Reverse Racism or Xenophobia?

In one of my post last year, I wrote about my dismay at the faces I saw on my way back to Manipur. I had pointedly asked “What good do this Marwaris and Beharis bring to our land?” It was just a rhetoric question but now with the recent killing spree of ‘Non-Manipuris’ in Manipur, I feel guilty enough to make a clarification.

Firstly, I want to clarify that the Marwaris and Beharis in Manipur are mostly traders and when they came to the North-east their intention was/is profits (money) and not to kill our culture or tradition nor to bring their own. They are innocent on that regards –I mean, the tribals in the north-east had done enough to kill their culture and tradition by embracing non-indigenous religion and culture a century ago.

Secondly, the whole of the north-east is a rather backward area, and since those people come there for profits and don’t utilize their profits there, they are guilty of economically exploiting the natives.

Thirdly, every Indian had a constitutionally guaranteed freedom of movement and to reside anywhere in the country, but the north-east is different. Except for Tripura, Meghalaya and Assam (is it the large presence of non-tribals that make them lost their status as a restricted tribals area?), foreigners/NRIs and people from the mainland needed a permit, RAP/PAP (Restricted/Protected Area Permit) and ILP (Inner-Line Permit) respectively, to visit the North-eastern states. The very existence of such restriction, though it hardly serves its purpose, evidently point that those people are in the wrong place.

Fourthly, with the tribals’ experience in Tripura, it is understandable if the uncontrolled mass influx of non-natives makes them uncomfortable. In Tripura, the tribals had become a minority especially after the Bangladesh War when Bengalis Refugees came in hordes. The Bengalis demographic invasion made the Tribal state of Tripura a Bengalis state –dominating the culture and politics of the state.

Fifthly, our states already have the not so desirable images as failed states and we don’t need such recklessness to make our pathetic image any bloodier; I only hope their deaths bring some mainland media attention to the conveniently ignored states and, hopefully, some reformative actions from the government as well.

And finally I want to ask, are we guilty of reverse racism, or is it just another case of xenophobia? I don’t want to believe that we are guilty of reverse racism even though each of us living in the mainland had enough tales of discriminations and denigrations to tell for a thousand nights. But it surely is a case of xenophobia, which is present in every culture of the world thought not always in such a violent form.

So my final question is, does the presence of non-natives pose a threat for us the natives, –especially in the protected states of Manipur, Mizoram and Nagaland. I don’t think so –for they make up just a miniscule percent of our population. And if you asked me, I’d always prefer a Marwaris/Beharis shopkeepers rather than some native girl sitting pretty inside the shop, telling you to take it or leave.

…misfortune alone can’t bring down the bridge

Sometimes, misfortune also brings about a realization that can make you feel much better or worse. Most of the times, the best of imagination, feeling and understanding are not enough to comprehend a situation, and, as always, first-hand experience is the most realistic and reliable experience i.e. if it doesn’t break you down.

It was exactly a week ago, a Monday night, on my way back home from office that I was attacked by 4 men on my way. I had always taken that route since we moved to this south-west Delhi area a few months ago. It is not a main road, but well lit and less crowded. I barely noticed them hanging around there until they started attacking me from behind. One of them caught hold of me and another keep punching and pulling my hair. The other, their leader, I suppose, keep shouting and abusing me from the side while one of them try to snatch my wallet and mobile phone from my hand.

Fortunately enough, I spotted a PCR van passing through the main road and I shouted for help. I thought the two policemen would rush, but they actually walked –walk, in its slowest version, while my attackers make their escape. But to surprise me more, I noticed six or seven men standing near the wall watching me being attacked and didn’t raise a single cry for help –forget about attempting to help me.

We have a saying that vaguely translates to –misfortune brought down the bridge. It was the last thing I expected, to be abused, assaulted and attacked. I am no tough nut nor is my slender frame made for physical fighting. Maybe all they want is my wallet and mobile phone or just to have some fun while robbing someone. I don’t know why I just don’t let go my phone and wallet, when my wallet is close to empty and my old phone will hardly fetch them much, but I just hold on to them as if my life hang on them –maybe my consciousness is not willing to be abused and robbed.

But the final blow comes with the Police. After ‘inspecting the situation’ (it’s their word), there’s no visible physical injuries and since they failed to rob me, there’s no need to register a case and I should just go home. They lectured me on sets of rules which I should observe as a minority living in Delhi and the first rules is to avoid this sort of places. I just want to tell them this is the sort of place we live, but it’s my nature to keep my mouth shut and spent some time in solitude when any sort of emotions passed me. They offered to drop me home; I just picked up my bag and pieces of eye-glass and went home.

