“Loneliness in the Midst of Curfews”: The Mizo Insurgency Movement and Terror Lore*

“Loneliness in the Midst of Curfews”: The Mizo Insurgency Movement and Terror Lore*                                                                                                                   

TERROR LORE1 IS PARTICULARLY apt when applied to the north eastern states of India, where such struggles constitute part of each of their very recent histories, and where, as a result, stories, songs and various lores have emerged, reflecting the experiences of entire generations of people who have grown up under the shadow of such terror. This fear, in most cases may be a consequence of the reign of terror inflicted upon a nation or society by the dominant political group or a militant group fighting for various causes, with violence being the main force behind their actions in both cases. Terror lore may be a component or variation of what is commonly known as the urban legend, although, of course, the reason for the birth of the terror lore is more specific, and all terror lore may not achieve the status of an urban legend in contemporary culture as it deals with a specific area with the possibility that it may have relevance for only a specific percentage of the population, notably, those who have actually undergone and experienced the trauma. The Mizo insurgency movement, spearheaded by the Mizo National Front (MNF), took up arms against the Indian Government in an effort to preserve its independence. It had the support of the people, and by 1966, many volunteers had joined the MNF, who then went underground. The Central Government responded by sending in its troops who then made every effort to curb the insurgency movement.  Their efforts included methodically burning the areas inhabited by the people, including Aizawl, but also many villages; in an effort to make the administration easier to manage, villages were “grouped” together. Further, the agrarian society suffered considerably and simple village folk were reduced to a state of near starvation. At this point, the Army offered rewards to anyone who would act as an informer and report the names of people who were sympathetic to the MNF cause, and compelled by their situation, there were some who could not resist the temptation for the few favors given to  them by the Army. They therefore, became informers, and, with a cloth covering their faces to hide their identity, they were taken around the villages, and whoever they pointed their fingers at was understood to be a rebel, or someone sympathetic to the Movement, and they were rapidly disposed of.People, therefore lived in perpetual fear of being literally “pointed at.” Whereas earlier, their fear was directed at the Army alone, now it was compounded by a fear of their own people. The MNF, on the other hand, retaliated by ruthlessly killing whoever they believed were traitors and informers. Hence, for the common people, there was another element of the fear they lived in, fear of being accused as an informer. Neither the Army nor the MNF wasted time investigating the truth of the allegations and reports; punishment was swift and carried the unmistakable message that others were warned not to repeat such acts of rebellion or betrayal. Under such conditions, people literally lived between the hammer and the anvil.With the Central Government and the MNF unable to reach any sort of agreement, the situation reached an impasse and continued in this way for approximately twenty years. During this entire period, although life limped back to normalcy at the surface level, yet the situation was such that there was an intangible fear and insecurity in the psyche of the Mizos, and this unease grew to be part of their everyday life. Curfews continued to be imposed at night all this while, and thus Mizoram gained the dubious distinction of having one of the longest curfews imposed upon any territory in the world. With Jet fighters dropping bombs over Aizawl, Mizoram again became the only instance of India bombing its own territory.Yet, against this tumultuous backdrop, life carried on, and the imagination and creativity of the people could not be stifled. The terror they underwent, in fact, gave rise to a whole new body of creative outpourings largely characterized by pain and pathos. When the Movement was at its peak, i.e. in the 60s and early 70s, the act of writing itself posed innumerable risks, and was reason enough to be considered a suspect in the eyes of the Army, whose soldiers were often illiterate themselves. Even if they were literate, they did not understand the Mizo language, and therefore, could not differentiate between potentially harmful documents and harmless creative outpourings. Thus, rather than go through the hassle of being accused as rebels and insurgents, people avoided writing as much as possible. Much of whatever little was available by way of written records of this period, such as diaries, journals, and creative writing were burnt either by the Army, or by the authors themselves, for fear of punishment. Also, there was a lot of censorship in the media, notably the All India Radio, which was the media most popular and easily available to the masses. Folk songs, thus, played an important part in reflecting the state of mind of the people, notably the psychological and emotional impact of terror upon them. In the event, many of the folk songs that emerged at this time became transmitters of collectively shared feelings and sentiments; with the singers themselves taking on the role of “vectors.” 2Time constraints permit us to take up only a few examples of such songs; these songs gained popularity literally by word-of-mouth, through repetition and imitation, since a majority of them never even found their way into the recording studios to be preserved in the form of audio albums. One such song is called “Curfew Kara Suihlunglen” (“Loneliness in the Time of Curfews”) by K.Rammawia, which poignantly talks about the loneliness of the young man in terror-ridden times. While normal life had come to almost a complete standstill in many aspects, young men were still young men, going through the emotional changes that every young man undergoes at any time, and any place. Romance was especially hard to sustain when circumstances were such that one did not know where one’s next meal would be coming from, or whether one would, in fact, survive to partake of the next meal. Mizo men traditionally woo their women by visiting them at night in their homes. Obviously, with the strict imposition of the curfew, such liberties were a thing of the past. There is an amusing lore that reflects the ingenuity of the young men during this period. Since some of the youth persisted in visiting the women at night, they faced a great risk of running into the patrolling army men during curfew hours. If they happened to run into the soldiers, they would pretend to be village-criers. The practice of using village-criers to inform the community of deaths and other happenings had been continued in the cities as well, and the authorities did not question their existence and role. Thus the young men, on espying the soldiers from a distance, would suddenly shout at the top of their lungs as if announcing something of vital importance. They took care that the community was not unnecessarily alarmed by only shouting some nonsensical words, and the jawans (soldiers) oblivious to the ridiculous meanings of their words, let them be. In this way, there was a subtle subversion of, and a sly mocking of the authorities. With the heavy constraints imposed upon the liberties of the youth taking its toll on their morale, songs such as these gained popularity:

