautiful song ‘A Piece of Sky’ about following your dream, which was so apt.

A special guest that day was my friend of forty-five years from

‘Song of Asia’, Alan Porteous, who flew from New Zealand for the farewell. Before I left he handed me a copy of his speech ‘Sending

Visier Home’. I now pulled it from my bag and re-read parts of it.

Alan detected great symbolism in my going home and praised my courage for the risks and perils that lay before me. My idea of a Healing Garden he found momentous. It challenged us all to reflect: am I fully self-expressing who I am? What may be missing; what in me cries out for healing? Alan continued:

Pari, Visopiano, Kevisato, and Siezo: we can see and feel some­thing of what you are investing in this journey for Visier,

and we don’t underestimate what it is taking for you to release him and watch him go. We really get that. Will he succeed? Will he be safe? Is this Healing Garden going to work? You

are an awesome family, giving so much to Australia and enriching all our lives, and now going way beyond what is reasonable and what is comfortable to re-establish a bridge­ head of transformation in the land of your heritage.

276

R eturn

And about Visier – This is not a saintly man on a pilgrimage

to a comfortable retirement in his beloved blue hills. This is an extraordinary Naga warrior-of-the-heart with the courage

and a rising unstoppable passion to confront what is so in himself and his nation. And in this authenticity Visier will I believe find a source of power and involvement that will inspire many others to join him.

I bring greetings today from Te Rangi Huata, our old

friend from ‘Song of Asia’. He would have liked to come but he is organising a national festival in New Zealand, the

Matariki or New Year festival. In the words of Te Rangi’s father, Canon We Te Tau Huata:

Ko te amorangi ki mua Ko te hapai o ki muri

Ko te mana mei te tapu

Whakatangata kia kaha. Let God be the spearhead; let achievement follow.

Your honour is sacred. Hold fast to your greatness. Tena koutou, tena koutou, tena koutou katoa.

I read Alan’s words with gratitude, humility, and I must confess some tears.

As I flew over the Bay of Bengal I recalled my speech in

reply. I referred to the Healing Garden that I hoped to create in

Medzhiphema, as both a personal symbol of my forced exile and a communal one of reconciliation for my Naga people. I spoke of my

wonderful wife Pari with whom I had been through so much, and of 27 7

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

our children: Kevisato who is saving the wilderness; Visopiano who is saving humanity; and Siezo with his black belt in martial arts who is defending us all. I spoke also of my love for Australia, my longest

home in my life so far. Its vastness and space was astonishing, its

Indigenous people with their wonderful Dreamtime truly profound. I spoke with affection of multicultural Australia, which offered me

a home when a refugee. It was the best country in the world despite being founded by criminals!

I rhetorically asked my friends ‘Why then do I want to go back?’

I will only face poverty, crime, killings and problems. There is a

Buddhist saying that if you go home you have to be happy, come to terms with your past mistakes, and have a clear goal. I have met

all three things – I am ready. If losing culture can bring spiritual

dislocation, our family had faced that, and suffered that. We have to

find our cultural roots. I have to take this journey to search for my recover, my spirit.

I ended with a long Naga chant. Visopiano later told me it was

the best and most haunting one she had heard me sing. I did feel

transported by the emotion of singing about a home that I would

soon see, but that would separate me from my friends gathered here.

Pari concluded the formalities with a question: ‘When will we hear that chant again given by one of the last of your generation on this

planet? We hope your return will be the beginning of things being passed on, so that this chant will not die!’

As I pondered all these memories the wheels of the plane bumped

onto the Kolkata tarmac. I transferred flights and landed at Dimapur

twenty minutes early so there was no-one to welcome me. I rang my 278

R eturn

With Phono (my only surviving sibling) in Khonoma, 2015.

long-term friend Kolezo Chase, who studied with me at Shillong,

and whose mighty act of tolerance and forgiveness in the fratricidal struggle inspired the sketch of forgiveness in the revue, ‘Song of

Asia’. Kolezo drove speedily to collect me at the airport. We went to

his home where I paid my respects to his wife, who had been bed­

ridden for fifteen years, due to a car accident. I gave her a kangaroo skin and a photograph of my family. She gave a smile and touched the kangaroo skin, but could not speak.

I arrived in Kohima, which is a beautiful, but filthy city. There

are no roads to speak of, and in the monsoon season thousands of

vehicles drive through muddy ponds, some a few centimetres deep. I walked carrying my bags and wearing my kangaroo hat. Nagas

are incredibly hospitable. A few people recognised me and expressed

delight to see me. One slipped a few thousand rupees into my 279

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

hand with a ‘Welcome back’! A niece, however, was ashamed that

her foreign-returned uncle was walking on foot. She thinks I am

lowering the status of the family by not driving an imported car. She said ‘hau nva zhü mote’, which is a very polite way to communicate that she is embarrassed. However, my sister Phono was delighted to

see me and is mothering me, believing I am too thin. She is spoiling me as she did when I was very young and building me up with wild honey and special soup made from her own chickens.

Everything is so expensive now. A kilogram of pork has gone

up ten times since I left home, but the daily wage has gone up only

by four times. The poor are really struggling. The rich are getting richer and live in mansions. Corrupt rich politicians would consider a

normal house in a Melbourne suburb in Australia as a small hol­ iday cottage. I can smell revolution in the future; not with guns,

but by social media, while the rich sleep in their mansions. The young generation is observant, alert and angry at the conditions they are trapped in right now, and will soon rise up in revolution using modern technology.

The situation with India is still very tense, and despite a new peace

deal (with one faction only), the society is still militarised. Four days

after my arrival, two school children, Tuzali, a girl aged fourteen,

and Aso, a boy of thirteen, were killed by the Indian armed forces. Earlier there had been an exchange of gunfire between Indian armed forces and the Naga Army from the Khaplang faction of the

Nationalist Socialist Council of Nagaland. The Indian Army was

taking a dead Naga soldier to their camp after this fire-fight, but the villagers demanded the body be handed over to them for a proper

funeral. The army panicked and fired at the crowd, killing the two school children and injuring a woman. The tragedy of this event is 280

R eturn

that the Indian Army still has immunity through the Armed Forces

Special Powers Act (1958). According to them, they suspected Naga

‘insurgents’ were in the crowd. The Indian Army after almost sixty years still has the right to shoot and kill Naga in Nagaland! According

to the villagers there were no Naga Army personnel present, and noone was armed.

I borrowed my friend’s car to visit uncle Niketu Iralu who lives at

Zubza outside Kohima. The army was everywhere. They stopped all

the vehicles, but selected only a few vehicles to check. Mine was one of them. I panicked. Am I a suspect? If they suspect that I am one of

the ‘insurgents’, they have the right to shoot and kill. Three army men surrounded my vehicle holding automatic rifles. One of them asked me to open by bag. My hands were shaking, but I knew I must not

make a wrong move else they might shoot. ‘Where are you going?’ I replied ‘to Zubza, just a few kilometres from here’. One soldier

checked my bag very carefully: my underwear, papers and a lap top. ‘You can go’. At the bottom of my bag I had a Swiss army knife, a

very useful instrument in Nagaland. Fortunately, he did not see it as my underwear covered it. I drove on very calmly and wondered

whether he would get a promotion were he to shoot me – after all, he would only be doing his duty.

I drove into the mountains to Zubza where Niketu was celebrating

his 80th birthday. The day was uplifting. Nagaland is greener than I

had ever remembered; and after a few months of rain it is hauntingly

green. Niketu is an inspiring man, and one of the most influential

people in my life. So I drove on with pleasure. As we ascended I noticed huge buildings alongside thatch huts everywhere. I am coming home to a different Nagaland!

2 81

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Those feelings of uncertainty were dispelled when I walked into

a family gathering of well over a hundred people, three generations

of Niketu’s nephews and nieces. His eighty-three-year-old sister was the first to speak. ‘Today, Mano, one of my younger sisters, could

not be here, she and her husband are in Wimpleton’. Her nephew

Shürhovi Haralu shouted they have gone to Wimbledon [correcting

her pronunciation] to watch tennis!’ ‘Is that near America?’ someone queried. ‘No, London, London!’ came the response from Shürhovi

Haralu, who demonstrated how tennis is played, to the hilarity of the younger ones. This set the scene for a wonderful day.

Niketu has lived an interesting life. He is the most widely-traveled

Naga of his generation. He is still engaged in peace building and reconciliation, operating from his home Kerünyüki, the ‘house of

listening’. Several of Niketu’s sisters, his brother and nephews spoke,

and many cried as they talked of their uncle. I spoke on behalf of the clan and thanked Niketu for what he has contributed, not only to our clan, but also the world. Niketu made a very moving reply and

reminded his nephews and nieces that we are all from the Sanyü clan, descended from the great matriarch, Sanyü.

The next morning I awoke at 4.00am, prepared black tea and sat

to watch the dawn break over the Naga Hills beyond my window. I thought of that morning long ago in 1956 when I began the long

road to manhood, just months before the Indian Army shattered our

world, forcing us to leave Khonoma. As I sat and remembered, the vibrant green of the mountainside before me intensified, and with each passing moment overwhelmed me with its beauty. I was home!

2 82

P O S T S CR I P T Looking back now from my village of Khonoma in Nagaland,

Melbourne seems like a distant dream, yet I know in my core that I am both Australian and Naga.

