N Arhe
One night, in the middle of a deep slumber, residents of the Midland colony, Kohima, were awakened by a rapid sound of gunshots. Even to most of the untrained ears, it sounded familiar, a familiar sound that could be of ambush or retaliation. Our family was one of them. Most of us stayed wide-awake, fearing to go back to sleep. The next morning, neighbours gathered around the neighbourhood shop, recounting the incident. Everyone had his or her version of how many gunshots were fired and how long it lasted. The only consensus was that the gunshots sounded within very close proximity; it almost felt like it would slice open our roofs or the walls. One of our friend's mother, a middle-aged woman then, felt as if the bullets would pierce through their glass window and, at that moment, overcome with fear, she pushed an Almirah, full of clothes, and blocked the window. Alone.
In the morning, when her children asked her how she managed to move such a heavy cabinet without help, she answered being utterly petrified and couldn't remember much. All she could remember was farting uncontrollably as she was pushing the heavy cabinet. It seemed hilarious to us in our juvenile behaviour, and we laughed and joked about it, totally inconsiderate about the physical and mental implications it may have on her. That was the night sometime in the '90s when a lawyer survived an assassination attempt by a team of the paramilitary force. The lawyer lived in a house above Tangkhul Baptist Church, Midland, Kohima, with a side road running in between.
In 1995, Tangkhul Baptist church had a young, dynamite pastor by the name of late. Rev. Karshew. In their pre-teens, his children, especially his eldest daughter, took an active part in Midland youth fellowship (MYF), a conglomeration of young people residing in the area gather every Friday for a worship service. On the fateful afternoon of 4th November that year, we heard the news of Rev. Karshew's murder. One faction suspected him of sheltering the rival group members in the church premises punished him by shooting him dead. The news went around that he was killed while clinging to his bible, begging for mercy. A few men, who looked just like him, pumped bullets into his chest in front of his wife and young children, killing him instantly.
Around the same time that day, Midland youth had gathered for a special event at the colony's Lower primary Government school. When the youth members heard the news, they quickly regrouped and rushed to the slain pastor's house to assist in whatever possible.
On the day of the funeral, elders warned us of an impending danger. There were fears of retributions, and the overall atmosphere at the funeral service was taut. When the vehicles lined up to take the slain pastor's body to his native village in Ukhrul district, Manipur, there was not a dry eye, young and old, men and woman, lost for words, we all stood in silence, with heavy heart and eyes drown in tears. That was the last day we saw the late pastor's young children - they left with their father's coffin, never to return to their home in Midland ever again.
Memories of Kohima during the '90s were full of fear, fear of the known, and fear of the unknown. The paramilitary forces and the underground groups were seen as equally terrifying, ruthless killing machines. Many men and women, including school and college-going children, were traumatized to the point that hearing a car tyre burst would send shock waves across the streets, creating fear and mayhem, giving heartache to women and children.
An atmosphere of a cauldron of hate persisted. Indiscriminate firing would take place often. It could be between the Security forces and the underground groups or between different factions, anywhere, anytime; residential areas, in a restaurant, busy market places or around school premises, showing zero concern for the public. News of finding dead bodies became a daily affair. Soon a pattern emerged, almost everyone who died was male, within a particular age group and died of gunshots.
One of those summers, my mother took my sisters and me for a Goa vacation. Every morning and evening, we would take turns calling up our grandmother, who was home alone with a helper. One morning when my mother called, she found out something was wrong. 'We might have to cut short our vacation and head back to Kohima,' She announced. My grandmother was severely traumatized after a team of armed forces raided our house. They banged the door to wake her up and barged through the house past midnight. They questioned her about the extra-large coats on the hanger and didn't believe her when she told them it belonged to my mother. They intimidated her to tell the truth while rummaging the closet. Terrified, she couldn't bear to put the clothes back into the closet nor walked into the room where the men in uniform had combed through, apparently looking for a suspect, who disappeared around our house. Ever since that incident, my late grandmother feared the sound of heavy boots; she could recognize a gun rubbing on a heavy jacket. She hated boots; all kinds of boots reminded her of that frightful night, and she dreaded when night falls for the longest time. That incident changed something inside her forever.
My late grandmother was a beautiful woman with a delicate frame who stood not more than five feet in height, a woman of conviction, discipline, and deep faith in God. She bore no biological son but adopted and fostered a few. Amongst them was my late uncle T. We were too young to know when he left home, but we began to see less and less of him until there was a period when we didn't see him at all. We came to know much later about him joining a group of the Naga Army.
It was sometime around the mid-'90s when my grandmother got a message about uncle T in Dimapur jail custody. She requested a few family members to accompany her to visit him. Sadly, everyone declined, fearing associated with someone picked up by the armed forces on suspicion. That did not deter my grandmother; she made up her mind to visit uncle T even if she were to go alone. In her words, she was 'shocked beyond words to see he was 'still alive with bruises all over his body. He couldn't even stand up; he was as good as dead'. The Security forces on patrol intercepted uncle T and his friend around the Chathie River at Chumukedima when they were on their way to Dimapur. They took him to the camp for interrogation and brutally tortured him for days, including inflicting electric shocks to sensitive parts of his body.
