“It’s a spiritual word which God gave us. It has no meaning in any worldly language,” Isak responded with evident pride. He went on to tell me about successful exorcisms that had been carried out in the villages, miracles that had occurred and how the three female mediums had been able to foresee every major political event in the region over the last few years—including Indira Gandhi’s assassination in October 1984.
“And then God told us he had chosen the Nagas as he had once chosen the Children of Israel to be his own people. ‘Your war will be a peculiar one, your battles not like those fought by other armies. Just as Joshua captured Jericho by blowing trumpets to summon help, so will your war be,’ God said.”
By this time I was more than a little disconcerted. But I had not heard the best. Isak was still in full flow.
“At last God told us: ‘In order to witness your work and progress, I’ll select a foreigner and send him to you.’ Now you’re here. This prophecy has at last been fulfilled.”
Vedayi, who throughout these revelations had been standing in the background with his usual manic grin, came forward hugging a large tin trunk.
“And now, we must show you the flags God told us to make.”
The chaplain solemnly placed the trunk on a table and opened its lid with a flourish. From within, he produced a series of colourful and elaborate appliqué flags. Meticulously, he announced the exact dimensions of each—though he refrained from commenting on their symbolism. They displayed such watchwords as “Nagaland for Christ”, “Iphai Missionary Centre” and “Praise the Lord!” The spectacle climaxed with the largest flag of the sequence which was of such size it had to be carried outside and laid on a slope.
“Eight metres by seven metres!” Vedayi proclaimed.
The silk banner stirred gently in the breeze while a soldier knelt at each corner, holding it down. The flag was divided horizontally into two equal fields: the lower one green, the upper white. In an arc across the white field, the words “Nagaland for Christ” were superimposed in large green letters. Beneath was a cross, also green, the base of which rested on the line dividing the fields.
“The crucifix is seven foot high and the cross piece three and a half foot in length,” Vedayi announced.
“Why is it so big?” was all I could find to ask. Isak was off again:
“Actually, God told us to make three flags like this. One to be kept here, another to be sent to Indira Gandhi and the third to General Ne Win. God said this would help convince them to give us independence. We sent the flags more than a year ago.”
“What happened?”
“We got no reply from Indira Gandhi. But the Burmese officer in Singkaling Hkamti was impressed. He told our messenger: ‘So you have contact with God but not with us?’”
I could not help laughing, but controlled myself when I realised the Burmese officer’s sarcasm had been entirely lost on them. Isak looked at me perplexed.
“He obviously understood the Lord is on our side.”
I sent for Hseng Noung to come and take pictures of the holy banner. When she was finished, we were led back into the hall where the mediums were still seated. Isak announced it was time for prayer. One of the three women, eyes closed, began to mutter a chant rapidly. The assembly sat with hands together and their eyes shut. When it ceased after a few minutes, Isak placed himself in front of the congregation. With a big beam and a dramatic gesture, he announced:
“And now our gospel choir. The Iphai Singers!”
Five teenage girls entered from the rear of the hall, two carrying guitars and three with tambourines. All of them were dressed in black, formal suits in the European style with white shirts and black neckties. They also sported running shoes. The ensemble gathered, facing the audience. After spending a minute tuning their instruments, they launched into song:
It is never busy, always on the line,
You can hear from Heaven almost any time.
It’s a Royal Service people wanna know,
When you get in trouble give this Royal line a call.
Telephone to Glory almost any time.
1 can feel the current moving down the line,
You may talk to Jesus on this Royal telephone.
There will be churches, telephone is free,
It was built for service, just for you and me.
There’ll be no waiting on this Royal line,
Telephone to Glory always answers just in time.
Hseng Noung, of course, was taking pictures while I had turned on the tape recorder before the performance. Once it was over, I thanked everyone for such a fascinating afternoon and we left.