History has moved faster than I can grasp. On 3 August 2015,

three weeks after my arrival, the Prime Minister of India, Narendra Modi, announced that a Peace Accord had been signed between India and the Naga after twenty years of inaction and almost sixty

years of war. It seemed too good to be true and perhaps it is. The

Accord was between the Government of India and the Nationalist

Socialist Council of Nagalim of the Isak-Muivah faction. This was an immediate problem, as the other Naga nationalist factions felt, and

indeed were, excluded from the agreement. Most of them quickly

rejected it as a sell-out and surrender. One group likened it to a sec­ond Shillong Accord, and the NSCN-K faction immediately

attacked the Indian Army, signalling its rejection. So violence has followed an Accord yet again in Nagaland’s history.

Another problem is that no-one really knows what the terms of the

2015 Peace Accord are, as the content of the Framework Agreement

remains secret eighteen months later. However, both the parties have leaked some details. The Governor of Nagaland announced that

the Nagas will have four military regiments and two paramilitary regiments for defence. The Isak-Muivah faction announced that a

Naga flag will be recognised by India, to be flown alongside the

Indian flag. However, the Nagas will continue to use Indian pass­

ports and Indian currency. Overseas, the Naga will be represented

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

at their own trade centres, but will not have embassies. The words

used in the Framework Agreement include ‘shared sovereignty’, ‘supra state’ and ‘alternative arrangement’. These are somewhat at odds:

‘shared’ suggests equality or at least equity, fairness and justice; ‘supra’ suggests a hierarchy, a State over or above another State; and ‘alterna­tive’ could meaning anything. The future remains uncertain.

On a community level, when I returned home, my people were

exceptionally welcoming and kind to me. One joy is my evening

walks with my brother-in-law Harku (Professor Richard Hmingliana Duncan Lyngdoh), a Professor of Chemistry at North Eastern Hills

University. He is a ‘human google’, being fluent in nine languages, including Khasi, Mizo, Tamil and Greek, and a self-taught musician.

He has composed over 200 pieces: choral, solo piano, instrumental and Christian works.

However, daily challenges of living in Nagaland are real, with

unemployment and drug abuse key social problems. My nephew

Avitso died a few weeks after my arrival. He had lived in the forest alone for many years, surviving on hunting and food gathering, traditional-style, unable to come to terms with the traumas of his siblings in Nagaland today. He returned to the village a few months

before he died, ill and troubled. Pari sent these words from Australia to be read at his funeral, words which I could never surpass:

Avitso held the rich heritage of his father who was a dignified

Keeper of Culture and Song. He chose to stay in the forest and embrace the ways of the land in a manner that was intense­ly

relational to the woods and forest, and their inhabitants. This

was his own unique way of dealing with the crossroads of his generation. While the land is buffeted with violence at many 284

P ostscript

In my Healing Garden, Medziphema Town, Nagaland, 2015.

levels, he reconciled with Nature. He combined the soul of a

poet and his own philosophy of living with the hard and the harsh reality of subsistence. With his passing something very ancient and precious has been lost to us forever.

My Healing Garden is becoming a reality. I will sustain my family

from its bounty and create a resource to promote community healing. I have my first workshop planned for early 2017, in which I hope to

promote Nagaland’s sovereignty through sweat and hard work, not

crime and extortion. Young people who attend, will dig and plant the soil for half the day, and explore how they can remake their lives

by creating viable businesses during the other half. Once I have

accommodation, they will stay longer. My friend Neichute Doulo, 2 85

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

CEO of Entrepreneur Associates, is providing practical help through micro-financing and other advice and assistance to promote self-

help. He has to date encouraged small businesses that have spread to support over 60,000 people.

My Healing Garden is on twelve acres of beautiful forest that I

have owned since the early 1990s. I hope to buy some more land from neighbours. My land is half indigenous forest and half a twenty-fouryear-old Burmese teak plantation. There is a smattering of pedu trees

that provide good firewood for me and for sale if needed. Thirty-four

of my clansmen and other volunteers erected a bamboo house for me

in one day, which is now a multi-purpose building. Recently, some people from a tribe bordering Burma built me a six-square-metre tree house, twelve metres from the ground, and accessed via a three-

tiered teak staircase. I currently live in the tree house to avoid the mosquitos and snakes, and to enjoy a view of the Naga Hills. It is basic, but will suffice until I move into my stone house, which is now

being built from round boulders and wood from my land. I hope Pari and perhaps Seizo will join me in the near future.

I am clearing some land for a farm. I have had a first crop of

bananas, vegetables and ginger. I have pigs and rabbits in enclosures, free-range chickens that lay eggs in the adjoining jungle, and two

emus behind a fenced area for an immediate cash crop, as the eggs, oil, feathers and leather of the latter are sought after. I intend to keep goats as well and to create a pond out of a small stream to raise

trout. I have a splendid pet Hornbill, a colourful beautiful bird of

Nagaland. There are many other wild birds in the adjoining forest.

In late autumn I was visited by flocks of Amur Falcons that migrated

from Russia to nest in Nagaland over winter, and then fly onto Africa,

before returning to Russia for the summer. They have their own long way home.

286

P ostscript

* * * In 1956 when my story began, I was a participant in Sekrenyi,

the festival of war. During Sekrenyi I performed my first ritual of purification of the body and began on the path to manhood, and life

as part of the men’s morung. In that year there were dozens of other novitiates. About three-quarters of the 2,000 people in the village

of Khonoma took part in this traditional ceremony. But that was cut short by war with India and with ourselves and the inroads of modernity.

I have just met a man, Chajü, who is the last person still perform­

ing Sekrenyi in Khonoma. When he performs it again in February

2017 I will film him doing the ceremony and rituals. I am intensely

saddened that in two generations the ritual of many has become that

of one man! However, he is confident Sekrenyi will not die with him,

and will continue in a different way in a Christian world. I am not sure I hold the same confidence but we shall see.

* * * And so my odyssey, and that of the Naga, continues from the in­

decipherable present into the unknown future. But at least it will be played out for me on my Naga soil and amidst my Healing Garden.

287

GL O S S A RY OF T E N Y I DI E WOR D S Apfü: word for father or mother, distinguished by pronunciation and tone. Angami is a tonal language and mother and father for my clan has the same spelling but sounds entirely different.

Chadanyi: the festival of clearing the paths to the fields prior to planting

Chapal: footwear like slippers worn by villagers

Chükheu: the elusive god who protects wild animals in the forest

Dao: a long thick blade used for timber cutting as well as a weapon for headhunting

Dobashi: village interpreter and judge appointed by the British Hau nva zhü mote: This is not appropriate for you Hoho: traditional Naga parliament

Jhum: forest land used on a slash and burn rotation

Kambura: from Assamese gaonburra, an official village chief appointed by the British

Kekinyi: the feast of peace and friendship between clans or between two villages

Kethamia: girls with long hair denoting they were once married (and are now divorced)

Kethezie-kedzünya: an Angami code of honour and sacrifice for the good of the community

Ketsa: a glue made from a wild fruit

Khel: a formation of several clans in a village

Kilo: the main room of a Naga village where all the activities take place, including meetings.

Glossary of T enyidie Words

Kinuseku: a dark room where rice wine is prepared Lathi: a police baton made of cane or wood

Makhala: a traditional sarong-style item of clothing

Menhirs: a monolith erected for a commemorative or sacred purpose Mithun: bos frontalis, a semi-wild bison sacred to the Naga

Morung: a traditional school, and the men’s meeting house for those initiated boys

Nhanumia: those forced to flee and live in the jungle, also known as the underground

Nokpao: chief in Khiamnuingan

Peyumia: Angami traditional elders

Ropfű: the spirit or soul of a person

Ruso: poor quality rice given out as rations by the Indian Government

Sekre: the ritual of performing purification of the soul during Sekrenyi

Sekrenyi: the ancient ritual and festival of becoming a warrior, and the main traditional festival of the Angami

Tekhuse: the transplanting of rice seedlings

Tenyidie: a Naga language used by several related Naga tribes including Angami.

Terhünyi: the harvest festival

Thekranyi: the festival to precede the planting of rice

Thenuhe: the visiting among girls and boys that precedes matchmaking

Tsu: grandchildren, or also descendants

Ukepenuopfü: mother goddess of the Angami Vaketsü: forgiveness for the sake of peace Vitho: a negotiated peace agreement 289

ACK NOW L E D GM E N T S When Richard paused over his warm beef salad and said ‘Yes – I’ll

help you write your life story, Visier’, my heart sang. Now I realised my story would be written. He then asked why I wanted so desperately to write it. I had a ready answer, for I had been thinking of the reasons for many years. I have much to tell about a series of journeys, both spatially and spiritually.

First, my family and clan were nhanumia, people who survived

in the jungle after our village was burnt by the Indian Army. We struggled there, surviving on rats, monkey meat and wild vegetables

for nearly three years, but some Naga stayed twenty. Thousands of the older generation who were nhanumia are now dying, and only my generation can relate this horrific tale to the younger generation.

From that moment I have lived through the struggle of an emerging nation. When my villagers went into the jungle after the British invasion of 1879, nothing was recorded by our people, and we only glimpse their experi­ence faintly from British records. This silence must not be repeated!

Second, I am also one of the last generation of Naga who were

converted to Christianity from the Naga traditional religion. I was

converted in my late teens, so I remember all the rituals and the spirituality infusing the traditional beliefs. In my village Khonoma there is one person practising Naga religion, but in many villages the practice has been absent for a generation.

Acknowledgments

Third, I have experienced many places and cultures, nationalities and

faiths in my life, boosted by my experience with Initiatives of Change, ‘Song of Asia’ and being a refugee worker in Australia. I have left two

homes – Nagaland and now Australia – which were both profound

events. Migration is not just moving to another country, it is a traumatic

and painful experience of leaving behind what is dearest to your heart: your family and friends, but above all your culture and your roots. It

is really a spiritual dislocation. If you lose your house, your property and your money, you lose something very precious. If you migrate to

another country you lose everything, but if you lose your culture and your language, it is like losing your own soul: it is a deep spiritual crisis. This is a story I have to tell, and, in the telling, resolve my own trauma.

