WILL SOMEONE APOLOGIZE TO ME FOR '97?

Recently I read about a series of significant historical apology made by leaders for something that was done many years ago like the Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s apology to the Aborigines for inflicting grief, suffering and loss that happened more than half a century ago. And, that get me to thinking if I can ever expect anyone at all to apologize to me for what happened in ’97, and for its aftermath, the consequences and scars it left on my life?

They said that an apology is the first-step towards starting any kind of healing process. And for sure, even after a decade, I’m still nursing those consequences. Every time I cursed my lot, I can trace its root to ’97 –for throwing me out of school and out of my normal routine of life; for taking away my home and friends, for filling my childhood memories with horrible images and thus, stealing my childhood.

I am not the only one affected. There are more, much more, who were at critical stages of their life at that time, and who, otherwise, have been promised much by life but could not achieve just because of what happened. Those people deserve an apology even much more than me.

First of all let me clear that I’m not referring to us apologizing to them or vice versa (if that is possible it will be superb). But for the time being I’m referring to something like a father to son apology. Some of us may argue if an apology is needed at all, saying that we all had gone through the same situation, or that we were only defending ourselves or that there is no reason for us to apologize since it’s not our fault.

It is true that we needed to protect ourselves particularly at that time and especially in view of the inherent apathy of our state government. But who are we protecting when we started killing people of our own or when we extorted, harassed and exploited the very people that we were/are supposed to be protecting?

It’s very well if you argued that we were left with no choice or option but to strike back. It may sound a bit cliché but there always is choice and options if we want. I am not saying that we could avoid it or the situation could have been handled in a better way, but I am saying that we could have mitigated its impact better especially among the younger generation, and don’t let its effect, especially the psychological aspect, linger on for so long. By the way, they says it takes two to tango, so what did we do, consciously or unconsciously, for them to do what they did?

It is also true that we all went through the same ’97. But no, CAPITAL NO, it was NOT the same situation that we went through in ’97. You and I were at totally different footing at that time and we are not the same either now; our socio-economic status were not the same; our conditions were not the same; our losses were not the same; its impact on the region, village, family and individual were not the same either. In fact, some of us even gained from it, when some of us lost everything… Under no parameter can this be called the same!

You may not want to admit it, but ’97 does have an impact on each one of us, and most likely, in the negative way. You may be trying to see the bright side and counting your blessing or thanking your luck for surviving it but you have to admit that you could have been more than what you are now if not for what happened in ’97.

But the problem is who will apologize. Will our respective community leaders take responsibility and apologize? Well, we all doubt that so much it almost sound funny! So where do we start? You and I can very well apologize to each other, but still, someone, some people, with authority and claim will still owe us an apology. And I am not sure if I would ever hear that in my life time.

I have no claim to represent or have authority to speak for anyone other than me. So I am going to speak for myself and start by saying –

I APOLOGIZE FOR WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU IN
’97!

Will you too apologize to me… please?

No Tourist Season For Lamka?

Recently my Boss had to tour the North-East for a series of pre-bid meetings. Imphal was her last-stop and she said she might visit CCPur (Lamka, we call it) if I can suggest something worth seeing there. I sheepishly scratched my head not exactly sure what to suggest.

The holidayer to Manipur that I knew of, come in two seasons. The first batch started as soon as the summer holidays started and ends just before school/college re-opened. They are mostly college students or families with school going kids. The second batch started from early December and ended in January. These winter holidayer are mostly servicemen and women or family without children. These people are not the typical tourist, they are holidaying back home.

To be very honest, I don’t remember ever seeing hordes of well-heeled tourists or back-packers in the street of CCPur. Well, Khuga dam is no Hoover dam, and our patchy hills and mountains are not the Nilgiris. And as for marketing our tribal identity, just remember, we don’t exactly live in the jungle any more and girls in hot-pants do not exactly portray the kind of tribal image people may expect. Even today, the few ‘strange face’ that are occasionally seen in our street are there only on the invitation of our churches or are there to visits or inspect one of our many rehab centres.

Well, Gamnuam Home, Shalom Rehab, etc. are not the type of tourist attractants we want. But, for a starter we can develop a botanical garden which will not only attract tourist but also preserve our much folk-lored but evidently endangered orchids. We can also develop a dedicated market for out tribal handicraft from cane, bamboos works to our various colorful shawls, etc. And to develop that, we don’t even need the government; we can use the people participatory approach involving the communities in the process through the NREGS. All we need is someone or an institution to lead and do all the planning.