Once back in our own hut, we sat down to reflect on the spectacle we had just witnessed. It had undoubtedly its comical side. But I found myself perturbed by the aura around the three women. Although Christian in name and form, the essence of the entire meeting was one of rank superstition and primitivism. Indeed, the women strikingly recalled the old Naga oracles I had read about in anthropological works while in Kohima.
I had previously noted how superficial the conversion of the eastern Nagas had been and even Isak had admitted they would probably revert to headhunting immediately should the Indian Nagas leave. But now I also realised that even among the Nagas from India the old tribal belief system still lived on. When they were Christianised by the American missionaries during the first half of this century, it was a mass movement that spread so quickly the actual message of the gospel never had time to take firm roots. And when the foreign missionaries were ordered out of the Indian Naga Hills at the outbreak of the insurgency in the mid-1950s, an important stabilising element disappeared. The old Naga animism began seeping back again, only now expressed in a newly adopted Christian terminology.
At a purely rational level, this was understandable. Instinctually, however, I was now ill at ease, dimly conscious of some force of evil trying to find expression through the three mediums. How and why I could not explain, but on entering the hall, the word “witch” had sprung immediately to mind.
Hseng Noung and I were in absolute agreement. The need to be on our way was now, suddenly, a matter of real urgency.
6
TO THE CHINDWIN
The month we had planned to spend at the NSCN’s headquarters was up and there had been no word from the Kachins. The runner had not returned. We began to grow worried, not least since our presence in the eastern Naga Hills was attracting the attention of both Indian and Burmese authorities. The day after we had crossed the border, the entire frontier from Arunachal Pradesh to Nagaland and Manipur had been declared a disturbed area. It was clear Indian intelligence did have trustworthy informers in Longva.
Even worse, during our first week in Kesan Chanlam, two Semas had visited the NSCN’s headquarters. They claimed to be arbitrators for impending peace talks between New Delhi and the Naga insurgents. We suspected they were Indian intelligence agents and it disturbed us to discover that they had my real name and address in Bangkok, which the NSCN’s leaders had simply handed them. When they returned to “the West”, the Indian authorities would know the whole story. There is virtually no military cooperation between India and Burma across their common border. But there is a constant exchange of intelligence.
Our suspicions appeared confirmed by the arrival of spotter planes—either Indian or Burmese—which flew over Kesan Chanlam twice following the return of the Semas to India. In the first week of December, word reached us that a high-ranking Burmese army officer had arrived at Yongkun, a Burmese Army camp on a mountain range opposite Kesan Chanlam, only one or two days’ walk away.
As we grew increasingly apprehensive, the NSCN were busy preparing for Christmas. Every night, we could hear them practising Christmas carols in the headquarters area and an open-air stage was being built by labour recruited from neighbouring villages. I mentioned my concerns to the NSCN leaders, but they brushed them smilingly aside, adding it would be nice if we stayed for Christmas. In vain did Hseng Noung
and I urge on them that the longer we stayed in Kesan Chanlam, the greater the security risk for the NSCN itself.
Zekope Krome, a young NSCN activist from the Indian side, helped the Lintners during their stay in the Burmese Naga Hills.
The village of Kesan Chanlam in the Naga Hills where the NSCN had built its headquarters. It was attacked in December 1985.
The days passed in nervous expectation of news from the KIA: the Nagas kept up their carols. Winter was approaching and a new chill was in the air. At night, the temperature fell to almost freezing point. Our woollen Naga shawls now were indispensable everyday wear.
On December 9, a Monday, Zekope came over to our hut.
“I’ve got news for you,” he said, sitting down on a stool beside me by the fire. I looked up, wondering what it could be.
“The Kachins have reached our area west of the Chindwin. They should be here in three or four days.”
Both Hseng Noung and I gasped in elation. This was what we had been waiting for for weeks. Zekope smiled when he saw how pleased we were. I asked him if he knew how many Kachins had crossed the Chindwin.
“I gather it’s one platoon. The letter we received said 33 fully armed soldiers.”
