https://www.dhakatribune.com/op-ed/2022/02/03/silence-in-nagaland
So many things have changed in our world, as we continue to hurtle into the unprecedented. But that is much less the case just over 500 kilometres across the Bangladesh border in India’s spectacularly beautiful state of Nagaland, which has remained hostage to the unconscionable Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act for over 60 years. Under the AFSPA, extending right from the early 1950s, this part of the country keeps on being labelled and re-labelled “disturbed”, which grants the military the right to act with virtual impunity “even if it causes death.” In this way, full three generations of Nagas have been compelled to live under draconian strictures, which – over time – have been extended (and much less often withdrawn) across several other parts of the country as well: Assam, Manipur, Arunachal Pradesh, Kashmir, even Punjab and Chandigarh Until very recently, things did seem to be getting better. An uneasy ceasefire held since 1997, which has allowed Nagaland to thrive in many ways. Of particular significance is the dramatic transformation of the cities of Dimapur and Kohima, by an endlessly impressive social, cultural and economic renaissance of global significance. But then, on 4th December last year, an ugly reminder of the underlying status quo. On their way home from arduous labours in an open-pit coal mine, a truckful of young villagers was ambushed and fired upon by Indian special forces, who allegedly suspected they were militants. 13 were killed, and the region was plunged into anguish. Then, at the end of the month, despite the pleas of Nagaland’s chief minister Neiphiu Rio (joined by many other regional leaders), AFSPA was renewed yet again, underlining that the central government finds the entirety of the state “in such a disturbed and dangerous condition that the use of armed forces in aid of the civil power is necessary.” Writing in *The Statesman* on January 3, the great writer and novelist Easterine Kire mourned, “the rest of the world has moved into the new year with hope and expectations, but we cannot move on from Oting. Time has stopped for all who are Naga.” Kire elaborated, “The youngest victim was 17 years old. He escaped the first hail of bullets and managed to run and take shelter in a shed nearby. He still had his phone with him. Trembling, he called his family and shakily told them, “The driver of the pickup truck is dead. The Army shot at us and many of the others are dead. I am so scared.” Those were his last words. A few minutes later as his family members desperately called him back, there was no response. The soldiers had returned and shot him dead.” She shared that, “this story made me weep for days. But tears make very poor ink.” Writing with her characteristic restraint, wisdom and piercing insight, Kire concluded: “There is a deep silence that quietens every other sound when Oting is mentioned. Words fail. A Naga-American observes, “Sometimes silence calms more than words.” A silence that is the fittest companion to pain. It is not the silence of despair. It is the silence that bows to pain and acknowledges the sacredness of life, and the finality of death. The silence that waits upon divine justice for we have lost all hope in the justice of men.” In her own immediate response to the Oting tragedy in the excellent *Raiot.in*, the brilliant anthropologist and writer Dolly Kikon (she is based at the University of Melbourne) ruefully noted that “many extrajudicial killings were forgotten in the past. This one will be no different. Eventually, those who continue to remember the 13 coal miners will be perceived as inconvenient commentators.” Kikon wrote that “to remember our Naga past is often considered a burden. Yet, moments like this take away the dreaded fog of fantasy. The Naga past is filled with stories of weeping as our elders buried thousands of bodies with bullet marks. Our heartbreak and rage are not new. The beautiful Naga villages that adorn the covers of tourism brochures also hold tales of horrifying events carried out under AFSPA. The memories hang like mist even today.” Earlier this week, I emailed Kikon at her home in Australia, to ask if she sees anything shifting since Oting. She responded, “For those of us who were part of the human rights movement before the Indo-Naga Ceasefire Agreement in 1997, the horrors of state violence and extrajudicial killings were real. Naga elders and my generation remain traumatized and scarred. With the Oting killings and the government of India's absolute apathy to respect the Naga people's demands for the repeal of AFPSA, I see an entire generation - those who were born after 1997 - rise up with power and fire to take up the quest for justice.” This is a crucial juncture, says Kikon: “What is at stake is losing the trust of a new generation of young and thinking minds to engage in anything meaningful or substantial with the government of India. What is at stake is India's shaky and fragile commitment to justice and human rights.” Those are vital questions, with huge implications for everyone in this vast nation of close to 1.5 billion citizens, so I asked Kikon what the rest of us could do to help. She told me, “solidarity begins by acknowledging the varied experiences of citizenship in India. To begin with, listen and be present. Be there, teach, share, and start dialogues about what happens beyond Delhi - or the centers of powers.” Kikon explained, “Allyship means learning to step away from the individual spotlight and focusing on community care and collective vision. This can mean art, research, storytelling, dance, poetry - at the heart of allyship is love for one another. Do we love and care for one another as fellow beings? Do we respect, nurture, and mourn for injustice together? Those who are able to reach out and weep together during times of sorrow are also able to embrace and share the light.”
