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Through the Lanes of Longwa

On one of the extreme north-eastern corners of our country, lies an exceptional village known as Longwa, that shares its border with Myanmar, as well as grants the inhabitants of the village dual citizenship. We must have read in social science books that our country does not grant dual citizenship, but this village is an only exception as its residents enjoy this rare privilege, since some things permeate the physical boundaries of a political border. Under the Free Movement Regime (FMR), the residents of Longwa can go upto 16 kilometres from the border and stay upto 14 days without having to go through any formal visa arrangements. They are also allowed to trade, participate in festivals or social and cultural activities, on either side of the border.

Longwa is located in the Mon district of Nagaland, roughly a three hours ride from the centre of Mon town. The residents belong to the Konyak tribe of Nagaland, who were famous for being warriors and head-hunters, till they converted into Christianity around the 1960s. The last generation of head-hunters still reside in various villages of Mon district. Currently, 21 former head-hunters reside in Longwa, all of them in their eighties and nineties now. They possess the signature face tattoos and wear a heavy necklace with brass skulls to signify the numbers of heads they have hunted. Only the warriors who dared to bring their Angh the heads of their enemies, were honoured with a face tattoo, as a symbol of bravery. Konyaks were amongst the last tribes of Nagaland to convert into Christianity. 

The road to Longwa is surprisingly smooth, barring some potholes, thanks to the Konyak students’ union, as some residents mentioned, it was the young students who first initiated the construction of the paved road. It is an uphill ride through the hills and a lush green landscape, where it keeps getting colder according to the elevation. Longwa is located at an elevation of 1500 metres. The silence throughout the dense forests can be either soothing or eerie, but when ears are lent attentively, a myriad variety of birds can be heard, ornithologists can identify even, the chirpings are so clear and distinct.

Traces of the existence of Longwa village goes back to the 16th century, way before the British government drew the political borders, or even the birth of the independent states of India and Myanmar. It was in the year 1971 that both the nations decided to demarcate the boundary line through the middle of Longwa. The border pillar was erected with inscriptions written both in Hindi as well as Burmese, on either side.

Writing or reading about this kind of border demarcation gives the political perspective a lot more emphasis, perhaps even making it appear as something extremely peculiar; but for the actual people living out there, from the socio-cultural perspective, it is simply a way of life – mundane, stable and peaceful. In a very subtle manner, this shows how human bonds matter more than artificial lines of cartography.

The people of Longwa have never made a big deal out of this border situation and continue to live in harmony. This also sheds light on the deep bonding and solidarity within the people of the tribe as well as their capacity to adapt to the changing geopolitical scenario of the modern world. The nearest town on the Myanmar side is called Lahe, which falls under the Naga Self-Administered Zone of Sagaing Division. People casually walk across the border to collect woods, send children to school, buy groceries, meet friends or family and so on. It is also a common sight to see men riding around the village in Kenbo or Canda motorcycles, which they procure from Myamnar – these motorcycles are made in China and usually imported in Myanmar. These motorbikes are a huge hit amongst the villagers as an affordable and reliable mode of transportation for carrying supplies across villages. 

Longwa is the largest village in the remote Mon district. There are approximately 6000-7000 people residing as of now, who speak the Longwa dialect fluently (Every village in Mon district has their own dialect that is known by the village’s name only). Some of the people can also hold conversations in Nagamese and English languages. There are five schools in the village at present and one more private school is under construction. Burmese language is also taught in the schools, so the children usually grow up to be multilingual.

Apart from the government and private schools for formal education, there is also the presence of the morung – an institution of the Nagas, where young unmarried men learn the basics of the social, cultural and religious life, as well as skills related to craftsmanship and warfare. It is considered as one of the most significant markers of the Naga cultural heritage. Inside a morung, elders would pass on all their life learnings through stories, customs and rituals, generation after generation. Morungs can be loosely translated as “youth dormitories” and every Naga tribe has their own distinct pattern of a morung. There are a total of seven morungs in the whole village of Longwa. In the present times, with the advent of Christianity, the original functions of a morung has reduced drastically, but people still keep the essence of a morung alive.

The entire village, consisting of both sides, is ruled by the hereditary Chief (or Angh) Tonyei Phawang, who happens to be the 10th generation Chief of Longwa. The international border cuts through the middle of Angh’s house, with the right side in India and left side in Myanmar (from the front). It indeed is a unique sight to watch. Inside the Angh’s house, there lay quite some old Konyak artefacts; in one of the corners of the huge kitchen, souvenirs are kept on display, which is also for sale. One can also buy souvenirs special to the Konyak artistry, made by residents of the village themselves - such as bead jewellery, bamboo craftworks, wooden sculptures and so on.

