By Janet Moore Hujon
“Even though we were not Christians we celebrated too. Mother would buy holly, oranges from Bara Bazar, cake from Mahari’s and all of us would go for a picnic….We were often in Kolkata…[would] walk down Park Street. Even those days Park Street was something very special…Everyone celebrated… Hindus, Muslims & Christians. No hate but a great deal of warmth & love.
It was a day of celebration, day of festivity – hence in India it is known as BURRA DIN”.
So wrote my friend about Christmastime in the 60’s touching with poignancy my memories of, yes, Burra din, the big day, the great day. Steeped in my family’s Christian celebration of Christmas I had no idea that the joy which lies at the heart of Christmas was felt by friends from another community. It made me feel I had received a Christmas gift like no other. Like the barradins in other faiths Christmas is about darkness being overpowered by light which would then reign supreme and victorious. ‘Peace on earth, goodwill towards men’ was obviously a message that rang clear and true because it was understood by all and today, more than ever, it is a cry wrenched from the heart of all who still treasure life on earth.
To think that Muslims and Hindus joined Christians in celebrating warmth and love seems like the stuff of dreams now. The mood in Meghalaya has long since darkened and our history is now a record of hateful words and unforgivable deeds which a million Christmases will never erase. In the Garo hills peace is elusive and those who espouse violence hold sway, in the Khasi and Jaiñtia hills the earth groans under the rumble of heavy trucks carrying contraband coal, our once clear air skies continue to absorb the fumes pumped out by cars and industries and our waters are polluted with chemicals vomited by a stricken earth plundered to the core. Mammon has most definitely defeated the Prince of Peace.
I have now grown older and I hope I have also grown up. Reflecting on the Christmases of my childhood, I see how they form part of the pattern and direction of my life. For us Christmas began with the arrival of the postman. I see him still – a thin bespectacled Assamese, parcel in one hand, the other raised in a wave to two little girls wondering if the delivery is for them. His reassuring nods sealed their happiness. A parcel from Hawaii. Those were the days when the West was an Unknown and how our young imaginations would paint our very own pictures of this paradise which at the time few visited and from where some never returned, thus making it even more mysterious and in a way frightening.
Much has changed since then. Foreign visits are now the norm for many in Shillong, but has it led to a loss of that childlike sense of expectation and wonder, those two ingredients of Christian worship at this time of year? Power, prestige and, thankfully still, scholarship and talent guarantee that many doors are open to us now. Yes the world is our oyster but has that made us blasé at best unthinking at worse? Do we still see with the eyes of a child, or are we just enjoying the sensation of immediate gratified stimulation? Do we still consider the lily in our own fields or do we carelessly toss it aside to make way for some ill-thought construction of no conceivable benign use whatsoever?
Our church community in Shillong once celebrated together in a green hollow now lost to us and firmly in the hands of the army. How and why did that happen? My bewilderment is contained in the following words:
The springy green grass it remains undisturbed /On slopes that relax into the valley below /Where all you can see and maybe can hear / Is the faint trickling echo of a once lively stream/The ghost of a playground/ Tombed cries of young children/Where meetings and greetings once casually criss-crossed/ Where long daylight hours were happily spent / Sharing pots of white rice juiced with steaming stewed pork/All cooked to perfection in clean open air
Encircled by barbed wire this happy picnic space near the sericulture farm is now barred to us. There we once all sat side by side on the grass eating the same food ladled out of huge pots perched on temporary stone fireplaces. Christmas had brought us together and we felt as one. Are these get-togethers and the social virtues they nourished now a thing of the past? And are Meghalaya’s churches now places legitimising class divides and privileges, where money talks and the spirit is silent? Would Jesus the son of a carpenter born in a humble stable feel a stranger in these hallowed halls dedicated to him and, if he entered, would he then stand there and weep? He, who more than anyone else, understood what it means not to be wanted, cannot but grieve to behold a people who are adamant about keeping out the outsider (except for exploitative purposes), AND miserably failing their own.
Idealistically I once believed that education which provides access to this world’s heritage would enable us to understand not only the other but more crucially ourselves. For me the Imagination is a powerful weapon that transcends difference and brings about clarity and understanding. This I thought would widen and enrich our worlds and not cause us to shrink within the narrow confines of our crippling prejudices. But alas! The internet is now increasingly used not as a means of sharing but as an instrument to stoke the flames of difference and hatred. What is the point of endlessly going on about a special identity, in dreaming up romantic titles, if the Grand Council of Chiefs and the Hynñiewtrep Council ignore our lifeless rivers, our depleted forests and the sacred ground on which our monoliths stand? What era of freedom can they usher in for a people living in a land of dying resources? Who on earth will take their pronouncements seriously if the concept of land in our state either supports political aggrandisement or is fast becoming a lucrative private enterprise with all the ills of ruthless corporate gain? In contrast, witness the sympathy generated for the Dongria Kondh’s brave stand to safeguard their culture against the mining company Vedanta’s designs to mine bauxite.
To the Dongria Kondh the earth is holy, a deity who gives and on whom their survival depends. Who could not be moved by their ethical stand? Sadly the same cannot be said of these self-styled saviours of tribal culture in our midst with their hollow words and promises. They could have laid claim to timeless moral foundations to establish a parallel ‘government’ thereby exposing the empty heart of the official setup, but they have merely concocted bitter disappointment for the hapless populace. Somewhere, somehow, someone has been allowed to hijack genuine tribal identity and speak for those who did not need to be told what the essence of being Khasi or Jaiñtia or Garo is.
So as Christmas approaches and this year draws to a close I hope that the New Year will indeed be new and that we the ‘ordinary’ people will drown militant selfish voices and draw the curtains on a stage where so many stride and strut, living out their selfish dreams without a thought for those for whom living is basic survival. Let Avner Pariat’s heartfelt ‘prayer’ for Meghalaya ‘Wan Phai Ban Pynbha Biang’, (Return to Heal and Make Whole Again (Shillongcynic), not be just a cry in the wilderness. Feel the writer’s despair and raw anger and know why we yearn for a Messiah in our midst.