“Aw, lunglen Curfew karah hian,            

Tuar a har hrilh ka thiam zo love;          

  Hmanah Zoram nun leh chim loh Thadangi zun,          

  Ngaih hian chin lem a nei thei dawn lo.” ³         

 (O, loneliness in the midst of curfews,           

 The anguish of my heart is beyond words;         

 My longing for Zoram’s past and Thadangi’s charms

Never will come to an end).

Another verse laments the curtailing of the individual’s freedom and remembers with nostalgia the former life of the Mizos before such intrusions and impositions:         

“Tlaikhua a lo ngui zantlai bawhar dung thulin,           

Riahrun kan bel Curfew hran vang hian;           

Leng zawng hian  ngai ve maw, hmana kan Zoram nun?           

Kei zawng ka ngai, ka dawn sei ngam lo.” ⁴          

  (Weary night descends like the lassitude of cocks at dusk,          

  Curfew instills terror, and we are homebound;           

Do you too, yearn for the ways of old Zoram?         

As for me, loneliness forbids me to dwell long on it).         

The solitude of the lone singer, while it can be read on one level as the longing for his beloved, goes deeper; the loneliness he talks of is soul-deep. Keeping the context in mind, it can be assumed that he, and many young men and women like him, misses his family (probably scattered, if not dead), his home (probably burnt down), his village (either razed to the ground or desolate because of the grouping of villages), and his friends (most of whom he probably has lost touch with, in the desperate fight for survival where ties like that of friendship cannot afford to bind). In effect, his lament is for an entire way of life, seemingly lost now, forever. There are songs that tell of the burning of the village of Sialsuk. In one of these songs, after the singer has mourned the destruction of his beloved village, he exhorts his audience to rise up and rebuild the village, and fight back for the freedom they have lost. He envisions the glory which they will reclaim:

“Puini  tawng kan vangkhua hian lallai a sang tual tual,

Kawrvai i hnawl ang aw, zalen nan kawl a eng mahna;

Rangka dartui ngei an chuan ang aw,

Hlimten i vawr ang thlangsappui biahzai a thang ta e.” ⁵         

(Our village meets with glory, our nobility asserts itself,           

 Resist the Vai,  the dawn of freedom’s may yet light up the horizon,           

 Walk we will, on streets paved with gold,           

Sing songs of joy, our fame now reaches distant white shores).         