CCPur seems to scarce rather than attract tourist, and we have to change that. We may not have much to offer that will compel visitors to stay the night, but we can at least develop something that will make CCPur a ‘must-stop’ for every visitor to Manipur.

tags: zo, zomi, zogam, lamka

You still are a Zomi even if-

1. You called yourself a Zomi, but don’t know how many sub-tribes are there under the umbrella term of Zomi!

2. You called yourself a Zomi, but your Tribe Certificate says something else!

3. You come from Zogam, but don’t know where exactly Zogam begins or ends!

4. You are not sure if Mizoram is part of Zogam or not!

5. You don’t know where exactly Ciimnuai is!

6. You don’t know, and never bothered to ask the ultimate objectives of the ZRA, CNF, etc. but you are a sympathizer!

7. You are smart enough to write and speak fluent English but fumbled for words when expressing yourself or writing in your mother tongue!

8. You can’t complete a single sentence without a bit of Meitei, Kawl, Hindi or/and English!

9. Your CD case is flooded with various Zomi VCDs but you are too embarrassed to play them in the presence of your non-Zomi friends!

10. You are an NRZ (Non-Resident Zomi)!

(Okay, okay, I admit I’m one of them…but don’t look at me like that!!!)

The Colors of Behiang

I spent a large chunk of my life in Behiang but that’s not the only reason why I love this sleepy little village. Here are a few quotable quotes (or is it Unquotable quotes?) that make life so colourful in this border village. From the amusing to confusing; from the painfully honest to the intellectually stimulating; life in Behiang can be pretty challenging:-)

1. The Complicated:
   -Hia ah eh pi bang eh a hia aw?

2. The Confusing:
   -Pu, hiai na akpi uh a tal hia?

3. The Simpleton:
   -No sangkah ding te pawl kuan pahpah ding in, ong ciah pahpah ding nai’ ve vua…

4. The more-than-meet-the-eye:
   -Hia bawng eh koi thah ee?

5. Or, the in-your-face:
   -Numeite pi khuai de tawh ki bang, baw leulou…

6. The Painfully Honest:
   -Tu zan, tuivai lei a ka kiat lup suh, si lou deu…

7. The Neighbourly:
   -NL, tua mihai zaate ong sut sawm uh le ut koh; nuamlo lua, ki haizo leh kilawm…

8. Or, may-be-not-so-close:
   -Pawt khe koi un, nou nepali-te Ni (aunt) ding hi kha koi sing…

9. The Brain stroming:
   -Pu, vom a mul a san in dye leng vom mah a ki ci lai dia..?

10. The Super Brain:
    -A pucca road bawl uh nou, ann phou na ding in ki zen ta phet…

11. The Diverse:
    -Vok thah thah thah ding; thah loh loh thah loh ding…
    -Tengkol a tui lai in tui sih, a tui lou lai in tui bou…

12. The Geek:
    -My village, my water…(Ka khua, ka tui…)

13. And finally the One Hundred Percent Confident:
    -E-ka-deh! Ka mai lah ung san lawh aa..!

(...to be continued.)

enjoi…

Ah, Just to Get Some Attention..!

Looking around our so-called Zogam (rather rough, isn’t it), it is simply evident that we caught ourselves in an isolated island where the theory of evolution fit us to the hilt. ‘Survival of the fittest’ is the war cry, and naturally, while the poor risked their head and tooth in digging out wild roots, fruits and leaves for their daily survival, the richer and fitter class come, straight facedly cheated and shamelessly snatched them away.

Even though every square metre of our land is infested with Churches, the absence of morality and ethics seems to make them nothing but a fraud, and indeed, they are. It seems like we have a chronic diseases that will never heal again. The people, who needed the prescription didn’t realize that they really are sick, and even those who realize their sickness, are helpless without any help insight. On the other hand, those who are capable of making a prescription are too busy chasing scholarship money, or prefer to live outside, lest they will be infected as well.

So, hey how about a blind man leading another blind man? The only thing is, we just have to trust each other, hold our hands and be ready to fall down the drain, in case we fall down the drain. Here are a few suggestions from a blind man for the blind men on how to overcome the vicious circle of trouble that we caught ourselves in.

• Insurgency is often cited by the government as an alibi for not doing any developmental work, but isn’t it rather the outcome of it. Well, till now we flocked towards the government since it pay us more than the insurgent groups, why don’t we threaten the government that we will flock towards and give full moral and physical support to the insurgents, don’t you think that will at least force them to take a little notice provided we beat the drums loud enough to reach the mainland media?