I hardly feel anything at that moment but seething anger at the spectator who watched me like a beaten-up stray dog too frightened to even run, and at the cold advices of the policemen and their inaction. But late at night when I lay down to sleep and the day’s episode slowly passed my mind, I feel my heart beat fastening and sweat started to cover me. The thought of my attacker made me tired than the day’s work and the cold advice of the policemen made me shudder, and the whole incidents makes me nervous about the next day.

My attackers are no different from the average people whom I met in the street, or the people whom I work with. The mute spectators are not different either; they are the same faces I see when I look out of the window, when I turn left or right. How can I ever know this or that person will attack me and which one will not? I doubt I’ll ever find the answer, so I’ll have to live with the fear until time and memories sympathize with me and make me forget all about the incident.

I had always been concerned about my sisters and nieces, but it seems I hardly understand their feeling. Fearing about something that we never experience and fearing something that we had experienced is totally different. Looking back now, I’m especially angry with my self and at the policemen who advised me to quietly go back home. I had run away from seeking justice, thus failing not only myself, but my sisters and nieces and everyone else who might face the same situation in the future.

But when I asked myself –if something similar happened to someone in my presence, will I be the same mute spectator? I just don’t know how to answer that. I had been a mute spectator to many incidents unless it got anything to do with my immediate family, of course, they were much less minor, but my stand had always been –it’s better to avoid any sort of trouble as long as it can be avoided, and I still think that’s the best policy especially when living in the mainland.

Do I still think that’s the best policy? Well, I don’t know. A week has passed now, and I still dreaded taking that same route. I took only the main road, fighting for spaces with cycles, rickshaws, scooters and cars. But do I feel any safer on the main road –no, the incident still haunts me. And, something tells me that if I’m attacked here, no one would help me either but there’ll definitely be lots of spectators. After all, how can I expect anyone to get involved in a trouble that got nothing to do with him?

I think you must feel the same way I feel. This is a deep rooted problem facing not just you and me but everyone else. My case is not one of a kind, it happened every now and then, though it’s probable that my facial feature may make it easier for me to be selected out of the rest. But I still must maintain that it’s just my misfortune that the bridge would fall just as I passed.

I think such incidents would continue to happen until people get more educated and civilized enough to respect one another for what they are. And I sincerely hope our policemen learnt a little bit more about policing and instead of dissuading, they should encourage and try to earn the trust of the people. After all, misfortune alone doesn’t bring down the bridge.

No comment please, I’m recovering…

LIVING IN THE EDGE: IN THE VALLEY OF FEAR

My innocent little friend asked me why most of the insurgent groups in the north-east describe themselves as revolutionary or liberation army. It stupefied me; it’s just too complicated and confusing to even describe. For me, they are revolutionary or liberating only in their efforts of letting animals hold guns to kill humans.

‘97 and the following chaos had taught me not to be too outspoken about any issues related to such groups, but my inability to forget their misconducts, apart from stealing away my childhood, hardly changed my views towards them. Apart from that their very presences bring fears and chaos in the society, and demands (though shaken) some reproach.

I first heard of the ZRA, KNF, KNA, etc. when troubles brewed in ’97, and as a Zomi, I have to thank the ZRA for saving my butt, and well, my head. I would earnestly bow my head in respect for what they did during that time, but I resented, as a Zomi, the ZRA of post-2000. The simple reason is, they look like the underworld (mafia) –working only for the vested-interests and pockets of their supreme bosses. The same apply to all of the outfits in Manipur.

The very foundation of their organization, I suppose, is to provide securities and fight for the causes of the communities, but most of the time, they are the source of communal discords, many other excesses and the trouble maker. Ask anyone in the streets, I’m pretty sure they will express the same sentiments.

Ignoring the brutalities and human right violations, the total ineffectiveness of the ‘never-the-first-choice’ Indian security forces gives us no choice but to embrace the ‘Z’, the ‘K’ or the ‘Etc.’ as our respective guardian. So there is no point in raising the questions of our security under them or their worth as our guardian, but I want to ask if they have any respect for us or are we their mere subjects liable to their wishes.

It is pretty high time that we, the common folks as well as the outfits, evaluate our situation and position within our respective communities. Do we, the common people, still need them or do they have served their purposes? Is their vision realistic, what steps they had taken in that direction and do we support that vision? While on the other hand, the outfits need to honestly assess, above everything, their standing and worth in their respective communities’ lives.

As a common folks, for me the main question is –can we do without them? Ask me if I am afraid of them; yes I am. I fear them as much as I feared a mad cow. Do I hate their presence; of course I do, they are loaded guns. But do I wish them away; only if all of them can be wished away in one go. If not, past experiences will force me not to, for those outfits are the one that can keep the other outfits at bay, and I still want my chance to fight for another tomorrow.