With regard to my queries about the line “our fame now reaches distant white shores,” the common consensus seems to be that Mizos have often seen the White Man as their Savior, undoubtedly a result of the influence of white missionaries who came to India in the late 1800s. Missionaries educated the people, built hospitals and schools, and generally helped to uplift the society as part of their Mission work, and thus they were held in high esteem. Significantly, though, there are little recollections and reflections concerning the other kind of white person, viz., the government employee. When one looks at nostalgic and appreciative reports of white people, the white people in question are inevitably the missionaries. Anyhow, this view of white people as being superior and capable of saving Mizos from destruction was further reinforced at this time by a widespread rumor that the suffering of Mizos had reached the ears of the UNO, and they would appear to rescue and help form an independent country for Mizos any day nowPeople, unable to accept the implications of their new reality, clung on to any hope offered, however distant the possibilities. Another song, also on the burning of Sialsuk village, expresses the bewilderment and anguish collectively felt by the villagers on witnessing the devastation of Sialsuk in the wake of the army’s actions:         

“Hmanah kan pi puten an chawi, vangkhawpui par a chuai,Kawrvaillian doral an chang ta;

Thinlai kawl eng a var thei lo.

Tlang tinah pheisen lunglian nghosei ang an hrang e.Vankhawpui leh lallai run mawitu

Chengrang tuilian ang an la e.” ⁶           

(The flower that our forefathers sang of has wilted,           

The might of Vais has become our enemy;           

 Dawn cannot light up the heart’s darkness.           

Every hilltop is rife with soldier’s anger like wild elephant’s,           

The armor that bedecked every household           

Snatched away from us like the ebbing tide).

One of the best known songs that emerged during this period, “Khawkhawm Hla” or “Grouping Song” transmits the agony of villagers who were typically given a day’s notice to prepare for such groupings. In the space of twenty four hours, they had to leave their homes, their fields, their domestic animals, and everything that had given them a sense of security and identity. With just the bare necessities, they were relocated and grouped into one of the bigger villages. Such moves obviously left deep psychological scars in the mentality of the people, and it is a trauma that many have not yet recovered from to this day:

Kan hun tawng zingah khawkhawm a pawi ber mai,           

 Zoram hmun tin khawtlang puan ang a chul zo ta

Tlangtin a mi hruai khawm nu nau mipui nen

Chhunrawl an van, riakmaw iangin an vai e. ⁷ 

(Grouping is the most tragic of all that has befallen us,

Every corner of Zoram is faded like an old cloth,

Children, women, people from everywhere,

Starve under the noonday sun, lost, like the riakmaw).]          

For many, only faith and religion remained to give a glimmer of hope for redemption, if not in this life, then in the afterlife:          

Kan Chatuan Pa vankhua ka ngai zual thin,          

Lungduh lenrual an kimma khawpui thar nuam,          

Min hmangaihtu Lalnunnema tual lenna.                                                                                                                            

(It makes me long all the more for our Heavenly Father’s abode,           

A new city of joy where departed loved ones all gather,   

Where the Gentle Lord, Lover of my soul, spends His days). 

Linguistically, the vocabulary of the common man was irrevocably changed by the reign of terror. For instance, the term vai is used by the Mizos to describe a non-tribal or a person from the plain areas, who is easily distinguished by differences in facial features when compared to the mongoloid features of Mizos (much like the Khasis’ use of dkhar or Manipuris using mayang to denote non-tribals). Although this term had been in use right from the time when Mizos first came into contact with non-tribal traders such as traveling salesmen and peddlers who came into Mizoram much earlier, it began to take on negative connotations in common parlance because of the hostility towards the vais. The term itself is said to have originated as a corruption of the Hindi word bhai, which these “outsiders” frequently used. Despite the fact that the term itself has no specific meaning other than this, the non-tribals / vais themselves began to interpret this term as an insult to them, and it was banned from use in the government-run media like the AIR and local newspapers, as well as official correspondence during this time.⁸Interestingly, though, people continue to use the term to this day, although cultural attitudes have changed and it is no longer considered a derogatory word as such. Other linguistic imports include words like “curfew,” “bandh,” “parole,” “grouping,” and “refugee,” among others, which are now part and parcel of common usage in Mizoram.          In any case, what emerges is the significant role that the oral tradition has played and continues to play in the chronicling of events that have happened in the past, especially with reference to the Insurgency Movement in Mizoram, which spanned 20 years. However, as folklorists have observed, oral records are largely based on memory, and as a scholar has pointed out, human memory is fallible, and information may be lost, misinterpreted or even become untraceable with the passage of time. ⁸ Somewhat similar to what Toni Morrison describes as “national amnesia,” ⁹there seems to have been a reluctance to actually put down in writing the horrific experience of that period by those who actually underwent it. Toni Morrison uses this term in connection with the avoidance of the issue of slavery by contemporary Americans, black and white alike. ¹⁰ Much of what we know has been handed down to us by word-of-mouth. Of late, there has been a revival of interest about the events taking place during 1966-1986, but the dearth of written records has given rise to certain discrepancies and inconsistencies by those who have attempted such scholarship. As C. Lalsangliana notes, ¹¹this could have tragic consequences to the way the history of the Mizos is recorded in the future. Therefore, the need of the hour is to make whole-hearted and systematic efforts at documenting such records while the repositories of such lores are still alive.                             