As the headhunting and fighting practices have subsided within the community, people of Longwa have started to focus more on their cultural heritage and how to sustain its significance – by preserving their rich history, one of a kind cultural tapestry, brilliant craftsmanship, songs and dances enacting stories from their past practices, which are getting passed on across the generations as oral history.

The Konyaks are known to be brilliant craftsmen, skilled at wooden and bamboo works. Skulls are the most common carvings, seen almost everywhere, owing to the prior headhunting practice of the tribe. Every house has these wooden sculptures, welcoming at their door or on the dining table edges, with carvings that relate to stories and rituals from their ancestors. These handicrafts are extensively made by the people of Longwa, as an effort by the people to sustain their heritage along with an honest income. 

“All wooden sculptures that you see have some story. Storytelling is the main objective behind everything we make.”, suggests Nokao Longsa, a young man who envisions building a museum in Longwa one day, to commemorate the Konyak history and tradition under one roof. “We mostly use the wood of peen tree. This is what we call the tree in Longwa dialect. I do not know what that tree is called in English.”, informs Nokao, who is also a great communicator and helps the older craftsmen with selling their sculptures, by getting them in touch with tourists or researchers who visit Longwa. He goes on to add, “There are around twenty-five to thirty wood carvers in Longwa now.” Wood is used to make almost everything – houses, pillars, panels, benches, chairs, tables and so on. Even rifles are made with this wood. Rifles are common amongst the Konyaks and a part of their tradition, almost every household has one rifle, which is used only during rituals. “Royal families possess wooden log drums whose heads usually have the carving of an animal. These log drums can last many generations and are usually kept at the front doors to signify the family’s status.”, Nokao shares as he points towards the log drum kept in front of his front door.

As we can conclude, storytelling is a huge aspect of the Konyaks and that becomes excessively evident during the harvest time in the first week of April, when they celebrate the annual Aoleang festival with anecdotes passed on by their ancestors – keeping alive the stories through dancing, singing, feasting and praying. The people enact scenes from battles or other acts of bravery that honour their ancestors, the traditional fighting skills and weaponry are displayed as a performance. Apart from days of festivities, even on regular days, Longwa has a character of its own. The people here are aware of their distinct cultural heritage and thrive on mutual respect. Explorers and curiosity seekers shall surely be satisfied with the warm hospitality of the Konyaks in Longwa.  


Author: Avidha Raha

A Few Weeks with Head Hunters

It is 1968. I am working with Pat, Subrata Patranobis. There is a knock at the door. The peon whispers - Abhi sab, ‘aapko bara sahab talab kiya’.

I enter Desla’s room. There are no empty chairs. So, I sit on his table. That is quite usual. We call him Desla out of love and regard, He is an outstanding journalist, an artist of quintessential quality and a world class photographer. Desmond Doig, himself is an outward-bound person. His travelogues and memoirs enchant all. He speaks Nepali fluently and a little bit of Assamese too. After the short meeting, he tells me to meet him in the evening at his house. He lives on the 8th floor and uses the stairs both ways!

I take the lift. He is painting. We begin to talk. Tea arrives. Dubby (Bhagat) is there. He joins us. Desla tells us stories of head hunters.

‘Your tea is piss cold,’ Dubby remarks.

I take a sip. Desla takes black tea with lemon and honey. I prefer black tea.

I ask him about his Himalayan adventures. He shares his experience with Sir John Hunt in the team that first scaled the Everest. He and Sir Edmond Hillary are great friends. The phone rings. It is Tenzing Norgay. What a coincidence. They talk on the phone in fluent Nepali. Desla opens an almirah with two 100 watts bulbs inside that he never switches off. He brings out a Leica camera. This is one of the two Leica cameras from his Everest expedition.

‘Take this. It’s for you.’

I find it difficult to believe. Am I dreaming? A camera and that too a Leica being given to me by a person who is a member of the first team that went up the Everest.

I have no words to thank him. A ‘thank you’ is an insult to this person. He casually asks me if I am interested in going to Nagaland.

‘It’ll be two or more trips.’

‘Why not’? I reply. He has that enchanting smile.

I have to go to Nagaland and take photographs. He has friends in Nagaland in the seats of power. He, being a British citizen, is not allowed to take photographs. He has an article but no photographs. He is particularly interested in the Konyak head hunters. But it will take time. For coordination, I’ll need to go to Kohima.

Desla gives me several letters to people in prominent positions.

My job is to meet them and learn the dos and don’ts. Each of them talks to me for hours.