So many people have helped shaped my odyssey. To list every name

would be impossible, but those below must be mentioned.

My wife Pari gave constant encouragement and her exceptionally

sharp mind and discernment has always supported me. My children

Kevisato, Visopiano and Megosiezo are the most precious gifts Pari

and I have in our lives. My only surviving sibling Phono and her hus-

band Tsiu have shown great love and compassion for me all these years. Uncle Niketu and his wife Christine must be deeply thanked for inviting me to stay in their ‘House of Listening’ upon my return to Nagaland,

while searching for a place of my own. Without their support I would not have survived my first year back home. My sister-in-law Khono (Dozo’s wife), nephew Viketholie, and my great-nephews Mezhű and

Leto, and great-niece Viketuno, also took care of me upon my return. I must thank my mother-in-law Thauchhumi and her husband Uncle Rashid. Above all I extend honour to all my clan Meyasetsu.

2 91

A N AG A ODY S S E Y

Help came from beyond my family. Upon my return my friend

Dietho Yhoshü shook my hand on the road and said ‘welcome’, thrusting two thousand rupees in my hand. Panshok and Keneitsi lent me

their car for the first few months. Kolezo Chase, my long-time friend, kindly offered me accommodation while my first house and well were being built. My friends Kuolachalie Seyie and Neichute Doulo were always ready with their cars and drivers to take me anywhere I

wanted to go. My Sami brother Keviselie, Hans Ragnar Mathisen, has been the most steadfast and caring brother all these years.

My years in Australia were smoothed by many people, especially

Dorothy Hicks, Roger and Stephanie Dundas, Mike and Jean Brown, Barbara Williams and her late husband John, Elizabeth Weeks and

her late husband Alan, Rev. Marin Reilly and his wife Margaret Nixon, Jeff Wild, John Ball, Ian and Karin Parsons, Jonathan and

Bente Lancaster, Rob and Cheryl Wood, Richard and Anne Mallaby, Ron and Cynthia Lawler, Tom and Elisabeth Ramsey, Terry Fella, Andrew Dawson, Helen Summers, Mary Whiteside, Jim and Tui Beggs, the late Professor Ross Langmead, Nathan Nettleton and

Margie Welsford, Tim and Merridie Costello, Alastair and Gail

Pritchard, Richard Broome and Margaret Donnan, my colleagues at World Vision, National Council of Churches in Australia and Initiatives of Change. Chris Chandler and Mohan Bhagwandas were always there when I was in trouble.

I thank also my good Indian friends who helped me to learn to

forgive: Rajmohan and Usha Gandhi, Rupa Chinai, Sanjoy Hazarika,

Vibha Joshi, Rahul and Renuka Kapadia, Suresh and Leena Khatri, Professor R.L. Hangloo and many others.

29 2

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Rajmohan Gandhi (my friend and the Mahatma’s

grandson) and Rev. Tim Costello (also my friend and former boss at World Vision in Australia), for penning two wonderful forewords.

Special thanks to Emeritus Professor Richard Broome of La Trobe University, Melbourne, my friend, ‘chauffeur’ and collaborator, with­ out whom this book could not have been written.

Visier Meyasetsu Sanyü, 2017

293

F U R T H ER R E A DI NG The following books will be useful for those wishing to read more deeply into the history of the Naga and their struggle.

Amnesty International, ‘India. “Operation Bluebird”. A Case Study of Torture and Extrajudicial Executions in Manipur’, Amnesty International, typescript, October 1990. Baruah, Sanjib, ‘Confronting Constructionism: Ending India’s Naga War’, Journal of Peace Research, vol. 40, no. 3, May 2003, pp. 321–38. Bendangjungshi, Confessing Christ in the Naga Context: Towards a Liberating Ecclesiology, being volume 8 of Contact Zone: Explorations in Intercultural Theology, ed. Volker Küster, Transaction Publishers, London, 2011. Borgohain, Homen and Borghain, Pradipta, Scrolls of Fire: The Endless History of the Nagas, Rupa Publications, New Delhi, 2011. Chasie, Charles and Hazarika, Sanjoy, ‘The State Strikes Back: India and the Naga Insurgency’, East-West Centre, Policy Studies, no. 52, Washington, 2009. Dhar, Maloy Krishna, Open Secrets: India’s Intelligence Unveiled, Manas Publications, New Delhi, 2010. Elwin, Verrier, Nagaland, P. Dutta for the Research Department, Adviser’s Secretariat, Shillong, 1961. Glancy, Jonathan, Nagaland: A Journey to India’s Forgotten Frontier, Faber and Faber, London, 2011. Goswami, Namrata, ‘The Naga Intra-community Dialogue: Preventing and Managing Violent Ethnic Conflict’, Global Change, Peace and Security, vol. 22, no. 1, February 2010, pp. 93-120. Goswami, Namata, ‘Twilight over Guerrilla Zone: Retracing the Naga Peace Process’, Defence Strategic Studies, 2006c. Hazarike, Sanjoy, Strangers of the Mist: Tales of War and Peace from India’s Northeast, Penguin, New Delhi, 2011. Hümtsoe-Nienü, Eyingbeni, Pimomo, Paul and Tünyi, Venüsa, Nagas: Essays for Responsible Change, Heritage Publishing House, Dimapur, 2012. Iralu, Kaka D., The Naga Saga: A Historical Account of the 62 Year Indo–Naga War and the Story of Those Who Were Never Allowed to Tell It, by the author, Kohima, 3rd ed., 2009. Jacobs, Julian, The Nagas: Hill Peoples of Northeast India, Thames and Hudson, London, 1998. Kumar, Ram Narayan with Murthy, Laxmi, Four Years On, the Ceasefire Agreement between the Government of India and the Nationalist Council of Nagalim: Promises and Pitfalls, Civil Society Initiatives on the Naga Peace Process, New Delhi, 2002.

F urther R eading Lotha, Abraham, The Raging Mithun: Challenges of Naga Nationalism, Barkweaver Publications, Kohima, 2013. Lotha, Abraham, The Hornbill Spirit: Nagas Living Their Nationalism, Heritage Publishing House, Dimapur, Nagaland, 2015. Lhousa, Zapuvisie, Nagaland for the Nagas 2013, by the author, Kohima, 2013. Lhousa, Zapuvisie, Conflict to Peace Trap: The Naga Story, by the author, Kohima, 2014. Lhousa, Zapuvisie, Strange Country: My Experience in Naga Nationalism, by the author, Kohima, 2015. Linter, Bertil, Great Game: East India, China and the Struggle for Asia’s Most Volatile Frontier, HarperCollins, New Delhi, 2012. Oppitz, Michael, Kaiser, Thomas, Stockhaussen, Alban von and Wettstein, Marion (eds), Naga Identities: Changing Local Cultures in the Northeast of India, Snoeck Publishers, Gent, 2008. Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsü and Gray, Andrew, The Naga Nation and its Struggle Against Genocide, International Working Group for Indigenous Affairs, Copenhagen, 1986. Sanyü, Visier, A History of the Nagas and Nagaland: Dynamics of Oral Tradition in Village Formation, Commonwealth Publishers, New Delhi, 1996. Solo, Thepfulhouvi, From Violence to Peace & Prosperity: Nagaland, by the author, Kohima, 2011. Yanthan, Zuchamo, Shimreiwung, A.S., Gonmei, Poujenlung, Pou, Veio and Vadeo, Seve, Nagas Today: Indigenous Discourse, Naga Students’ Union, Delhi, 2010. Zinyü, Mihiesizokho, Phizo and the Naga Problem, by the author, Kohima, 2nd ed., 2014.

2 95

I N DE X NB: Photographs, maps (m) are highlighted in bold. Myanmar is referred to as Burma throughout this index. ABC TV, 219 Aberdeen, Lucinda, mentored Visier, 199 Aborigines, their treatment, 254 Act for Peace Healing Trail, 262 helped fund Burmese refugees, account, 212 part of a world network called ACT Alliance, 211 Adivasi as labourers in tea gardens, 116 local indigenous people, Catholic converts, 116 Age, The, 219 Ali, Abdulla Yusuf educated in Britain, 60 a great Muslim scholar of the early twentieth century, 59 Ali, Rashid Yusuf became a major in the British Army during WW2, 60 concern for Naga people living in jungle camps, 60 Deputy Commissioner of the Nagaland, 59–60 joined the North Eastern Frontier Service, 60 met Phizo, 60 retired as Chief Secretary of Arunachel Pradesh, 60 son of Abdullah Yusuf Ali, 59 American Baptist missionaries, 206 Angami tribe, vii, 5, 12–15, 31, 36, 42, 65, 69, 80, 112, 134, 157–158, 164, 167, 190, 244 Anglo-Burmese War, 170 Anglo-Naga War, songs, 166 Anything to Declare (music revue), by

Initiatives of Change, 109 Armagh – Melbourne, 189 description, 194 its aims, 194 Life Matters course, 255 Sanyü family offered free board and lodging, 194 Armed Forces Special Powers Act, 68, 82, 148, 281 Arüno, Captain, killing of, 134–135 Ashburton Uniting Church, Nagara foundation, 270 Asia Plateau, 130 British people embarrassed by their colonial past, 112 created by Dr Frank Buchman, 111 its aims, 111 run by Initiatives of Change, 110 ‘Song of Asia,’ 128 Assam Assam Disturbed Areas Act, 82 Assam Maintenance of Public Order Act, 82 Assam police unit, 6 Assam Tribune, 113 Asylum Seekers’ Resource Centre, Visier attended meetings, 213 Attard, Father a Maltese priest, 106 spoke fluent Khasi, 106 Australia Indigenous people, 254 multiculturalism, 254 Visier’s account, 253–254 Australian Academy of Humanities, vi Australian Broadcasting Commission (ABC), radio 774, 219 Azo, Riano (Visier’s aunt), walked for days to buy rice, 57