• Give a toy gun to everyone, from grandmother to granddaughter and take picture of ourselves and put them up in youtube, blogspot, wordpress, facebook, orkut, myspace, flickr, etc like it is the actual ground situation and try to get some international attention.

• Apparently the butch of women protesting naked in front of the Kangla Fort had stirred worldwide attention, why don’t we think more on that front to get some ‘official attention’ (of course, to our situation, Idiot!). (The men can also do, there are quite a number of influential gay men especially in the west).

• Some of us in Delhi can get arrested while plotting to kidnap the Prime Minister (or better still, Sonia Gandhi) and said desperation forced us to do this, i.e. to get national media attention.

• Why don’t we all go back to the jungle, i.e. to the wild with lion cloths and no sign of settlement? We will at least catch the attention of some anthropologist and well, environment conservators as well as social activist.

• Talking of conservators, why don’t we all become green i.e. vegetarian and environmentally friendly, etc., and write to all the major newspaper of the world crusading as if we were Chief Seathl’s children, and we can ask the PETA and the Green Peace to adopt us.

• In the other extreme, we can shout to the world that we eat Dog’s Meat –at least we will get the attention of the PETA and Bridgette Bardot.

• The most practical one, and seriously, is to join the Marxist. Marxist have the best grass-root level organization, and gosh, since we won’t be able to climb to the leadership level or as they said, the politburo level, it might just suit us fine. And with the excuse of capitalism, we can lynch all those corrupt officials getting damned rich with bribe money, and the best part, we will have the like of the Karats and Yechurys standing up on our behalf in the Parliament and justifying all our actions.

• Talking of bribe, why don’t we do more of what we have been doing all this year to get us into the World's Most Corrupt State? After facing so many hardships because of this, it’s disappointing to still not make it to the list! Come on guys, this is our speciality!

• Let’s do ’97 again… Oh! No-no-no not again! Sorry I started this… My Sincere Apologies… (Even thought the attentions Darfur get and the Celebrities involved in are something… Blah! Never Again. Sorry, my Sincere Apologies –once again…).

Okay, now I said ‘blind man leading another blind man’, so if you are offended by what I wrote, which is not intended at all, I want you to know that you’re not blind –and that you are reading something that isn’t for you. Anyway, thanks for reading…

No Pun Intended!
No Harm Intended!
No Offence Intended!

SEE LAMKA AND DIE!

The road was bumpy, the ride was long and the bus ran furiously. We were on our way to Lamka from Dimapur. There was an eerie silence inside the bus amidst the noisy engine and clanking of the bus. Each one was occupied in his own thought. I stole a quick glance of the other passengers and the faces I saw rather baffled me. I wonder, what good do those Marwaris and Biharis bring to our land?

Reaching down Imphal valley, the air was humid and cloud of dusts danced on our trail. My little niece was not impressed by the sight, she chose to cover her face and doze off. I thought that was a better idea than ‘trying’ to admire those balding mountain ranges, so I followed suit.

Despite the hideous daylight, and being stiff all-over from the day long torture, once we were there, the sounds of Lamka excited us enough to scramble for the door.

“Eew!” shrieked my little niece, stopping at the door. I don’t know what it was, but being nudged from behind, I pushed my niece and jumped down right after her. It was my turn to shout “eew!” I’d just landed in a pig sty! Well, that ‘pig sty’, officially, is called CCPur Bus Station.

Anyway, struggling along Tedim Road, it doesn’t take me much time to notice the shift of gravity in Lamka. My beloved Lamka, it has changed, and that too –for the worst, and it’s crumbling down! The building mourned under its weight and age, the drains cried for help and the roads struggled in agony with every passing vehicle throwing up heaps of dusts. The ghost of the old town gagged me with its stench and dust, upsetting my stomach, and squeezing my tear duct to the last drop with every gust of wind.

I don’t know if living in the metros for all these years have prejudiced my eyes and judgement, but Lamka is no longer the Lamka that was deeply etched in my heart, it is just a pathetic caricature of the old town.

Lamka of yonder years is a confluence of all culture –desirable and non-desirable, with none being dominant. It was the gateway to the world and life, it was the centre of education and learning, it was the centre of entertainment and life –of the enlightened sort.

