How parochialism led to the marginalization of an entire community. An extract
Rashmi Narzary
Matters got worse when in 1970, Gauhati University decided to introduce Assamese as the medium of instruction in all colleges affiliated to it and under its jurisdiction. A sense of apprehension regarding employment prospects, bordering on a threat, began to percolate among the non-Assamese tribals. Even if they were given employment, they wouldn’t be able to work in an official language they did not know. The same apprehension was there among the students in colleges and universities. When such socio-economic insecurities crawled in, ethnic groups further alienated themselves from the greater in colleges Assamese society and huddled tighter among their own. So rather than being a binding, common language, which perhaps the imposition of Assamese was anticipated to be, it did just the opposite. It tore down Assam into fragments, in spirit and effect. The languages and dialects and thereby the identities and ethnicities of the numerous indigenous tribes of Assam lay trampled. However, the root cause of dissent owing to a sense of injustice, discrimination and deprivation among tribals in Assam, especially the Bodos, can be traced back to colonial times. Now though, with a renewed threat to their existence and also due to massive immigration, the seeds of establishing their own identity were sown in each tribe. To bow out without asserting themselves was not like them. And so a steady process of tribalization began in Assam.
The All Bodo Students’ Union (ABSU) launched the Bodo movement in 1987, demanding a separate state to be called Bodoland. This was a consequence of the failure of the Plains Tribes Council of Assam (PTCA), which had, since its inception in 1967, demanded a separate union territory for the Bodos and other plains tribes, to be called Udayachal.
Political leaders sought out their mileage from the situation and over the years, while one set of tribal leaders took to mediation and talks with the powers in Assam and Delhi, to detach from a biased Assamese society, another faction took up armed revolution. The governments at the Centre and the state began to refer to them as insurgents, ultras and militants. Earlier, when for the very same reasons, seemingly misled Assamese youth formed the United Liberation Front of Assam (ULFA) in 1979 to embark on an armed rebellion in protest against the Centre’s upper hand over Assam, they, too, were called insurgents and militants—never Assamese insurgents, Assamese ultras or Assamese militants. But when a handful of misled Bodo youth took up arms for similar reasons, they became Bodo insurgents, Bodo ultras and Bodo militants.
Due to the prefix Bodo that was constantly used by the media, by the public and even by the political leaders of Assam, it pounded into the masses the impression that Bodo was synonymous with insurgents, militants and ultras. Print and electronic media used the term ‘Bodo ugrapanthi’, meaning Bodo ultra; but ‘Oxomiya ugrapanthi’ was hardly heard of. Consequently, outside the predominantly Bodo areas of Assam, distressing vibes of either being a militant or espousing militancy, irrespective of age, profession, gender and political inclination or non-inclination, choked every Bodo. Spiteful looks sliced through the Bodo’s confidence and feeling of oneness with the rest. Those were agonizing times for Bodos living among non-Bodo or Harsaa people, as the Bodos referred to non-Bodos. Likewise, non-Bodos found it extremely difficult to live among Bodos.
‘It was the year 1988 and the Bodo agitation had gained intensity,’ Apha recollected, his eyes fixed on the fire. ‘One of my sons was in the final year of his post-graduation studies at the Gauhati University and he used to stay in one of the boys’ hostels there. Tension was already mounting among the students, especially the boarders.’
Bandhs, which often went up to over a hundred hours at a stretch, crippled the state. Any kind of non-compliance or non-support gave rise to greater chaos and rioting. Bridges along the national highway were damaged to disrupt the movement of security forces and government officials. In those days, Kokrajhar was the only district with the highest concentration of Bodo people. The non-Bodos who could leave the district did so. But those who had to continue living there due to various reasons were left gripped with terror.
‘Every morning, the newspapers would reach my son’s hostel at the university,’ Apha went on, ‘and browsing through the headlines that invariably mentioned how many were killed, how many vehicles were torched, how many Bodo ultras were picked up by the paramilitary forces or killed in encounters, the situation would turn grim inside the hostel among the boys. They would look at my son, whisper among themselves and steer clear. Some would ask him, you are a Narzary, aren’t you? Then they would look at their friends and say, “He’s a Bodo.” They stopped talking to him and all the other Bodos in the hostel. They didn’t want to have anything to do with any Bodo. The situation had turned so volatile that the slightest offence or provocation would set the hostel raging. Amidst that stifling situation, studies had to be continued and the course completed. It was, after all, my son’s final year and he could not afford to lose out. And the final exams were just around the corner. Till such time, Bodo students stuck to one another.’
As the exams began and then got over for Apha’s son’s Bodo hostel mates, one by one they began to vacate their hostels and leave. But they were anyway Bodos belonging to districts other than Kokrajhar, so they weren’t looked at with as much disdain as those from Kokrajhar. Apha hailed from Gossaigaon in Kokrajhar, the hotbed of the Bodo agitation. Eventually, Apha’s son was the only Bodo left in the boys’ hostel.
‘It was a traumatic phase for my son,’ Apha said, ‘he stayed all by himself because fellow boarders markedly showed their anger and contempt towards him, just because he belonged to a certain tribe. Just because he was a Narzary. He would walk into the dining hall all by himself, sit by himself and eat by himself, with no one to talk to or smile at, but also with everyone sending him vindictive glances that psychologically left him a total wreck. Unable to take the ordeal any longer, he left the university’s hostel and shifted in with a friend in the Assam Engineering College (AEC) hostel, which was nearby in the same Jalukbari area. Meanwhile, his theory papers had begun. At the same time, he had almost overstayed as a paying guest with the friend at the AEC hostel and had to once again change places. All this was happening while his post-graduation final exams were on, and he was emotionally and bodily insecure and apprehensive all the while. he could even be harmed physically, or his career could be jeopardized. You know,’ Apha told her, ‘there were so many like him.’
‘So Apha, did he manage to sit for all his papers that year?’ she asked.
‘He could. Once again shifting from the AEC hostel, he went to stay with someone else at their quarters and just about managed to complete his papers, before rushing back home.’
The Bodo movement has left one of the deepest scars among the Bodos too, both in the individuals as well as in the community. Stories of atrocities by the police and other security forces abound, as they went looking for extremists in Bodo villages. When they couldn’t find them, they left behind a trail of terror.
‘The old were tortured to get them to speak, women were molested and granaries were ransacked.’ Apha’s eyes glistened with fresh tears of indignation that surfaced from stoking long-buried memories. ‘Tell me now, why do you think all this madness began in the first place? Had the tribes received their rightful socio-economic, political and cultural dues from the authorities in the Centre and the state, had a spirit of brotherhood and fairness prevailed in the greater Assamese society, do think things would have come to this? They wouldn’t have!’
The night turned colder.
‘Are you sleepy, Apha?’ she asked.
He smiled, deepening the furrows between his wrinkles. Sleep had long forsaken him.
‘Feeling cold?’ she asked again.
‘Could you please run along inside and fetch me my endi shawl?’
She got up and cautiously walked across the moonlit yard into the hutment in the north. A mongrel lay curled in a heap of ash outside the thatched kitchen. The Bodo homestead usually comprises of a neat mud courtyard with dwelling hutments all around it and a sijou plant in the northeastern corner of the courtyard. This plant is worshipped as an embodiment of Bathou, Lord Shiva. Look at the coincidence! And the irony therein! For the Bodos, their own northeastern corner is the most revered and despite being at the periphery, is central to their homesteads and to their lives.
BUT I AM ONE OF YOU: NORTHEAST INDIA AND THE STRUGGLE TO BELONG
Edited by Samrat Choudhury and Preeti Gill
HarperCollins, Pg 282, Rs 599