A N AG A ODY S S E Y Bangladesh, refugee camps, account, 118–119 Bangladesh Liberation War, 117 between East Pakistan and West Pakistan, account, 117–118 Baptists, ix American, introduced Christianity to Nagaland, 14 Baptist Union of Australia, ix evangelicals preaching the wrong attitude to Naga traditions, 77 ministries, 229 youth group photograph, 99 Battle of Khonoma, 12–14, 170, 242 songs, 166 Battle of Kohima, 18, 242 Benestad, Elizabeth, 137 Benestad, Esben also known as Esben Esther Pirelli Benestad, 138 now a well-known Norwegian sexologist and personality, 138 undergone gender reassignment, 138 Visier stayed with while in Norway, 137 Benestad, Even, 137 All about My Father (documentary), 138 Bengal, Naxalbari, 117 Bernard, Patrick a filmmaker, 185, 230–231 Forbidden Burma: Return of a Chief, 236 keen to make a film about Nagaland, 230 release of documentary, 236 Bhan, Deepak, 103 Bhubaneswar Sainik School Bara Khana, end of school year celebration, 97 beating of Naga boys, 104 Brahmaputra House, its traditions, 92 dormitories along house lines, 91 opening, 90 preached about the unity of India, 98

riot against Naga students, 104 account, 100–101 school routine, 93–94 website, 92 Bhutan, Visier’s study of its history, 153 Blackburn Lake Primary School, 203 Blake, William, The Tyger (poem), 55 Blow, Reg, Visier’s Aboriginal friend, 218 Borghain, H & P, Scrolls of Strife: Endless History of the Nagas, 136 Box Hill Town Hall, 218 Boyle, Leonie, City of Whitehorse Multicultural Officer, 217–218 Bravo, out-placement service, 261 British Army 2nd Division, 18 Battle of Waterloo, 18 D Day, 18 enrolment of Naga men for labour corps, 15 smashed by Japanese Imperial Forces, 18 British Empire, 32 British Indian Army, 84 British Mission, investigation transition to Indian independence, 19 British National Army Museum, conducted a poll, 18 British Overseas Volunteers Service, 94 British Raj see India – British Rule Broome, Richard, vi chauffeured Visier to La Trobe University, 198, 258 retirement, 258 Brown, Jean and Mike, donation, 200 Buchman, Frank, Dr an American Lutheran Minister, 111 created Moral Rearmament, 110 formed the Oxford Group, 111 Burma also known as Myanmar after 1989, 8 army, 61 atrocities, 229 under British Rule, 12

– 29 8 –

I N DE X Karen, 61 Naga National Council, 228 Thangnokniu tribe, 224 its traditions, 232–234 Burmese Government altered boundaries of the Naga area, 238 created an annual Naga Festival, 238 responsible for administering the Eastern Naga, 238 Bushidokan (gym), 272 Camilleri, Joe, 199 Caritas, 120 Chaliha, B P, as a mediator, 177 Channer, Richard, 242 Chase, Jakieno (Visier’s sister) (neé Sanyü), 36, 59 advocated the importance of education to Visier, 69 death from dysentery, 155–156 education, 77–78 failed matriculation, 78 given a Christian burial and wrapped in a Naga shawl, 156 known as Kejayiekieno, 37 lived with sister, restarted school in Kohima, 71 marriage proposals, 78 Chase, Kolezo, 113, 133, 279 became Principal of Petkai Christian College, 136 family feud, 134 fervent nationalist, 135 had seen ‘Anything to Declare,’ 135 member of the Gwizantsu clan, 135 met the leader of the Sumi breakaway group, 136 rejects revenge, 135–136 shared a house with Visier, 135 shocked at the death of his cousins, 135 studied history, 136 Chase, Tsolie, (Jakieno’s husband), headmaster of the village school, 78–79 Chasie, Charles, best man Viser’s wedding, 174

Chen, Wilson, 204 Christianity, introduced in Nagaland, 14 City of Boroondara, 257 City of Whitehorse, 217 Collins Street Baptist Church, x Colonialism, 14–15, 22–23, 112, 146–147, 157, 164 Cooke, Hope, Queen, 128 Copeland, Ian, 200 Costello, Tim, 261, 263 as Chief Advocate of World Vision Australia, ix Foreword, ix Hope, xi as President of the Baptist Union of Australia, ix Dalai Lama, 223 Damant, G H, a political officer of the Naga Hills, 12 Darjeeling Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, 114 geography, 114 its colleges are connected to the University of Bengal, 114 known for its black tea, 114 noted for its educational institutions, 114 de Kretser, David, Governor of Victoria, 218 de Renzy, Annersley, surgeon with the British Army, 242 Deleri, Essan, Growing Up in Conflict, 221 Devi, Bebu, Royal Highness, closed Naga week festivities, 188 Dhar, Maloy Krishnar, Open Secrets: India’s Intelligence Unveiled, 128, 134 Dolie, Asti, 228 Donnan, Margaret (Richard Broome’s wife), assisted Visier with an outplacement service, 261 Dorjee, Karma, 127 Duncan, David (Pari’s father) a bureaucrat in the Naga Hills, 173 death of, 174

– 29 9 –

A N AG A ODY S S E Y Duncan, S J (Pari’s grandfather), served in Nagaland as an administrator, 170 Duncan, Thanchumi (Pari’s mother), 172 Dundas, Roger and Stephanie, 198 Duolo, Neichute, 285 donation of land, 236 Social Entrepreneur of the Year 2016, 185 started a work program to instil dignity, 184 won awards for leadership, 185 East India, xi East Pakistan, renamed Bangladesh, 118 Eastern Naga assisted the Naga Army, account, 227 based in Burma, 227 contact with Western Naga, 227 factionalism, 238 promise to make Visier a chief, 229–30 recognition of, 246 threats to, 236–239 traditions, killing of pigs and chickens, 228 Visier’s journeys to, 228–229, 232–235 Elwin, Verrier, Nagaland, 21 Feast of Merit see Nagaland – rituals/ festivals First Nations, the Chiefs of the Treaty Seven, 142 First World War, 15, 194 Forest Hill Secondary School, 203 fratricide, 183, 190, 193, 200, 239 Free Naga Government, submitted a report to the United Nations, 24 From Darkness into Light, Baptist Church publication, 77 Fujita, Yukihisa, 141 Gandhi, Indira declared a National Emergency, 178 Prime Minister of India, 142

Gandhi, Mahatma, 18, 105 assassination, 20 attendance at the Naga National Council, 20 heard the Naga declare they were not part of the British Empire, 105 Gandhi, Rajmohan apology to the villagers of Khonoma, 112 Foreword, vii grandson of Mahatma Gandhi, 105 a tall man, attended a delegation, 105 travelled with Song of Asia, 132 Gogoi, Mr, Assamese journalist, 110 Government of India Act, 16 Great Himalayan Range, 8 Hangloo, Rattan Lal, Dr a Brahmin, 163 completed his PhD at the Jawaharlal Nehru University, 162 a Marxist historian, 163 meeting with Visier, and mentor, 162–163 Vice-Chancellor of Alahabad University, 245 Visier’s PhD mentor, 245 Haralu, Dr first Naga doctor, 58 a pacifist, 58 refused to get involved in Naga politics, 58 Healing Garden, xi, 276–277 Healing Trail, 216, 221 account, 214–215 aims, 214 Hemi, Shapwon account, 230 attacked by a bear, 230 leader of the Naga National Council in Burma, 228 Hicks, Dorothy, helped Visier and his family, 198 Himalayan Kingdom of Sikkim, incorporated into the Indian Empire, 22

– 300 –

I N DE X Himalayan Mountain Institute, 127 Hooghly River, 89 Howrah Bridge, 89 Huata, Te Rangi, taught Maori songs and dances, 130 Hunter, Ruby, 254 hunting, 52 Hutton, John Henry The Angami Nagas, 158 became Deputy Commissioner of the Assam region, 158 description of Naga, 158 Director of Ethnography, 158 an Englishman, joined the Indian Civil Service, 157 as an ethnographer, 165 sent to Naga Hills, 157 HV McKay Massey Harris Pty Ltd, 194 Hydari, Abar, last Governor of Assam, 19 Identity, 15, 146–148, 162, 172, 186, 242, 245, 247–250, 269 Imkongliba, Dr murder of, 124–125 President of the Naga People’s Convention, 81 Imkongliba, Imi (Visier’s friend), 125 India – British Rule, 11 appointed a dobashi (a village interpreter), 31 British Raj, 12, 16 collapse of, 225 memorandum presented to a British Mission, 19 merging into Hindu India and Muslim Pakistan, 20 processes to wind up British rule, 20 striving for Independence, 17, 19 India – castes Adivasi, 100 Brahmins, 100 Harijans (untouchables), 98 meaning, 100 India – politics formed a State of India, 22 Hindu Rule, 20

a state of emergency, 142 India – States Arunachal Pradesh, 8, 82 Assam, 8, 82 under British Rule, 11–12 its province, 19 police, 23 Shillong, capital city of, 20, 104 see also Shillong, Bihar, 88 Manipur, 82 under British Rule, 12 Meghalaya, 152 Shillong, capital city of, 104 Mizoram, 152 Nagaland see Nagaland, 82, 152 Odisha, Bhubaneswar, capital city of, 84, 89 West Bengal, 88 India – tribes Khasi, 107 Mikir, 107 Indian Army, 1, 25 2nd Division, 18 attacks on Naga forces, 177 burning Khonoma village, 48 caused terror on Naga villages, 6 cycle of violence, 181 ordered villagers to construct roads, 67 protected by the Armed Forces Special Powers Act, 182 Sikh Regiment, 7 Indian Government, 7, 81 its Constitution, 178 Clause 37A, 81 its Secret Service, 240 Indian Intelligence Service, 134, 177 dealt with Naga government officials, 181 Indian National Congress, President, 19 Indian occupation and statehood, 177 Indian Penal Code, Section 44, 188 Indian-Bangladesh war, 212 Initiatives of Change, 269 also known as Moral Rearmament, ix Armagh – Melbourne, 190