I remember guitar strumming young men and women strolling the night streets and alleys, crooning Lianlunching, Lienzapao and Lengtong Pauno with the same aplomb. I remember people struggling for tickets at Light-house, I remember people rushing from all over the district to Lamka for the best of education, but, alas, we can only say ‘those were the days’!

There is no denying ’97 has dramatically changed our world, and of course, Lamka cannot caught itself in a time wrap. It has to change. Change we must, move we must, but in which way and which direction?

We definitely moved and changed, but in the wrong direction. We continued to mistake communalism for nationalism, and terrorism for patriotism, rendering a thick cloud of suspicions hanging in the air.

It will not be a mistake to say that the mass exodus of young men and women from Lamka is the direct consequence of such mentality. Nobody wants their children to grow-up in Lamka anymore. Those who can afford prefer to flee and live ‘outside’ or at least let their children study elsewhere, and with big relief.

I don’t want to sound like one of those self-appointed moral guardian, but I cannot help commenting on the declining brotherhood in the society. There is a big shift from the traditional societal living to individualism. The previously unnoticed differences in the pronunciation of a certain words stand higher as a boundary than the high walls they built to mark their plots –and we still sing ‘tuun sung khat pan’?

Corruption was rampant, so much so that even within the church, it was put as an ‘understood’ thing and was conveniently swept under the carpet –and they continued dancing and praying on that carpet! The once pitiable government servant are now the one who are most envied as they can keep drawing their salary without even working for a single day! And shall I say, Lamka thrives on them?

My big cousin who is a Headmaster of a Government School in a certain faraway village offered me to show his new building. I declined, I just cannot digest it. The building, and every newly built building I saw in Lamka, disgust me as much as the dirty drain that flowed in their nerves. They are dirty and stained, like each and every soiled currency note I saw was stained with tears and bloods of overtly exploited poor farmers who risked their head to earn it. How many people must have been deprived of their basic standard of life by the owner of such building, and other luxuries, so as to enable them to afford them?

To me each and every one of the government employee of Manipur are doubtable –doubtable of being corrupt. If I am at fault, it’s not my fault, rather it is theirs –for letting me believe to such extend. They said I am a pessimist, I am, I don’t denied that. But who can be so positive after tampering upon the not so hidden dirty drains running beneath the ground?

Every time I come to Lamka, it never does me good but antagonize me. A friend suggested that, may be, I am failing to see the bright and positive side of the situation, well thinking of anything positive there, my mind just went –well, blank. My friend suggested Khuga Dam, to me Khuga Dam is nothing but a picnic spot, a humiliating mockery of the thousands of lives it uprooted!

May be, the only positive thing that I saw there was –that my drug abusing HIV+ cousin died a decent death at Shalom while I was there. Thank you very much; the very presence of Shalom and its tribe is not a positive sign of development, since you can never say that you are very proud of (with due respect to) the dedicated doctors and nurses who work there. But I’ll definitely give a standing ovation, once, the people who run homes like Shalom, Priscilla Homes and Gamnuam, etc, are rendered unemployed.

Well, I should end my ranting here or else, it will destroy my mood every time I think of home until I can call that rented flat in Dwarka as my home. But the fact is Lamka is my home, and I love it. It is the place that gives me my now so cherished childhood memories as well as the nightmares in the form of ‘97. But no matter what, it will always remain my home and I would jump with happy feet every alternate year to return there.

Go and see Lamka, if you don’t die of ecstasy, you would die of revulsion. But if you think you survived, check yourself again, may be your heart, you mind or soul is being buried in one of the alleys of that old town, but for certainty, once you are there, you will never be the same. SEE LAMKA AND DIE!

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

Just What I Don't Need

When I planned to go home one sweaty night a month ago, I never planned for one this. Well, looking back now, there are many things which I failed to foresee and forget to put it on my plan, but then I can manage with them or without them. But the last thing that bothered me was to be used as a guinea pig!

A week at home at 1400+ metre above sea level, I was down with typhoid or they said so. Well, in this God forsaken village, the doctor is the pharmacist, and they said he is as good as a doctor but he is not a trained one so everywhere else, he will be called a quack!

The first two day, I was down with fever with high temperature. At high noon, I was shivering with cold even after covering myself with three blankets. I was given a combination of 'Combina Forte’ and 'Nimesulide + Paracetamol’ tablets. Later when I complained of my foot being ice-cold, the said I could be typhoid and my medication was changed accordingly. I was given tablets of 'Chloramphenico’' which I took thrice a day and after another two days, when my situation did not improve they changed my medicine to the more effective (that's what they said, not me) 'Ciprofloxacin - 500 m’.