When the military personnel handed him over to the central jail, Dimapur, uncle T was sure he wouldn't make it. He managed to leave his mother's address with someone to inform her if he died. At the central jail in Dimapur, my grandmother requested to see the officer-in-charge. Incredibly, the guard agreed to take her to meet the jailor. She pleaded with them to transfer him to Kohima. The Jail authorities kindly agreed, and uncle T was moved to Kohima - first to the Naga hospital to treat his wounds and then to Kohima jail, where he served a few years.
His health never recovered from the brutality he faced at the hands of the military personnel. But, his spirit remained intact. Uncle T was a soft-spoken, polite gentleman, always smiling and saying 'I am doing all right 'even when his organs were giving up one after another. He eventually succumbed to multiple organ failures.
A couple of years later, in the late nineties, one cold winter afternoon, my older sister was chatting with a friend in a shop around BOC, Kohima. A young man who works at a local garage dashed into the shop and threw a packet that landed straight at my sister's feet. My sister knew the young man as someone who was into drugs but worked hard to make ends meet. When she picked up the packet, she saw strips of drugs (tablets). Sensing something amiss, she quickly shoved the package into a little girl's boots displayed on the shelf. Seconds later, the young man was dragged by the collar into the shop by someone who didn't look much older than himself, flashing a high tech weapon pointing it to his neck and threatening to shoot him right away if he didn't come clean about being a drug addict and peddling drugs. Another member joined him in frisking the young man who looked visibly shaken, fearing for the worst. Not finding anything on him, the two men looked around the shop and asked them if they saw him bringing in anything.
My sister courageously said, 'No.' They gave him a final warning and left. Engulfed with fear, my sister threw the packet out of the window into the sewerage below. The young man, squatting on the floor, shell-shocked, regained some strength and thanked her profusely for saving his life and left. My sister's presence of mind and quick action saved a troubled young man's life, perhaps, just for another day, because that was the last time she saw him. A few months later, she heard about his death. He died of bullet wounds. His punishment was death; for being a drug addict.
My mother's work in the drug use treatment and recovery field in the '80s and 90's has brought us in touch with many young men and women in those days. Some of them occasionally lived in our home, mainly because of their broken relationship with their respective families due to their drug use behaviour. Among them was a young man called A. He was probably in his early 20's when he went through rehabilitation. After his time at the centre, my mother brought him home to live with us for a couple of weeks. He became a part of our family. We loved him dearly, and he was always grateful and kind. We lost touch after he left our house. A few years later, one early morning, we were told A went missing the night before. His family and friends sent out search teams, but there was no luck in finding him. He was last seen leaving for Dimapur, according to his family. A couple of days after he disappeared, his family came across a news report that caught their attention; an unidentified dead body of a male found a couple of days earlier was buried by the police since no one came forward to claim the remains. The families approach the police station concerned and decided to exhume the body. However, on unearthing, the body was partially decomposed and impossible to identify. It was then my mother, who knew him well, suggested checking his teeth. He had a false tooth that stood out amongst the rest. When they parted his lips, they found his false tooth was intact, and that was how A's body was identified and gave the family a chance to give him a decent burial in his village. Nobody knew what happened to A, how it happened, why it happened. The only clarity was that he died of gunshots. Another case went unsolved; injustices in brutal killings remain unaddressed.
Growing up during the '90s in Kohima was filled with dreadful experiences. There were random checking everywhere and regular accounts of strangers running into private homes, intimidating house owners, demanding money, food and shelter.
In 1994, my late cousin Z was just six years old. One Sunday afternoon, as he was watching TV with his parents, they heard gunshots. Having a private passage to their home, they feel relatively safe even though they live close to the main road. Soon after the gunshots, they heard synchronized footsteps of heavy boots running into their compound. Young Z followed his dad to the verandah to see what was happening. They were shocked to see a team of security forces in queues running in urgency down the steps leading to their house. Seeing a young boy with his parents, the security personnel gave their home a pass and went further down, visibly looking for someone. When young Z entered their sitting room, he found an injured man, soaked in blood and hiding behind a table; that visual haunted Z for years. He was so traumatized even years later, could not pass through the living room without running.
The last fresh memory happened at an uncle's house. They ran a successful business and hence, get letters demanding money frequently and from multiple groups. A jolly fellow, uncle, would call the letters demanding money as 'love letters.' He failed to pay up one time, and a group of men armed with sophisticated firearms landed at their house just before dinner. As the senior commander went inside to talk to uncle, the rest of the boys stood outside, guarding the house, creating unprecedented stress and commotion. I was visiting their home for dinner, but with the confusion and uncertainty created by the uninvited guests, aunty requested me to stay over. The meeting went on for hours and didn't seem to end. Eventually, aunty asked her young daughter and me to go to bed. We stayed alert, almost anticipating hearing gunshots. It was past midnight when we finally heard their footsteps entering their bedroom, she pinched me, and we both sighed in relief and went off to sleep.
Public memory is short, and better days have prevailed since. Those traumatic experiences have left a permanent dent emotionally, psychologically, and even physically to scores of people.
As the curtain draws near to the Naga issue's final solution, everyone will have his or her reflections. Each experience will be different and unique. There is so much pain in our history as several families have lost their loved ones, and many others continue to live with fear. For the sake of those who died and those who live with memories of horror and trauma, we must unite for a peaceful and just solution, where history is remembered and not repeated, where a safe space is created for healing to begin. Without a final political solution, healing and reconciliation cannot be forged. And without reconciliation, there is no future.