– 3 01 –

A N AG A ODY S S E Y Asia Plateau, 110–111 Asia-Pacific Youth Conference, 255 based in Caux, Switzerland, vi its centre, 130 offer of free board to Sanyü family, 194 production of a musical, 109 Iralu, Kaka D, The Naga Saga, 26, 82 Iralu, Niketu, 80th birthday celebrations, account, 281–282 advice to Kolezo, 135 attended a delegation, 105 outlined his strategy for the future, 242 Iralu, Tuno, 105 Japanese Imperial Forces, 18 Jawaharlal Nehru University, Delhi, 152 Jeffries, Robin, 200 Jogo, Somere, PNG friend, 138 Kaita, Michael became a lecturer at the University of Nagaland, 237 became the first Naga law graduate from Burma, 237 led the Naga Students Union in Rangoon, 237 Naga orphan, 237 Kaito, General, a Sumi leader, formed the Revolutionary Government of Nagaland, 134 Kautilya, Arthasbastra, about bribery, 134 Khels Merhüma, 15, 47, 134 Semoma, 47 Thevoma joined the Village Guard, 47 supported autonomy in India, 47 Keviselie see Mathisen, Hans Ragnar Kevichüsa, Khrielie, composed spiritual and patriotic songs, 187 Kevichusa, Mr, first Naga University graduate, 81 Khangsarpa, Eliza Maria, 128

Khangsarpa, Kazi Lhendup Dorji, prodemocracy leader, 128 Khaplang, S S formed his own faction, 239 known as NSCN-IM, 239 a Naga from Burma, 239 Khasi, indigenous people of Shillong, 154 Khatetsu clan, descended from Meyase, 33 Khatri, Suresh and Leena, 140 Khiangte, Andrew educated in Australia, 153 father was an ambassador, 153 Khiem, Tran Thien (General), Prime Minister of the Republic of Vietnam, 132 Khonoma, Nagaland Baptist Church Centenary, 184 battle, description, 12–13 British force clashed with Angami warriors, 12 burnt by Indian Army, 48 celebrated a traditional sacred day, rituals, 241 description, 74 Indian garrisons, 26 its capture by the British, 13–14 its village, vii, 1 Khonoma Rüffüno, 243 villagers deserting, 48 Khonoma, Nagaland – people formed Beacon of Hope, 185 forming a committee, 184 Khonoma leaders, responsible for healing, 240 Khonoma Peace Commission, 247 academic article, 245 Khonoma Public Commission account, 243 feasting traditions, 243 Khriekrulie (Visier’s paternal grandfather, 30–31 became a kombura, 31 Kilonser, Ato, Prime Minister of the Federal Government of Nagaland, 136 King of Manipur, 188

– 302 –

I N DE X King of Nepal, 116 Kire, David, 103 a banker and a business man, 92 a gentleman, 92 a scholarship holder, 88 travelled first class to school with his father, 88 Visier’s friend, 88 Kire, Joshua, 88 Kohima battles of Imphal, 242 Consultative Meet, 245 Konrad, Connie, 140 La Trobe University, vi, 189 offer of a room and research facilities for Visier, 194 Lala, Rusi, attended Asia Plateau, 112 Lancaster, Bente (neé Sigmund) a Norwegian opera singer, 130 taught proper breathing and stage presence, 130 Laure, Irene became a member of the French Parliament, 109 her son tortured by the Gestapo, 109 a member of the French Resistance, 109 promoted good relations between France and Germany, 110 Lawlor, Cynthia, 273 Lawlor, Ron, 140, 273 Leclaire, Gerald, a Canadian Jesuit Priest, 114 letter writing, 96–97 Lhousa, Zapuvisie Angami elder, 134 Strange Country: My Experience in Naga Nationalism, 16 Lhulevo (Visier’s maternal grandfather) became a Man of Merit, 29 death, 29 performed Feast of Merit five times, 28 a warrior, 30, 243 Lincoln, Abraham, Gettysburg Address, 95

Liu, Kong King, 127 London Gazette, 13 Lotha. Abraham, The Hornbill Spirit: Nagas Living their Nationalism, 16 Lowy, Frank, originally a refugee, 218 McKay, Cecil donated Armagh as a study centre for peace, 194 fourth son of Hugh McKay, 194 MacRobertson Girls’ High School, 204 Maharajah of Manipur, 22 Manne, Robert, 199–200 Mao, James, Dozo’s administrative assistant, 106 Maoris, controlled tourism, 237 Mathisen, Hans Ragnar (Keviselie), 143, 269 account of time in Nagaland, 145 adopted by Visier’s family, 144 angry at treatment of indigenous peoples, 148 became a teacher, 146 birth in Narvik, 145 contracted TB, 146 fascinated by Asian culture, 141 fascinated with Nagaland, 141–142 fostered by a nurse, 146 given a special permit to visit Nagaland, 142 known as Keviselie, uses this name for his art, 144 naming day, 144 organised World Council of Indigenous People Conference in Tromsø, Norway, 145 presented with a spear in a welcome ceremony, 143 from Samiland, Norway, 141 travelled with Song of Asia, 141 visit to Shillong with Visier, 142 Melbourne College of Divinity, Whitley Baptist College, 205 Melbourne High School, 204 Menon, V K Krishna founder of the Sainik Schools, 91 Minister for Defence, 84

– 303 –

A N AG A ODY S S E Y responsible for setting up Sainik Military School, 84 Meru, Viu, attended Visier’s wedding, 173 Methaneilie, wrote humorous songs about social change, 187 Meyasetsu clan, vi descended from Khate, 33 one of three in Merhüma khel, 4 settled in Terhotsiese, 65 Mezella, Kavisha, 218 Military schools see Sainik Schools Mills, J P, as an ethnographer, Deputy Commissioner of the Naga Hills District, 165 Miuvah, Thuingaleng, 180 escaped to China, 178 National Naga Council Secretary, 178 a Tanghul, 239 Mizo family, neighbours of Sanyü family, vii Modi, Narendra (Prime Minister of India), announcement of a Peace Accord, 283 Monash University Centre for South East Asian Studies, 222 Monash Asia Institute, 221 morung, 1 Mother Theresa, 136 Mount Saramati, 8 Mowu, General, a famous Naga soldier, 114 Myanmar see Burma Naga blog, 250 Consultative Meet, 245 origin of, 9 meaning of word, 209 Solidarity Park, 187–188 Naga Army, 48 attack on Indian garrison at Kohima, 47 camp at Khukhwi, 67 disintegration, 247

Khaplang faction, 280 Naga battles with Assam and Manipur 9, 11 with the British, 12–14, 176 with Indians, 24–26, 176–177 with Japanese, 14 with other Naga, 11 Naga Club, 15 aspired to independence, 246 drafting of a memorandum, 16 Naga Hills, 18, 165, 228 description, 8 Naga history drafting of a memorandum, 16–17 placed in a Reformed Scheme of Government with the Assamese, 17 Naga Independence Day, killing of a pig, 143 Naga leadership, 250 Naga marriages account, marriage blessing, 33–35 kethamia (girls with long hair), 32 women marry in late teens, 27 women shaving their heads as a symbol of their virginity and before their marriage, 32 Naga National Council 16 Point Agreement, 81 attack on Indian Army, 25–26 called Non-Accordist, 179 disagreements, 238 General Secretary, 21 issued a statement of sovereignty, 20 its ideology, 4–5 led to the Naga independence movement, 81 meeting at Wokha, 19 meeting with Mahatma Gandhi, 20 proposed a ten-year Guardian Power agreement, 19–20 splits, 25, 179, 240 useful for welfare and social reforms of the Naga people, 19 A Z Phizo became President, 22 Naga National Movement, splits, 134 Naga people, xi, 18

– 304 –

I N DE X act as mediators, 81 under British Rule, 15 formed the Naga People’s Convention, 81 hunting for food in the jungle, 51–52 incorporated into the Province of Assam, 17 nationhood, 248 peyumia (elders) appointed as gaonburra (official village chiefs), 31 resisted British rule, 31 signs of resilience, 184 statehood, 82 suffered similar colonial problems to Americans, Australasia and the Asia-Pacific region, 146 their identity, 247 Tsu (grandchildren), 33 Zemi, a film, 230–231 Naga People’s Convention, sought to negotiate peace, 124 Naga Peoples Movement for Human Rights, formation, 186 Naga politics constitution approved, 24 fears that eating of beef might be banned under Hindu Indian rule, 21 Naga Federal Government formed, 25 proposed incorporation with Assam, 19 Naga rituals/festivals banned by missionaries, 14 burial rites with a Naga shawl, 140 Chadanyi (festival), 43 chants, 278 clothes, description, 44 courtship, known as thenube, 42 erection of monoliths, 244 Feast of Merit cloaks, xi description, 28–29 Melbourne Restaurant, xi opposed due to Christianity, 14 festivals, Visier’s attendance, 74

funeral and burial rites, 30 funerals, Visier’s attendance, 74 hunting, banning of guns, 75 kenyü, 42 kinship marriages, Christian marriages introduced, 14 morung, 4, 44 banned due to arrival of Christianity, 14 Sekrenyi – Festival of War, 1–4, 26, 43–44, 55, 287 Terhünyi, 43 Thekranyi – rice planting and harvest festival, 43 Thenuhe – courting ritual, 32–34, 42 Uthiu – song, 43 weddings, Visier’s attendance, 74 Naga society, violence issues, 176 Naga students involved in student politics, 154 more politically conscious, 154 into Western trends, 125 Naga Students Federation, 179 formation, 186 hosted a seminar, 241 Naga Students Union attendance by the Chief Minister of Meghalaya, 154 it lobbied powerful politicians, 154 supported independence from India, 124 a training ground for future political careers, 154 Visier elected president, 154 Naga tourism, Naga artefacts, 237 Naga traditions, song-making, 187 Naga villages marked by stone plinths, 225 Terhotsiese (the place of Spirit Stone), 65 a shop was established, 67 Naga Week replaced by a Hornbill Festival, operated out of Kisama, 189 stone plinth erected, 187 Nagaland, xi–xii

