By Janet Moore Hujon
Perhaps the kind of school I went to made me feel that Shillong could be home to diverse groups. Some of us forged friendships with ‘dkhars’ maybe even believing that what blossomed inside the walls of Loreto Convent would take root elsewhere. The events of the last few weeks however prove that this hope can only flower under certain conditions, and all I’m left with is the question ‘Why?’ Why this persistence along a path strewn with bewilderment, heartache and the horror of murder?
This is not the Shillong I know and love. But what became absolutely clear to me when I read about Vikash Nandwal’s death was how closely my personal identity is linked to what Khasis at home do or do not do, and for the first time in my life I have felt ashamed to be Khasi. I know I don’t have to feel this way as I had nothing to do with what recently went on in Shillong. But somewhere deep down in me I must feel that Khasis in general are my extended family whose exploits – good and bad – acutely affect me. My world view dictates that as long as it is possible we do not give up on family, so I have tried to make sense of the present crisis, trawling through time to seek explanations for the present cynicism and hard-heartedness, not to justify or condone but to understand. Maybe what we see now is not mindless hatred for the outsider but the manifestation of a deep hurt from a past when the bitter consequences of privileging English were not foreseen – that past when English was chiselled into an instrument of accession.
Then we unquestioningly accepted the superiority of a foreign language with all its cultural capital. Neglecting our own we embraced English and American writers. It was only when I re-read Soso Tham and when many years ago I had a conversation with a lecturer in Khasi from Sankardev College, that I suddenly awoke to the poetic richness of a Khasi imagination we were never asked to consider. I am not suggesting that one language should be superior to another, nor do I regret studying English which has opened doors to so many other cultures against which I have learnt to understand, assess, and value my own and another’s. But because my education set me adrift from my own cultural shores, I am now unable to creatively grapple with Khasi as I dare with English. And that should never have been allowed to happen. How many others have these regrets, I do not know.
But worse, what haunts me is the bleak recognition that being part of a small group who could use English with reasonable proficiency separated me from those who did not – i.e. the majority. Perhaps in the early days of the hill-state movement a good grasp of English was useful given the necessary negotiations with the Centre, but those were the days when Khasi leaders sought people and not personal power. And our parents’ decision regarding our education was also taken in good faith to equip us with the means to compete on equal terms with the rest of India. Unfortunately English came to be touted as a brand – selling success, opportunity and elitism which we the ‘creamy layer tribals’, (Avner Pariat ‘People in power’ – ST July 2nd 2013) have bought into. This creamy layer were the ones who ‘im standard’ – who lived a life with ‘standards’. Of class? Of style – of the westernised variety? Society came to be divided into the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’ – those who had English and its celebrated baggage, and those who did not. As in the present this particular group came to dominate the fortunes of our state especially in the urban arena.
Though I personally work through these cultural tussles, this backdrop of confusion may explain why ‘To ILP or not to ILP’ is the enraging issue of the day. Initially I supported the rational stand taken by those who expressed opposition. Why would anyone opt for what seems to be a xenophobic, flawed system triggering violence? But Amanda Buhphang’s letter (Nov. 12) ‘…the vernaculars are all pro-ILP’…made me re-think. The proverbial penny dropped and I saw that the past had caught up with us with a vengeance clarifying the current impasse and the deep symbolic significance of Khasi men ripping apart a Tenancy Bill written in English. When Pariat trained his sights on ‘the language of power’, he had already sounded warning bells somewhat muffled by the pathos with which he described the plight of farmers approaching the halls of power for a hearing, and having to leave without understanding and being understood. For a dkhar DC to not be fluent in Khasi is understandable, but for the Syiem of Khyrim to add insult to their injury is a Judas like betrayal we can do without. So, as Pariat points out, who else can the Diengpasoh farmer turn to but to pressure groups who speak his language? For the sake of the beleaguered farmers I hope their faith is not misplaced.
Once upon a time the geographical distance between the farmers and the town was great. This is no longer the case. Shillong is splitting at the seams and the urban sprawl is encroaching upon rural landscapes, (not the reverse), tensions have surfaced and turned ugly. Yes Shillong now needs to expand but do remind yourselves that this unmanageable chaos could have been contained had building checks and regulations been observed. So building on the state’s tourist potential is decidedly ominous if we scrutinise the current attempts at ‘beautification’. A ‘New’ Shillong is too much to hope for. Call me pessimistic but I expect a nightmare as the monster into which our hill station has morphed settles corpulently on “…our blue hued hills, sleepy ancient villages…nestled…sheltered between the tender warm cleavage of mother earth”…(Cloud Burst – Paromita Lahiri). See how a dkhar tenderly views the nurturing qualities of the land raped elsewhere by tribals lusting after profit, prophesying urban-renewal – the latter being just one buzz phrase too many.
What right does someone from the comfort of his or her home in the city have to order the wholesale upheaval of people? Would a city dweller not react in the same way if he was asked to up sticks and move into the countryside? Offering alternative housing in the city is an insulting sop smacking of Chinese government policy whereby Tibetans are relocated in the name of development and starved of what feeds their souls – the sight and smell of mountain pastures. Justifiably Tibetans interpret this as a Chinese move to erase Tibetan culture. Is this also going to happen in Meghalaya? Why turn our own people into cultural migrants within their own state potentially adding casualties to the growing list of drug and substance abusers trying to escape disillusion? If there is any tribal identity left in Meghalaya is it not found in the villages where people are grounded on solid earth and not chasing image-burdened phantoms gyrating on TV screens creating hungers that we endlessly try to feed?
So against this context the pressure groups are justified in their stubborn support of the farmers. But there is a BIG BUT. If the pressure groups see themselves as the Opposition, then they will have to behave with dignity and be accountable thus removing suspicion that they are not using the Khasi cause to promote themselves. Khasi-ness, Jaintia-ness, Garo-ness should not become a brand like English, or if it is one then we demand the right to know what identity we are subscribing to. What we really need is numerical evidence to explain why there is this mounting pressure for the implementation of the ILP. Hard data will convince in a way that slogans will not. The term ‘influx’ by itself will not do. Without accurate substantiation this agitation will be perceived by non-participants as a jingoistic, politicised tantrum with an unfortunate historical precedent. Anyway what is this indigenous culture that needs protecting? Watch this space as I try to unravel the conundrum in the next article. (Janet Moore Hujon lives and works in Cambridge, UK)