That medicine seemed to work as on the first day itself it reduced my regular two-three fever a day to one. Another two more days and when my one fever a day did not decline further, my parents suggested that I could be contracting malaria!

The doubt, quickly agreed to by the quack resulted in the addition of another medicine! From the next morning when I took my medicine, apart from my usual dose for typhoid, I have to take two tablet of 'Quinine Sulphate’ thrice a day.

The medicine must be very strong as I hears insects and birds chirping in my ears for the whole day and have to live the life of a deaf for two days. When I complained of not hearing anything and the chirping insects, they all knowingly nodded their heads to suggest that the medicines worked as it should be!

Thanks to the quacks (including my parents) I was up and going after two weeks in bed. The moment I was up, I rushed around the house poking all over the dust-bins searching for the empty covers of the medicines that I was given so that I can wrote down the detailed combination that makes up the tablet so that I can possibly look for their potential side-effect on the net once I was back to Delhi.

And hopefully, I'll be back in a short while!!!

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

On Vacation

I'll be out for sometime but when I came back, I hope I'll have something more interesting to post about. Apart from that, I have a number of unfinished writings from the past number of years that I hoped to finish during this vacation. Some of the unfinished pieces that I hoped to post in the near future are:

1. SEE LAMKA AND DIE!


2. Zo Church: The Deadliest Political Institution


3. Church Leaders: The Worst Role Models


4. Zomi: On the Edge


5. Being Realistic: A Myth called Zogam


6. On Spring Break: A Heady Cocktail called Zo Re-Unification / Organisation

The Other View

There are two sides to Christianity. Most often, it always goes hand in hand. One, of course, is the religious side and the other is the outlook that it brings about.

The outlook, in its real context should have been a stringent one. Christianity is a narrow, stringent and conservative religion and its outlook cannot be so out of way in its form.

But wherever Christianity goes, it brings about the outlook of its main proponent or its early proponent i.e. the western world.

And today, Christianity is more of a civilization rather than a religion. It is associated with a liberal or westernized outlook which in its every essence is totally against the value that it propounded.

Today, looking at the Christians in Manipur, Mizoram and Chinstate, I see more of the outlook rather than the religion. And looking at the few said to be dedicated Christian, I don’t know how much of them is flesh and how much of them is spirit.

I remember attending quiet a number of ‘crusades’ and camps sometimes around in 1997. The few things that I recollect of such meetings were the ‘jargon’ used, which to me are very cheeky. Well this may be a totally different thing, but what I wanted to say is that we, as a Christian, are very far from being Christian.

I think no one can deny the bad effect that comes with the outlook bring along by Christianity. To us and to most of the world, the west is the role model when it comes to everything, including lifestyle and spiritualism, and the west, in its totality is an undesirable influence, it is foreign –culturally, traditionally and in its essence.

Westernization or the outlook that was brought to us by Christianity is like a virus. There is no denying that no matter where it goes, westernization acts like a virus, bringing about a clash in the society.

To us, Christianity comes along with the westernized outlook and it cannot be separated. So my question is –is Christianity guilty of ailing the Zomi and Zogam? Is it responsible for killing our traditional and cultural identity?

If you ever ask me this question, I don’t need a second opinion. To me, it is as simple as that –GUILTY AS CHARGED.©lyan

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

LOST IN TRANSLATION

It is always great to be home. To meet your parents, relatives and friends whom you don’t see for the last 3-4 years and to re-live the ‘moments’ that struck you with a sense of déjà vu after seeing a particular thing or faced with some particular situation. But it is not that great when the trains of memories chugged down along the dark and windy cavern of reality that is presently waiting for you. You cannot help comparing between the one scene that was etched in your head like a fairyland and the one that is presently spread before your eyes.

But the worst thing is it will not stop until it ran havoc the flimsy imagination that you used to cream the harsh reality. Then the train will stop, falling down the gorge head first down and you are woken up by the ugliness of the present which will enslaved you till you got some legitimate reason to get out of there.

You might think that I will be dying to go home after staying away from it for nearly a decade now. And you might probably assume that I would take no notice of the long and dangerous way that we have to pass through to reach home. That is like saying Antarctica is in my neighbourhood –it is far from true. And to tell the truth I am not eager at all to go home -to meet the old ghosts which are made much wilder by the newer and younger ghosts.