– 305 –

A N AG A ODY S S E Y activities, games, 42 became 16th state of India, 80 became part of the British Raj, 32 British invasion, 4 climate, 9, 41 Federal Government, 134 food, growing and harvesting of crops, 40 formation of Revolutionary Government, 177 fratricidal violence, 230 geography, 8–9 independence declared in 1947, 5 its languages, 11 its people, 9 jungles, ix life, 49 as a landlocked place, ix languages Nagamese, 11, 73, 201 Tenyidie, 73, 187, 288 map, 10m, 226m Miss Nagaland Beauty Pageant, 185 moves for independence, 16–21 nationalism, 15 nationhood, 247–250 peace process (article by Visier), 222 Sagaing Division, 238 social problems, 283 Visier’s study of its history, 153, 163 work, labour divided into men and women’s tasks, 38 Nagaland – animals, 49 Chükkeu – god of wild animals, 49 mithun – a buffalo-like beast, 9, 29, 34–56, 230, 233–235 Nagaland – birds Amur falcons, 9, 286 birdlife, account, 52 Blyth’s Tragopan (state bird), 9, 49 Great Indian Hornbills, 9 Nagaland – cities Dimapur, 9 Ghaspani, known as Medziphema, 65 Kohima, 9 capital of Nagaland, 65

description, 74 shops run by Indian traders, 74 Nagaland – politics kambura, 6 Revolutionary Government, met with Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, 177 Nagaland – religion arrival of Baptists, 36 Christianity introduced by missionaries, 14 Christians stealing food, 53 introduction of mission schools, 14 Nagaland – schools, 71 Aunty Rano, became a member of the Indian Parliament, representing Nagaland, 72 education of boys, 62 English-based education, 73 had a chapel built by Americans, 70 introduction of mission schools, 14 lessons taught in English, 73 Nagaland languages were banned, 73 post-independence, Indian traditions not Naga were taught, 73 run by Christian missionaries, 70 run by Christian teachers, 72 Nagara Foundation, 274 Namgyal, Chogyal Palden Thondup, King, 128 NaRa Foundation of Australia, its meaning, 236 Narayan, J P, as a mediator, 177 Nation, J L (Brigadier General) led British force, 13–14 wrote a report in the London Gazette, 13 National Council of Churches in Australia, 216, 219, 259 see also Act for Peace account and history, 211 known as Act for Peace, 211 National Overseas Qualifications Unit, 257–258 Nationalist Socialist Council of Nagaland, 280

– 306 –

I N DE X Nationalist Socialist Council of Nagalim, 239 assassination of General Povezo, 181 disagreements, 238 formed by a China-based group, 179 led by Tangkhuls, 181 Naxalites, a group of Maoist Marxists, 117 NCSN-IM, accusation, 239 Nehru, Pandit Jawaharlal President of the Indian National Congress, 19 Prime Minister of India opened a campus of Bhubaneswar Sainik School, 90 visit to Kohima, 23 Nepal, Visier’s study of its history, 153 Nettleton, Nathan, Pastor, showed great compassion to Visier and his family, 197 Nhanumia definition, 48, 289 and food, 49, 53 planting of vegetables, 53 view of the world, 61–63 Nichols, Stanley, 170 his father from the Khasi tribe, became a member of the Indian Parliament, 155 lived in a home called ‘Whispering Pines,’ 155 studied in America, 155 Nichols-Roy, Helen, 155, 170 Nidelhu (Visier’s cousin), 127 attended Visier’s wedding, 174 Ningthouren, Okendrajit Pareihambas, King of Manipur, attended Naga week festivities, gave blessing, 188 North East History Association journals, 165 North East India, Visier’s study of its history, 153 North-Eastern Hills University campuses of Nagaland, Mizoram and Meghalya, to become independent, 167

Department of Archaeology and History, account of and corruption issues, 169–170 its aims, 152 journals, 165 lecturers came from Jawaharlal Nehru University, Delhi, 152 Nagaland campus, 160 Nossal, Gustav, originally a refugee, 218 Ooi, Charles, having breakfast with the King and Queen of Romania, 139 Oppitz, Michael, Emeritus Professor of Anthropology at the University of Zurich, Naga Identities: Changing Local Cultures in the Northeast of India, 229 Overseas Naga Association, vi formation, 245 Pakistan – politics, Muslim Rule, 20 Papua New Guinea, gained independence from Australia, 138 Patnaik, Shri Biju Chief Minister of Odisha, 90 Patnaik, Captain obtained knowledge of Nagaland and Naga War, 97 taught Visier geography, 97 Pelhu (Khonoma warrior) developed a friendship with the British, 14 made a peace agreement with the British, 30–31 Phizo, Angami Zapu, 5 became President of Naga National Council, announced a pan-Naga plebiscite, 22–23 death in exile in London, vii death of, 240 established Free Naga Government, 6 falling out with Sakhrie, 5 led Free Naga Government, 23 sought independence through violence, 5 supported the Japanese during the Second World War, 5

– 307 –

A N AG A ODY S S E Y took photos of Khonoma village, 26 Phouma, Souvanna, Prince, feud with half-brother, a Laos centralist leader, 131 Pimomo, Paul, a Professor at Central Washington University, 245 Porteous, Alan, 276 Povezo, General assassination, 181 member of the Chakhesang tribe, 181 Pradhan, Keshar Kumar, 127 Prasad, Rajendra first President of the Republic of India, visit to Shillong – Assam capital, 20 Prince of Sikkim, 116 Prichard, Alistair, Rev., became organiser of Healing Trail, 215–216 Pritchard, Gail, Rev., became organiser of Healing Trail, 215–216 Putsure, Norman, Secretary of the Government of Nagaland, 103 Racism, 202, 252 Rao, Ravi, attended Asia Plateau, 112 Raper, Mark, Father, 217 Rastriya Indian Military College, responsible for training students for the Indian Armed Forces, 84 Red Cross, 120 Refugee Ambassadors, 214 training of, 220 Refugee Council of Australia, 219 Visier attended meetings, 213 Refugee Festival, 214 account, 216–217 a commumity based event, 217 invitation to prominent members of the Melbourne Community, 218 publicity, 219 suspension of, 219 Visier organised a seminar for Refugee and Migrant Sunday, 217 refugees, 211 boat people, 263 issues of resettlement, 214 issues of trauma, 214, 263

Refugee Week, 216 Rege, Colonel, attended Asia Plateau, 112 Reid, Robert, Deputy Commissioner of the Naga Hills District, 17 Rengsi, Vanlalruata, became a professor of History at North Eastern Hills University, 153 Rio, Neiphiu, 245 Roach, Archie, 254 Rooke, Mandy, Richard Broome’s transcriber, 259 Royal Historical Society of Victoria, vi Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology, 255 Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, England, 84 Rudd, Kevin (Prime Minister of Australia), his apology to the Stolen Generations, 254 ruso, rice ration, 66 Sacred Heart Boys’ School, Shillong, Visier had to take complete care of himself, 107 Sailo, Rina, 141 Sailo, Thansiami, 171 Sainik Military School see also Bhubaneswar Sainik School created, 84 derived from the Hindi word for soldier, 84 inspired by Rashtriya Indian Military College during British Raj, 84 location, 84 Sainik Schools, 83, 90–91 adopted similar standards to English public system, 84 advocated an entrance exam, 85 cadets assigned to houses (for boarding), 85 enrolments, 90 entrance examination, elements of corruption, 91 funded by state governments, 84 objectives, 85