Isak himself came to see us later in the day to hand over a letter for us. It was an official-looking document, stamped with the KIA emblem. I began reading it eagerly. It was written in a quaintly jumbled English, clearly the result of many laborious hours poring over a Kachin-English dictionary. But the gist was clear and the message splendid:
Lieut. Yaw Htung (left) together with NSCN chairman Isak Chishi Swu at Kesan Chanlam on December 16, 1985. Two days later, Yaw Htung was dead.
“I’m sending one platoon of fully armed troops, commanded by Lieut Yaw Htung who will escort you to our 2nd Brigade headquarters where we hope you will arrive in time to celebrate Christmas with us.”
The letter was signed by Maj. Pan Awng, the tactical commander of the KIA’s 2nd Brigade. It was a name we had often heard. Pan Awng’s reputation as a guerrilla commander went before him and he was said to be much feared by Burmese government troops. His most spectacular exploit had been in February 1984 when he and about 100 KIA troops from its 252nd Special Mobile Battalion took over the town of Singkaling Hkamti, the nearest government garrison to the Naga Hills.
To achieve complete surprise, Pan Awng and his commandos entered the town dressed in Burmese Army uniforms and spoke only Burmese throughout the operation. Two police stations and several government offices were occupied, a large stock of arms and ammunition confiscated and the local treasury relieved of about one million Kyats. Some 120 prisoners were released from the local jail—including captured Naga guerrillas. In their place, the Kachins locked up more than 50 government officials they had rounded up and threw the keys away.
In the initial stages of the operation, the Burmese garrison troops remained unaware of the unusual events in the town. Later, on hearing gunfire from one of the police stations, they concluded discretion to be the better part of valour and remained huddled in their barracks. At the bank, the takings had been considerable. But to avoid slowing themselves down on their retreat into the hills, the Kachin commandos threw handfuls of the lower denomination notes to the startled people they passed in the streets of Singkaling Hkamti.
The released prisoners followed their liberators to help carry the loot away. The whole procession doubled out of town clutching assorted weapons, typewriters, medicines, wireless transmitters and sacks of bank notes.
We were looking forward to meeting this Robin Hood of the Kachin Hills and reckoned we could expect to leave within a week. But we should have known better. Unexplained delays occurred. And since Isak frequently mentioned plans for Christmas, it was clear he expected us to be there for the celebrations. I continued to harp on the security question: a whole platoon of KIA troops in the Naga Hills would undoubtedly alert the Burmese Army.
On the 18th the Kachins arrived. It was a cold, overcast day and we waited by the bamboo gate to the headquarters area. Thirty-three young Kachins marched single file into the camp. Hseng Noung and I, feeling far happier than for days, looked at each other as they strode past. Dressed in green uniforms with red KIA flashes on their shoulders, they looked tough and competent. The weapons they carried reinforced the impression: Chinese assault rifles, Burmese G-3 rifles—obviously captured from the government—light machine-guns and M-79 grenade launchers. All the soldiers had light army packs with cooking pots strapped to them.
“This is how a real army should look,” I said to Zekope. He was quick to take offence at a remark which alluded to the sorry state of the NSCN’s troops.
“Don’t you think our boys look like this when they are on duty?” he snapped back. I kept my peace, not wanting to hurt his pride any more.
All of us walked down to Isak’s house where there was a formal reception. Tea was served and we had the usual prayer and a few short speeches. The commander of the KIA platoon, Lieut. Yaw Htung, glanced at us all the time, evidently eager to talk to us privately. I took an instant liking to him. He was about my age and his English was excellent. His uniform was impeccable and he carried a Chinese army pistol at his hip in a gleaming leather holster.
But it was only at night Yaw Htung was able to slip over to our hut. He looked somewhat confused as he came inside and sat down by the fire.
“They told us to stop in almost every village along the way. And now they’re saying you want to stay here for Christmas. But we’re late already and my orders are to escort you into safety in our area as soon as possible.”