To me that little hamlets perched out in the jungle of the north-east India is like a God forsaken country –one can only say it is unfortunate. It is as difficult to get in there as it is in getting out of it. Meeting your parents for the love value and meeting relatives and old friends is heart warming. But it is the aftermath that is depressing. And stay for another day and everything will remind you that you are lost in translation.

Even though I never really feel at home when I am in Delhi, I miss and long for it when I am away. I cannot say the same is true of my home. I don’t know if I misread my minds. But I am sure that it shows the sense of tie and attachment are missing. That is why I said I am lost in translation –I belong neither here nor there.

The truth is I miss my parents, my family, relatives and friends and not the place. I like the place but not for living there permanently –only as a place to spent some times. Where else could I get the fresh air, the clean and clear flowing water, the lush green environment, the sunsets and sunrises? What I don’t like is the environment, the new culture and attitudes of people.

I hate those who accepted corruption as a natural things, I hate those government doctors who charged the poor and helpless for the free surgery, I hate those government welfare schemes distributor who pocket them all, I hate those who did not work but draw their salaries anyway, I hate those church elders who don’t practice what they preach, and above all, I hate those gun trotting animals strutting around looking for some helpless victim.

How can I possibly live among those I hate? But on the other hand, if I ever forsake the place, the missing ties will never be restored, and I’ll be lost forever. I hate being lost; the concept of itself makes me guilty. I have lost my cultural identity already, I have no place to be identified with, I lost my tradition, I lost my religion, and by deserting the place, I’ll be severing that last single ties that I have with my identity.

I want to be here, I want to be there, and I don’t belong neither here nor there. There is so much contradiction, too much complication; it makes me confused, dizzy and guilty. It seems globalization is catching up far too fast with us. It seems there will never be a Zogam or Zoland and I’ll never have an identity that will burn my spirit to trot forward confidently into this world.

After many centuries of losing their country the Jews have returned back to their homes, after a centuries of migration, the Chinese have returned back to their motherland, after half a century of brain-drain in mainland India, they are flocking back home now, but when will the Zomi return home? When will they have a home that they can call theirs and recognized by the world? When can they have an identity of their own?

Right now, all I can say is –God only knows. We Zomi, including me, are one good case of a tribe lost in translation. I wanted to be back home, and I don’t want to be back home. I don’t want to be here nor there and I don’t belong neither here nor there. But to be sure I’m not a crow pretending to be a peacock, only a simple case of mistranslation. A simple case of mistranslation which can be corrected, I sincerely do hope so. ©lyan

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

I’M LOST! (SOMEBODY HELP ME)

Last night, my niece approached me to help her with her assignment of listing the names of 100 endangered species of animals. She is a bright little child and she had already managed 99 names and was needing my help for the last one final species that will give her 100% marks. I have to admit that I don’t know much about those thing and even the few that I knew were already listed. I offered to look it up in the net, that is when my friend, always the joker, chipped in to suggest my name to complete the list.

We had a good laugh at that time, but late at night when I think again about it, there is nothing funny about it. Rather, the irony of the joke sickened me. I try to ignore it as a simple joke, but the more I think about it, the more it makes me uneasy.

It hurts to think that I, a proud Zomi should be in the list of the endangered species. I’m simply not ready to accept that that I, who would painstakingly explain to everyone where the fictitious Zogam is –instead of just saying Manipur when I’m asked of my native place, should now be in the verge of extinction. The simple thought of it totally unsettled me. I don’t know why. May be, because it is the truth. I wonder why reality is always harsh and truth always hurt.

Zomi -on the verge of extinction? It may sounds exaggerated or you may questions the connection between that little joke and the Zomi, as a whole. Well, I do admit that I sweat out at the first sight of danger and get panicky at the false alarm. And I must admit that I don’t represent the Zomi as a whole – but let me also admit that as a human, the only claim that I’ve got is being a Zomi and I’m pretty proud of that fact.

How serious I was? Well, like all my peers, my favourite song is Thawn Kham’s Zogam song. I got a high every time such a genre of songs are played and apart from that I make sure that I never missed any of the Zo festival and tried hard, even though sleepily, and learned the roots and beginning of such festivals.