– 308 –

I N DE X sporting facilities, 85 website, 84 Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, 217 Sakhrie, Theyiechüthie, 5 50th anniversary of his death, 244 death of, vii falling out with Phizo, 5 General Secretary of the Naga General Council, 5, 21 murder of, 6, 25, 46, 239 sought an independent Naga destiny, 5 Sami people, suffered similar colonial problems to Americans, Australasia and the Asia-Pacific region, 146 Sanyü, Dozo (Visier’s brother), 38, 99 advocated Visier’s return to school, 106 contracting business, 71 converts to Christianity, 76 death of, 225 educated to Grade 10, 69 invents the term high to do, 69 joined the Naga Army, 56 forced to flee a firefight with Indian Army, 80 lived with sister, 71 a town councillor in Kohima, 106 Sanyü, family, 260 adjusting to life in Australia, account, 257–258 arrival in Australia, 192 photograph of children, 193 Sanyü, Jakieno see Chase, Jakieno (Visier’s sister) Sanyü, Kevisato (Visier’s son), 61, 193 account of life in Australia, fitting into Australian society, 265–266 birth, 175 desire to live in Nagaland, 267 education, 203 employment, 255 feels part of a global village, 268 his identity as indigenous, 267 organising conferences, 255 running Life Matters course at Armagh, 255

school friends, went to Melbourne High School, 204 studies, 255–256 Sanyü, Megosiezo (Visier’s son) see also Sanyü, Siezo Sanyü, Niditono (Visier’s mother), 1, 28 death of, 161 her illiteracy, 28 marriage, 33–34 member of Khatetsu clan, 29–30 a member of the Khatetsu clan, 33 an only child, 29 pregnancy foretold, 27 shaved her head before her marriage, 32 Sanyü, Nigweno (Visier’s sister) as kethamia, 38 her house in Kohima description, 71–72 meals, 72 leaves jungle, 57 remains illiterate, 97 wine shop in Kohima, 71–72 Sanyü, Niyiehu (Visier’s brother), 4, 35, 204 educated to Grade 6, 71 hunting skills, 57, 104 marriage, 134 traditionalist, 4, 146 Sanyü, Pari (Visier’s wife) neé Duncan, vii, ix completed a Master’s Degree in Social Work, 170 employment, 257 employment with Camcare, 257 first encounter, 170 founded the NaRa Foundation in Australia, 236 getting social work qualifications recognized, 257 grandfather was Scottish, 172 health issues, 190, 192 her duties at Armagh, 195 her father studied in America, 170 her heritage is Mizo-Khasi, 172 lived in ‘Pheridale’ in Upper Shillong, 170

– 309 –

A N AG A ODY S S E Y with Niketu Iralu, 204 Sanyü, Perhicha (Visier’s brother), 38, 99 accompanies Visier to military school, 83, 87–90 brain tumour, 121 carries Visier to safety, 48 contracting business, 71 converts to Christianity, 76 hotel owner, 89 joined the Naga Army, 56 imprisoned by Indian Army, 80 lived with sister, 71 living in Kohima, 36 makes Visier pants, 46 schooling, 45, 69 toast at Visier’s wedding, 174 urges Visier to attend military school, 83 with Visier and Dozo, 99 weeps on parting with Visier, 129 Sanyü, Phono (Visier’s sister), 36, 279 illness in jungle, 56–57 remains illiterate, 71 spoiling Visier, 280 with Visier, 279 Sanyü, Siezo (Visier’s son) on being Australian with a Naga heritage, 273 birth, 175 education, 203, 256–257, 272–273 eye injury, 190, 271 surgery, 192 love of martial arts, 272–273 study of horticulture, 257 working as a gardener at Armagh, 273 Sanyü, Theyievizo (Visier’s father), 1–2, 27, 28 badly beaten up, 6 childhood, 35 death of, 174 established a shop in Terhotsiese, 67 kambura man (a village chief), 6, 37, 79–80 marriage, 33–34 member of the Meyasetsu clan, 33

stored money in a match case for shop takings, 68 supporter of the Naga National Council, 82 valued education, 83 wedding of, 33-34 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu, vi, vii, ix, 66, 118, 180, 231, facing page about to leave India, 129 admiration of Rajmohan Gandhi, 148 ancestry, 224 appointed headmaster at refugee camp, 118 arrival in Kohima, 279 attracted to a Nepali nun Sister Theresa, 119 became cross-cultural, 73 being separated from his home, 48 building a hostel for the Eastern Naga in Kohima, 274 calling his parents by the same name (apfü), 35 concerned that Baptist evangelicals preached the wrong attitude to Naga traditions, 77 creation of a Healing Garden, 274 death of Dozo, 225 death of mother, 161 death of nephew Avitso, 284 decision to move back to Khonoma, 265 did not join Indian Army, 83 did not join Naga Army, 83 disembowelling a chicken, 1–2 experience of violence for eight years, 183 family escaped from jungle in 1958, 61 family forced to flee due to invasion by Indian Army, 46 family photographs, 183, 260 family support of Naga National Council, 189 founded the NaRa Foundation in Australia, 236 gave a Naga girl refuge, 227

– 310 –

I N DE X his concerns about fratricide in Nagaland, 239 his concerns for a new Naga way of thinking, 246 his family settled in Terhotsiese, 65 his friendship with Archie Roach and Ruby Hunter, 254 his friendship with Reg and Walda Blow, 254 in his Healing Garden, 285 his Healing Garden, description, 286 his home, description, 38 his thoughts of Khonoma, 225 impacted by Bangladesh Liberation War, worked in a refugee camp, 118 inspired by the message of Anything to Declare, 110 installed as a chief in Burma, 224 and its ceremony, 234–235 interactions with indigenous people, 164 learning about the caste system, 98 likened to Bruce Lee, 115 meeting with Richard Channer, 242 move to Blackburn, 201 Neidonuo President of the Naga Mothers Association, 179 nightmares about time in the jungle, 105 offers of money, 196 preparations to leave for Australia, 189–190 return to Thangnokniu, 230–2232 with sister, Phono, 279 speech during the International Year of Indigenous People, 231 submitted a report United Nations Human Rights Commission, 229 suffering culture shock in Australia, 195 taught to remember names of camp sites, 50 thoughts about peace making and future of the Naga, 250 torn between two cultures, 76

as a traveller, 152 travels with eldest son to Khonoma, 244 upset by violence and trauma in Nagaland, 189 views on Naga nationhood, 247–251 visit to Chinkui, 227–228 visiting Phizo, 164 worked as a child for Indian Army, 67 worked with Pastor Shimray of the Tangkhul tribe, 179 worried about his refugee status, 200 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – academia academic article about the Khonoma Peace Commission, 245 acquiring a visa, 193 appearance before the Academic Council, 167 application to La Trobe University, 189 applied for a lectureship at Kohima College, 158 applied for a PhD scholarship from the University Grants Commission, 162 applied to be Head of Department of Archaeology and History, 168 appointed to part-time fellowship, 221 appointment of staff, 169 approached Monash Asia Institute, 221 attendance at a conference at J Nehru University, 246 attended lectures and seminars, 199 attitudes towards Naga students, 154 awarded a PhD, 167 became Head of Department of History and Archaeology, 175 confronted by technology, 198 enrolled in masters of Arts at NorthEastern Hills University, 152 found many co-students were passive learners, 153 had to face being different, 152

– 311 –

A N AG A ODY S S E Y his introductory lecture, 159 his questioning nature, 153 his study of Theology, account, 205–206 his thesis questioned colonialism between the Angami and British, 157 impressed by Marxist ideas about colonialism, 154 interviewed by the University Grants Commission, 158 invited to do a PhD, 161 leaving Australia, 175 lectured in European and Indian History, account, 159–160 MA thesis focussed on the Angami tribe, 157 meeting with Rev. Malcolm Mackay, 205 met many academics, 199–200 now as a strong Christian, 153 objections to teaching Ancient Indian History, 167 PhD problems, 162 PhD topic, 163 a project on Naga history, 221 published papers, 165 with Rajmohan Gandhi and the Dali Lama, 168 Research Scholars Union, 166 return to study, 204 returned to North Eastern Hills University, 162 stayed with Stanley Nichols, 155 stayed with Stanley Nichols and his family, 162 studied history, 153 submitted PhD thesis, 166 took leave, 162 transferred to North Eastern Hills University, 167 used archaeology, 153 worked from primary sources, 157 wrote article about Nagaland – the peace process, 222 wrote essays on Naga history, 153 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – ancestry

belongs to the Angami tribe, 15, 31, 37 Elder of the Meyasetsu clan of the Angami tribe, vi his khel is Merhuma, 15 member of the Meyasetsu clan, 15 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – author discussions with Richard about book, 258–259 A History of Nagas and Nagaland: Dynamics of Oral Traditions in Village Formation, 199 meeting with Richard Broome, 258 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – childhood on becoming a man, 1–2 birth in Khonoma village, 22, 28 his parents were illiterate, 96 his sister Jakieno treated him like a toy, 37 performing the sekre, 1 siblings, 27, 36, 71–72 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – education, 107, 115 see also Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – primary education; Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – secondary education; Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – tertiary education his sister Jakieno advocated the importance of education, 69 rejected for a select school at Shillong, 106 studied history, 122 traumatised by riots, 104 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – employment inaugural Head of the Department of History and Archaeology at the University of Nagaland, vi paid work in Australia, 200 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – ill health developed an ulcer, 128 developed beri beri and malaria, 58 possible depression, 203 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – linguist learnt Bengali, 119 learnt English, 73 spoke a local village dialect, 73 spoke Tenyidie and Nagamese, 73

– 31 2 –

I N DE X Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – marriage, 167 birth of children, 175 with Pari, 173 wedding day, 173 wedding feast at ‘Pheridale,’ 174 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – organisations addressed forums at the United Nations, vi Board Member of the Melbourne Interfaith Centre, vi current President of the Overseas Naga Association, vi Elder of Initiatives of Change, vi President of the Teachers’ Association, 189 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – performer, 133, 143 coached to project and create drama with his voice, 130 having breakfast with the King and Queen of Romania, 139 his journey to Asia Plateau, 130 on leaving Song of Asia, account, 142 links with Kolezo Chase, 133 paid for public speaking, 139 people’s attitudes towards Visier’s origins, 138 public speaking, relating stories about Nagaland, 138 speaking role, 131 spent three years with Song of Asia, 152 stayed with Song of Asia for three years, 141 touring Europe, 137 travelled to North Cape, 145 travelled to other villages of Norway, 145 visited Samiland, Norway, 145 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – primary education, 86 attended a Baptist school at nine years of age, 112 attitudes towards Christians, 45 completed 5th Grade at Kohima Baptist School, 85

cut off pigtail, 69 discovered flush toilets, 89 educated in Kohima by Baptist Angami Naga, 69 exhausted from long train journey, 88 having a school uniform made for him, 46 his preparations for further schooling, account of long journey, 85–88 learnt to read and write in Hindi, 94 living arrangements, 70 oldest child in the school, 70 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – project officer employment with World Vision, 261 his duties at Armagh, 195 his role at World Vision, 262 invited refugees to his home for a meal, 263 leaving World Vision, 263 moving back to Armagh, 264–265 travelled to the UN in Geneva, addressed the Working Group for Indigenous people on Naga issues, 185 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – refugee application for Australian Citizenship, 209 application for protection visa, 200 application to extend visa, 200 arrival in Australia, 192 became an Australian Citizen in 2001, 209 concerns for his children losing their native language, 201 dreams of Nagaland, 224 experience of racism, 252 happy living in Australia, his thoughts on living in other countries, 255 his confidence as both a Naga man and as an Australian, 253 issues of racism, 202 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – refugee worker