Hseng Noung and I glanced at each other angrily. The sheer stupidity of attempting to delay our departure was almost humiliating.
“No! That’s all nonsense,” I said. “We’ve told them we want to leave right away! We want to get to Kachin State as soon as possible.”
Yaw Htung had immediately noticed the total absence of any sentries, dugouts or other elementary precautions and remarked on it. As he stood up to return to the headquarters area, he made no attempt to hide his concern.
“There’s simply no security here.”
The next day, Hseng Noung and I walked down to the camp to see the other Kachin soldiers. They had been forbidden from coming up to Kesan Chanlam village, a stricture which struck us as absurd since their whole purpose was to provide for our security. The sergeant-major, Maru Tanggun, was a sturdy soldier who was seldom far from his M-l carbine; reserved but a patent professional with a sense of responsibility that appeared to run deep. A slim, somewhat frail-looking man in his late twenties, Lashi Naw Ja, seemed typecast for the role assigned to him, township clerk in the Kachin rebel administration. He had been attached to the unit since good communications were considered vital. He too took his duties seriously: his office, a plastic bag full of stationery, was always at hand.
There was also a medic, a tall and soft-spoken young man, Corp. Zau Shan. He wore an indigenous, specially-designed belt with pouches for medicine bottles all the way round with a steel box clipped to each hip, containing basic medical implements: forceps, syringe, scalpels and field dressing. For self-defence he carried a Sten gun.
The unit was Kachin save for two Shans from the Shan-dominated Hopin area in Kachin State. Their names were Aung Shwe, who was a section commander, and Win Tun, a private. All said, the platoon was a likeable bunch and we had taken to Yaw Htung so much that we had already agreed to give him our Japanese binoculars when we reached our final destination—Kachin headquarters.
The Assamese were, of course, excited to hear two Shan boys were serving in the KIA platoon and invited them over to their barrack at night. They served them Assamese tea and massaged their feet, saying:
“You’re our brothers! We must stick together!”
Aung Shwe, whose military skills were evidently greater than his grasp of history, was somewhat nonplussed by this effusion of fellow-feeling.
“Aren’t they Indians?” he asked me. “They keep
saying they are Shans!”
On December 19, I noted in my diary:
“Yaw Htung came to see us in this evening. He seemed disturbed again by the situation. The Nagas have made it clear to him that we can’t leave until after Christmas without causing a lot of ill-feeling. He left at 5 pm saying: ‘Six more days here. But what can we do?’ Yes, what can we do?”
Later that evening there was a tapping on the door of our hut. It was a Burmese-speaking Naga from “the East”. Cradling his rifle in his arms, he stood in the dark just outside the door and spoke to Hseng Noung for a few minutes in a tense voice. He had come to warn us. A whole company of Burmese troops had been spotted one day’s march away from Kesan Chanlam, cutting their way through the jungle with machetes to avoid being seen by villagers sympathetic to the insurgents.
“If they march all night, they might reach here tomorrow morning. You’d better be on the alert,” he said to Hseng Noung in Burmese.
We took his advice very seriously, since every indication pointed to an imminent attack. There had been the aeroplanes, the unusual troop movements in the area and the arrival of a high-ranking officer at Yongkun.
“Let’s pack our bags to be on the safe side,” Hseng Noung suggested. We divided our belongings into two parts. In case of an emergency, my load would be the camera bag and an army pack containing my notebooks and a few clothes for both of us. Hseng Noung would take care of Ee Ying and her belongings.
“If they attack, it’ll be just before dawn,” said Hseng Noung as we packed our bags by candle-light.
Youthful Naga warriors in northwestern Burma.
We were thinking of contacting Yaw Htung and the Kachins to coordinate our plans. But we could not enter the headquarters area after dark without having that night’s password. So we set our alarm clock for 5 am and turned in to sleep early.
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