Everything seems so ironic and pretentious now. I see no more point is singing “Zogam aw, ken hong taisan kei ning” from Delhi, or for that matter, from Yangon, Tokyo, Florida or any of the “tuipi gal pan”. After all I spent half of my life here in Delhi and feel more comfortable conversing and thinking in my broken English. And if I were back home right now, I’d be itching to abandon it, especially after knowing the easy way of life that a city affords.

But, let face it. Who can deny that we are not lost but firmly grounded in our tradition? I don’t need to remind you how many Davids, Josheps and Marys we have had among us? And, how many of them can speak; forget about the writing part, our language? As for our brethrens in Chinhills, forget it, the youngsters can hardly write or read their names in our own Romanized script.

When we talk about the concept of lost, we often thought only about the ‘tuipi gal ate’. Yes, I can’t deny that these people, including me, are not dying to go back home, but to spent a few day there, and that too, sadly only as a holidayer since we cannot afford other tourist hotspot. But let me tell you, those people who stayed back home did not fare much better either.

The other Sunday, I sat down to read some magazines sent from home in Manipur. I cannot help getting a goose bump when I found an editorial page of a reputed newspaper written by someone by the name of ‘Nowluck’ followed by a Sunday magazine whose editor goes with the name of ‘Heartjoe’! My friend cannot help wondering if these people moved a little down south, will they be called ‘Nowlucka’ or ‘Heartjoei’!

There is no denying that we all, either willingly or unwillingly, abandoned our home in search of a better life. Even all those who still live back home will not miss to grab the fist opportunity to leave after all having one or more family members in a foreign country is a social symbol that everyone looked up on. It would have been another fairy tale had we all returned back home with the money and degree that we earned but alas, we all dreaded returning back home by that time.

But the saddest part of the story is that even if we wanted to, we simply cannot return home. The simple fact is that there is no opportunity of employment and earning our livelihood. The other sad irony is that instead of our ‘tuipi gal a te’ returning home, all those students studying back home will have to leave once they are eligible for graduate school since there is not a single good college back home. And it is doubtable that they would return because of the lack of opportunity as said before.

The simple fact is that we certainly are lost if not in the endangered list. You cannot blame me and my tribe alone. The sense and sign of lost are everywhere.

Even if I’m not lost yet, at least thinking of all these makes me lost my mind totally. May be I should seek for help. Seeking for help may be the boldest step that I can afford right now. Or may be I’ll just call myself ‘a citizen of the world’ and blame it all on globalization. Oh! That would indeed be a good way to let go -Damn you, Globalization!

Tags: mizo, zo, zomi, zogam

The Zo Fest

The other day, my friends asked me to come along for a fresher meet-cum-cultural day of a certain Zomi Tribe. I hopped along hoping to catch some traditional dance or song that I must admit I was hardly educated on. You can blame my parents only for that but I’m trying to help them unload that unnecessarily heavy accusation. Any way, I think it is pretty alright that the function started with a prayer rather than some traditional recantation; after all, we’re Christian! It was followed by an introduction and induction of the fresher with a prayer. The prayer seems like a thousand year especially since I was eagerly awaiting the special item performance that the ‘scheduled programme’ I hold in my hand informed me.

As soon as the Pastor said ‘Amen’, I stretched out my neck not wanting to miss a single thing from the special performance. Then came a pretty girl up the stage in an itsy-bitsy tiny little dress to whose tribe it traditionally belongs I still cannot figure it out. She was closely followed by a gentleman with a guitar and, instead of thumping their legs as I often see tribal do that when they dance in Discovery channel; they started singing one sweet candy bubbly song.

I never heard of such cool traditional song, it rather sounds to me like some Britney Spears’ if only her voice didn’t shake and for too long as it ached my jaws. My aching jaw and neck quite disappointed me and that is when I take a second look at the programme and realize that this is the first session and all sorts of entertainment are allotted for the second session! Silly me, if only I have had known that I could have had more time to nap!

I was not that very disappointed when my friends woke me up and interrupted my dream when the first session ended since it means I don’t have to wait much longer. I tried to reason the interruption while scrambling out of the auditorium but it rather makes me wonder how these people are going to perform some tribalistic dance while they are fully clothed except for quite a few girls. By the way, I think the Jeans skirt and pants worn by those girls were also quite traditional since they have been around for quite a long time now though I wonder to which tribe I may ascribe them.

Well, when the second session started I have to stretch my neck quite a few times but I don’t want to hold it out for long since it will only ached before the dance performance started. But I stopped stretching after I realize that special item performance only means some sugary bubble-gum song. I wonder why don’t we ever have a specially dedicated dance recital programme as the mainland Indian often did. Well, that may be another thing but it is quite a bore when you heard of so much twaddle and Britney Spears-cum-Lata Mangeshkar sound-alike. I would very much prefer the original but then there is nothing very original about anything.