– 313 –

A N AG A ODY S S E Y applied for a job with the Commission of the National Council of Churches in Australia, 211 appointed as a Refugee Programs Officer, 220 approach people at the UNHCR, 229 assisted refugees to settle in Australia, 212 conducted Healing Trail two or three times, 214 created Refugee Ambassadors for Act of Peace, 220 created three projects, 213 Healing Trail, 214 his travel to Thailand, 212 redundancy, 259 Refugee Ambassadors, 214 Refugee Festival, 214 speaking engagements, 213 taught English and history to refugee classes, 212 worked with refugees, 212 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – religion attended South Yarra Baptist Church, 197 converted to Christianity, 112 involved with a Baptist congregation in Brunswick, 197 was not baptised until he saw the revue Anything to Declare, 112 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – secondary education accepted into Sacred Heart at Shillong, run by Salesian order, 106 activities, 127 arrival in Darjeeling, 113–114 attended camp at Asia Plateau, 110 became the college’s athletics champion, 123 a boarder at St Joseph’s College, 115 called Bah Jrong – Mr Tall Fellow, 107 continued to reside at St Joseph’s College, 122

elected as Junior Councillor, duties of, 122–123 enrolled in Brahmaputra House, 92 enrolled in Narmada House, 92 entrance examination, 79 excelled in sport, rewarded with a special school blazer, 94 farewell dinner, 86–87 fees covered by Nagaland Government, 122 first in the family to pass matriculation, 113 found lodging with three other Naga, 107 given opportunity to attend an Indian military school, 79 his fears of India and Indians diminished, 94 issued with a school uniform, 69 joined the school band, played saxophone, 94 oldest child in the school, 107 performs Gettysburg Address, 95 referred as number 370, 93 religious instruction, 72 school routine, 93–94 school uniforms, 91 sent home after riot, 102 speech at school assembly, 95 stayed in a very filthy hotel, 88 tallest student in class, 106 target for jokes, 93 Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – tertiary education enjoyment, 127 found English Literature troublesome, 116 graduated with a Bachelor of Theology, vi graduated with a PhD in History, vi passed university entrance exams, 120 preparing for entrance exams for University of North Bengal, 116 sat final university exams, 137 studying for a Masters degree in Naga History, 139

– 314 –

I N DE X Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – yoga benefits of yoga as a healing mechanism, 209 first experienced yoga in India, 208 studied yoga with Father Joseph Pereira, 208 study of Naga yoga, 209 turned to yoga, 207 visited the Moraji Desai Yoga Institute in Delhi, 209 Sanyü, Visopiano (Viser’s daughter), birth, 175 Sanyü, Visopiano (Visier’s daughter) account of her life in Australia, 268 completion of a medical degree, 256 Director of Community Engagement, 256 education, 203, 269 Gap Year, 256 Graduate Student of the Year at University of Melbourne, 256 her love of English literature and Western music, 268 identity issues, 269–270 interested in returning to Nagaland, 271 interested in social justice, 271 selected for Vice-Chancellors Leadership Group, 256 studies, 256 went to MacRobertson Girls’ High School, 204 Sanyü. Perhicha (Visier’s brother), educated to Grade 10, 69 Sanyü Visier Meyasetsu – refugee, leaving Australia, 275 Savino, Megosieso, Rev., President of the Naga Nationalist Organisation, attended a delegation, 105 SBS, 219 Scott, Michael Rev., as a mediator, as a human rights activist, 177 Scottish Referendum (2014), 248 Second World War, 5 battles of Imphal, 18 battles of Kohima, 18 breaking of French and British

Empires in Asia, 18 invasion of the Japanese, 17 postwar reconstruction, 19 responsible for pushing India to independence, 18 Sekhose, Rüzhükhrie, 16 drafting of a memorandum, 16 Shaiza, Rano (Aunty), represented the Naga State in the Indian Parliament, 142 Shaylor, Charles, 102–103 accompanied Naga boys home at end of school year, 96 came to India as part of British Overseas Volunteers Service, 94 empathised with the Naga students, 94 encouraged students to have penpals, 96 gave Visier Gettysburg Address to learn, 95 helped Visier with extra English classes, 95 meet up with Visier in London, 96 Visier’s English teacher, 94 Shepherd, Stan and Aileen, 141 Shillong description, 108 a gem of the British Raj, 108 known as ‘Scotland of the East,’ 109 known for its music, 109 Lady Hydari Park, picnics, 109 peace talks, 178 Presbyterian Church, 173 Shillong Peak, 109 Shillong Plateau, 108 Shillong Accord nature, 178–179 caused friction and splits, 239–240 Shimray, Pastor death of, 181 a member of the Tangkhul, 179 Sikkim ethnic groups, 127 fairytale kingdom of the Himalayas, 127 its people, 127

– 31 5 –

A N AG A ODY S S E Y takeover by India, 127 Visier’s study of its history, 153 Simon, Sir John, commissioner’s report, 16 Singer, Jill, became MC of the Refugee Festival, 218 Singh, D I, assassination, 199 Slim, William (Lt General), responsible for regrouping of British Army, 18 Song of Asia, 128, 130, 212, 276–277 its aims, 140 meeting with Mother Theresa, 136 tour in Laos, 131 tour in South Vietnam, 132 Song Than (Vietnamese newspaper), 132 Souphanouvong, Prince, feud with halfbrother, 131 South Africa, post-apartheid, 250 St Joseph’s College, 113 boarding house rituals, 116 coeducational, 114–115 housed in the former palace of King of Kush Bihar, 114–115 its residents, 116 a Jesuit college, 213 student routines, 123 student politics, 154 Sukhai, Kughato, Prime Minister of the Federal Government, issued an azah (a decree to kill), 134–135 Sumi, a powerful warrior tribe, 134 Sunshine Harvester, 194 Suplee, Reverend, ran Baptist school in Nagaland, 70 Swu, Isak Chisl, 180 known as NSCN-IM, 239 Symons, Red, host of Breakfast Program on ABC 774, publicity for Refugee Week, 219 Tamaki Village (New Zealand), 237 Tanquist, Reverend, ran Baptist school in Nagaland, 70 Telfer, Heather, 198 Templestowe Uniting Church, 236 Tenyidie literature, 187 Thornhill, Alan (playwright), 133

Tibet, Visier’s study of its history, 153 Toorak Primary School, Visier’s children attended there, 196 Treaty of Yandabo, 170 Tubu, Secretary of the Naga National Council, shot dead, 199 Ung, Ken, 231 United Nations, 24, 120 Visier gave address, vi United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR), 229 United Nations Human Rights Commission, 229 United Nations Refugee Convention, 217 United Nations Year of Indigenous People, 188 World Indigenous Day, 186 University of Nagaland, vi corruption issues, 189 University of Nagaland – Departments, Department of History and Archaeology, vi Valkeapää, Nis-Aslaat, Hans Ragnar Mathisen, Ella Hánsa, Keveselie, 145 Van, Father, 119, 122 Velbný, Nukshi member of Beacon of Hope, 185 owner of jewellery store, 185 Vellore Christian Hospital, 121 Vicziany, Marika, Professor, 221 Vientiane, Laos, historic but futile reconciliation, 131 Vietnam War, bomb blasts in Saigon, 132 Vilarhito (Visier’s uncle), 57 Vincent, David Nyuol, The Boy Who Wouldn’t Die, 221 Violence, 176 see also fratricide: Naga Army, Naga battles Visopiano (Lhulevo’s wife), 29 Viu, (Visier’s friend) became a doctor, 75 worked for the World Health Organization, 75

– 316 –

I N DE X Weeks, Alan and Liz, contributed money for Siezo’s medical needs, 198 Wells, H G, A Short History of the World, 159 Wellsford, Margie, showed great compassion to Visier and his family, 197 ‘Whispering Pines,’ 171 Whitehorse Council, agreed to cosponsor Refugee Festival, 218 Whiteside, Mary, 198 Wilderness Society, 255–256 Wood, Rob, 189 Woodroffe, John, The Serpent Power: The Secrets of Tantric and Shaktic Yoga, 209 World Economic Forum, Schwab Foundation, 185 World Foundation for the Safeguard of Indigenous Peoples, formed at Geneva forum, 186 World Health Organization, 75 World Vision Australia, ix account, 262 founding, 261 led by Rev. Tim Costello, 261 ‘Welcome to My Place’, its aims, 261–262 Yallay, Kevi (Phizo’s brother), 178 yoga see also Sanyü, Visier Meyasetsu – yoga Christian yoga, 208 Christians likened this to the occult, 207 Zokunga, Joseph, 141 Zutshi, Commander, Principal of Bhubaneswar Sainik School, 91

– 317 –