I’m not a critic of them, but rather, considering the role they played in our community, I want them to reform and organize in a better way, and keep their goal in their mind. I don’t want to be identified by the violence that they practice, like the Muslims are identified with fundamentalism and jihadi.

If those outfits are serious about the cause they are fighting for, let them fight like a gentleman, holding their heads high, with pride and dignity –not like the gangsters, who stole in the middle of the night or the mobsters who get their way by threatening and frightening everyone.

With all those outfits around, life for the common man is like living in the edge. You can’t expect everybody to know how to balance and counter-balance issues; which are a necessity for our daily survival as you are not given many priorities. It is like juggling 3 knives –pay too much attention to one and the other will hit you in the head, pay too much attention to the going-on around you and you will go crazy, but if you don’t pay attention, it may cost you your life.

There is no middle path here, silence may help but it is not always the answer. But then, talking doesn’t help much either, especially in this part of the world where everyone with a little authority, starting from the Chief Minister, are as deaf as a statue. Apart from that, be it talking or writing, they expect you not to cross a certain limit, or your warning may come in the form of death.

I don’t find any appropriate word to describe the situation we live in. Express your feeling and you’re forced to remain silent, remain silent and nobody will care about you. Cry for help, but there’s no one to hear you, definitely not the government, neither will the outfits. Apparently the government and the outfits don’t give a damn about you. Apparently the government and the outfits don’t know that forced silence is a horrifying torment, and an unattended cry for help is the superlative of all brutality.

The unresponsive government and the reckless militants pushed us all to the edge; suppressed anger, desperation and helplessness forced us to be more aggressive, more brutal or to totally give-up on everything. Our daily life is a struggle for survival, being cheated of even the most basic of facilities supposed to be provided free of cost by the government, the common folks are left at the mercy of our merciless shylocks to be fleeced to their bones.

But we are survivors, we have survived thus far, and our survivor instincts are strong. I only hope those militants apprehend and appreciate our daily struggle. God helps us all…

Long Live The Zomi! Happy Zo Minam Day!

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

In the Footstep of an Angel

My little job requires me to move and work all around the country and there are many instances when I found myself in some extremely isolated places deep in the mainland of the country. And I must tell you there are quite a number of times when I found myself being the exotic one. People would come to see me or stare at me forgetting whatever they are doing, and as if they expect you to know their language, they would talk to you and laughed heartily at whatever you said.

I remember working for a little over two week in a small town in the tribal dominated state of Malkangiri in the south of Orissa. My job doesn’t require me to go out much but my boss and other consultants from our firm have to go all over the sub-division for meeting with all sorts of people to discuss their problems, what can be done, their conditions and standards of life, and they asked me to come along and help them since I hardly have anything to do at that time.

I don’t have to attend any meeting and thought of spending the days inside my room in the state guest house. But after the first two meeting on the first day itself, my boss have to send for me since the villagers enquire too often about me. After that I was part of every meeting though I hardly have any role in those meetings nor do I have anything to spoke about, but as soon as the meeting is over, everybody would come first to me to shake hand, and if there is anything to be eaten, it was started with me.

When we work in the makeshift office, I, and my laptop are the most exciting thing to watch, all the staffs in the guest house would stand behind me to watch me working with my colourful daily schedules in excel sheet. When I went out to buy some fruits, if they do charge me, they ensure that I get more than I paid for. On the roadside, they would ask me to taste some fruits or food, and even if I grimace, rather then being offended, they laughed heartily.

At first, I was embarrassed at the treatment I get, I know pretty well that I am a nonentity, I have no rank and I am no consultant. This is in total contrast to the treatment I got in Delhi which was etched in my mind like a scar. Then I started getting curious and suspicious else they are expecting something from me.

The consultants were also curious but they said it was just because of the difference in my face, but that don’t satisfy me so I started enquiring by myself. One day I happened to meet a man who spoke a little English and it was from him that I learned of the Doctor.

It seems nearly a decade before I was here, a ‘foreign man’ (a Filipinos missionary named Dr. Santiago, I later learned) served here. He was basically a doctor, and died before he can fulfil his mission. But within the two years he spent here building up his base, he had done a lot of development work like a water harvesting reservoir for their farm, digging fish ponds and many well for the villages around here apart from working as a doctor without charging anything.

It frighten me to think that I was compared with someone of that stature, though in some way it saved me from the name-calling that I was very familiar with wherever I go. I thought the best way to deal with the situation was to continue being myself and do nothing to strenghten or weaken the illusion they had of that great man. Fortunately the Team Leader sensing my discomfort asked me to leave for the base office.

I thought of looking up for some information on the net about that good Doctor, but there was none and I never got the chance to go back to the place. This is my tribute to that Good Doctor, I only wish I have known his full name or at least some more information about him. May God increases his tribes! ©lyan

(An extract from my diary dated February, 2007)