Then, in a moment of deep meditation my ear pricked as it heard the announcer, or the emcee as they called them, announce something like ‘the moment that we are eagerly waiting for’. I readily applauded to this finality coming as I have been undeservingly tormented for far too long. But I wonder why I allowed myself to be thus tormented and sit here like a putrid mushroom just to see some people pounding their legs and singing some utterly funny song when I can just watch it from the comfort of home in Discovery channel or National Geographic Channel.

But the moment they switched off the light and light the stage, my mind takes an abrupt somersault, my neck stretched, my ears bloomed and my jaw slumped down my chest, all on their own, and my eyes would have popped out if not for my fake Rayban goggle and I could see it. But my ears wilted back quickly as the 100 decibels sound of the emcee’s voice in the sound box jumped 25 rows to bite it off. Then the keyboardist, by mistake, started playing his keyboard instead of some leather bounded drums. I laughed, but nobody laughed, so I stopped, may be it is not a mistake. My mind stopped to marvel at how far this people have come with in such a short time; from the traditional leather bounded drums I often heard my grandpa say they used, to a hi-tech keyboard to accompanied them in their dance. You know, not even the Japanese do that and to think of it, they make the best keyboard!

The somersault restarted the moment the two traditionally clothed hunks pulled the red curtains to make a small opening which I suppose is where the dancer will come out from. Then, poof, pops out the itsy-bitsy tiny-little-dress girl from the morning session in an itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress. She gauntly walked across the stage stopping for a moment or two to hold her hips and throw her heads around. Just as she was to leave another girl popped out and she would have looked like Jesus had she only had a beard and her robe was not a bit too tight and had her hair were not pulled back and had she had not shown so much cleavage and had she looked a little more like Jesus. She walked across the stage like the girl in an itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress and the forced fang baring makes them look similar. In fact, the other 8 girls who followed them also looked similar except that they wear some different cloths, even though they hardly clothed them.

The other fact is that, none of them danced like the tribal danced in TV. To me it looks like a fashion show rather than a traditional dance. I wonder how they did it in the old day. Did they really have such thing as the itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress, or the flowing robe or the polka-dot dress, and did they wear them every time they dance? If so, then it must be very exciting even though I wonder if my sister would really loved to wear that itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress. As she said it will expose all her fats, I can imagine that.

I was lost in thought so much so that when they switched the light back on, I thought I was time travelling like in some movies. I quickly grabbed the brochure to cover my eyes and try to open my eyes under it. On my third attempt I managed to squint open it a tiny bit and saw something in the programmes list and I realize that I still don’t take a good look at it.

When the girls started walking back to the stage, this time in their traditional dress, I was no longer excited because I know they are not going to dance. I know that because the programme said so and also, it is called beauty contest. It is not funny. They keep walking around and answer some stupid question in such a pious way that would shame even the saints! And worst, they take up a whole lot of time, and they even called this ‘the eagerly awaited moment’!

Don’t these people have something of their identity to showcase? Don’t they have something like love and fraternity to be the main attraction at such once in a year gathering in such a far off place, instead of showcasing some skinny airy headed girls who don’t even stands to the normal height? Don’t they know how to show their traditional dance to waste the more than one hour time that they used to showcase some skinny flesh? Can’t they sing their own song instead of borrowing others’? Don’t they have any self respect? What is so great about a beauty contest? In what criteria are they going to judge beauty, if it can be judged at all? Should beauty be judged by some brownie points gathered from some moralistically pious answers or from showcasing their body?

I know much better. I know my sister is beautiful because she is loving, caring and forgiving even though she is fat. I know my mother is much more beautiful than those girls because she is more patient and with much more practical wisdom even if she is wrinkled.

These people did not fool me. They are fooling themselves. And I’m not happy either, I am going to keep cursing because I was disappointed and because I have to learn my tradition from some television episode that was narrated by some firangs with no knowledge of it at all. And above everything, I have to return home like a fool laughed at by my friends for mistaking a beauty contest for a traditional dance recital. Next time when they have another contest, I’m going to call it an airy head contest done for the pleasure of some leering old men and young men who organised it and I’m not going to attend.

Tags: mizo, zo, zomi, zogam