Notes and References            

* An earlier version of this paper was presented in the at the 29th Indian Folklore Congress and National Seminar on Oral Discourse and Ancient Knowledge Systems of North East India at NEHU, Shillong on September 20-22, 2006.           

1. The term “terror lore” was coined by Dr. Desmond Kharmawphlang to denote the type of lore that emerges in a society as a result of the fear and insecurity that people collectively undergo. (Personal communication with Dr. Desmond Kharmawphlang, Center for Cultural and Creative Studies, NEHU, Shillong. August 20, 2006).           

2. Jan Harold Brunvand uses the term “vector” (after the concept of a biological vector) to describe a person or entity passing along an urban legend or lore. See his The Vanishing Hitchhiker: American Urban Legends and Their Meanings. (New York, 2003). p.2.

3. See K. Rammawia, “Curfew Kara Suihlunglen” In Mizo Hla Larte. 3^rd ed. Ed. Ellis Saidenga (Lunglei, 1995). p. 11.

4.      Ibid.

5.      “Sialsuk Khaw Kan Hla”© Laltanpuia, Dec 28, 1966.

6.      ‘Sialsuk Khaw Kan Hla’ © Laltanpuia, Aug. 1966.           

7. “Khawkhawm Hla” © Suakliana, circa 1967. Riakmaw is the name of a bird that gives a plaintive cry as it is denied a resting place for the night by all the trees that it approaches.           

8.  Vanneihtluanga, former All India Radio [AIR] employee and prominent writer. Personal Communication. Aizawl, August 21, 2006.            

9.  See Margaret Ch. Zama, “Various Aspects of the Oral Tradition of the Mizo.” ICHR National Seminar. (Dept. of History & Ethnography, MizoramUniversity. Aizawl, 2-4 May, 2006).           

10. Toni Morrison, Black American writer, uses this term in connection with the avoidance of the issue of slavery by contemporary Americans, black and white alike. She says:[I'd written because it [slavery] is about something that the characters don’t want to remember, I don’t want to remember, black people don’t want to remember, white people don’t want to remember. I mean, it’s national amnesia.]“Toni Morrison: The Pain of Being Black”, (Interview), Bonnie Angelo, Time Magazine, May 22, 1989.           

11. C. Lalsangliana, “Ka Tih Reng Kha!,” Vanglaini. August 10, 2006. (Aizawl: Charity Press).                              Notes and References 

Brunvand, Jan Harold 2003): The Vanishing Hitchhiker: American Urban Legends    and Their Meanings. New York: Norton.

Lalsangliana, C. “Ka Tih Reng Kha!,” Vanglaini. August 10, 2006. Aizawl: Charity Press.

Laltanpuia 1966: “Sialsuk Khaw Kan Hla”© Dec 28, 1966.           

1966: “Sialsuk Khaw Kan Hla”© August, 1966.Morrison, Toni, Black American writer, uses this term in connection with the    avoidance of the issue of slavery by contemporary Americans, black and        white alike.Rammawia, K. 1995: “Curfew Kara Suihlunglen” In Mizo Hla Larte. 3^rd ed. Ed.       Ellis Saidenga Lunglei: Zo-En. Vanneihtluanga, Personal Communication. Aizawl, August 21, 2006. Zama, Margaret Ch. 2006: “Various Aspects of the Oral Tradition of the Mizo.”     [paper presented in the Indian Council of Historical Research [ICHR]           sponsored national seminar in the Dept. of History & Ethnography,             Mizoram University. Aizawl, May 2-4, 2006).  +   *Dept. of EnglishMizoram University, TanhrilAizawl.- 09, Mizoram. INDIAe-mail:      

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