I have to behave in a way by which they treat me as a friend.

I am warned not to stray out in the evenings. I am also warned not to go anywhere without an escort. I take photographs if I spot the photography- prohibited board. There are places where I think the No Photography notice is a big joke. I have this uncanny habit of doing things that someone forbids me to do. I go to places that are marked out of bounds. I do what I feel like. I am certain news of my misdeeds will reach him. On return, fearing a rebuke in front of the whole office, I duck for a couple of days. The inevitable note arrives.

It is nearly five months before I go to Nagaland again. This time, my friend, Basudeb Mookerji accompanies me. Basudeb from the advertising domain, is also half mad like me. Instead of travelling to places of tourist interest, he decides to rough it out with me. Both of us know what lies ahead. We know we have to endure a lot of discomfort and certainly some risks.

We reach Jorhat only to find that there is no transport available to take us to Mokukchung.

A friend of my father is a lawyer in Jorhat. His client supplies material to Mokukchung. He has a Tata truck. But the driver is on leave. He has no idea when the driver is likely to return. He agrees to allow us to drive the truck to Mokukchung provided we deliver his material. We agree. So, we drive the


loaded truck all the way to Mokukchung through the winding roads and through a layer of dirt and mist.

From Mokukchung, we have to go to Tuensang. This is end of 1968 and there is hardly any proper track or surface one can describe as a road. We met Rajender Singh Bedi who is an Extra Assistant Commissioner. A young sardarji, a few years older than us, he is also, in a way, mad like us.


The three mads get in to his jeep that is carrying some 8 large bags of salt and a naga bare bodied guy with feathers on his head. So, there are no seats, we sit on the salt sacks. As we bounce along, we notice how differently the old and the young react.

The hilly winding road passes through dense jungle. Raj’s driver is Bhim. He has some other name but Bedi prefers to call him Bhim.


The jeep hardly has any brake and slows down on the hilly tracks after Bhim’s rapid 5-6 pumps on the brake. He tells me, ‘Only five pumps Sir’. And en route, we have at least 7-8 tyre punctures. There are no spare wheels.

Each time, Bhim repairs the tyre using the crudest instruments. Not once but several times the jeep’s completely bald tyres get no traction from the jungle path and needs human power.

 

Bedi has a two-room bamboo wall tin roof bungalow a few kilometers from Wakchung. One room is his office and the other is where he has a ‘char

paiya’ cot to sleep. All of us sleep on the floor in our sleeping bags.

Almost daily we walk miles up and down the adjoining 

hills to reach some village. We go to Mon and Chui and even beyond. At most places, the Aang, leader offers us fly


infested ‘madhu’, the local drink, in a hollow horn, and there is no way we can refuse.

 

There is always a fire burning inside the huts and often we see something being roasted. In one house, the Ang or the village head offers me a bite. It is a rat that is being roasted on the fire. Bedi whispers to me in English, ‘Don’t refuse.’

So, it is some kind of a test that I need to pass. I remember my friend P C Sorcar – how I wish he was with me… time I learn some magic. Late in the afternoon, we walk across to the hut of the Chief Headhunter.

He stands proudly in front of the wooden racks.

I count. There are more than 300 human skulls.

‘There were many more. The last head hunt was 20 years ago’ – he says and Bedi translates.

‘The young don’t have the courage anymore.’

Thank God for that!

A moth flies in and sits on his shoulder. At lightning speed, he grabs it and puts it in his mouth.

‘Good for health.’ Bedi nods.

 His black, tattooed face and the axe he carries in his hand give me the jitters.

Yet, he is calm and quite friendly. When he smiles, I see black teeth. He shows me a piece of wood with four horns on top and a lock of hair dangling beneath it.

‘The hair belongs to a girl I killed long ago.’

‘I used to wear it when I went headhunting. Good old days. And as the hairs swayed against my thigh

muscles, it pumped blood and gave me strength to fight evil spirits. Those days are all gone.’

 The young arrives. Each of them carries a spear and an axe. One has a muzzle loader. Their faces are tattooed black. More than one has a .12 bore bullet case in their earlobes. Having seen so many persons with .12 bore bullets in their ear-lobes, I gather this is the substitute sign of bravery and manliness.


The old man peers at my camera. Bedi explains that it will not cast any spell on him or his grandson. It will make him known across the hills as a great hunter. That pleases him. How pleased he is I find in a moment. He orders for an axe.

A brand new axe appears from inside his hut.

He presents me with the lock of hair and the axe.

‘Tell them I am a good hunter.’


 

Author: Abhijit Dasgupta
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