There is not a single place you could sit and not have a wonderful view of green mountains and valleys in Nagaland. Clouds hugging the peaks of mountains that are full of diverse vegetation and Kohima the capital city spread out on the top of one of the hills, is a a typical scene from Sechu Zubza. As I am driven through narrow, winding roads between bamboo and Alder trees, I find that something is missing. Where are the birds and the animals? That is when I realized that I have entered the quiet forest.
To say that the forests of Nagaland are dead would be an exaggeration because bugs are plentiful in all possible shapes, sizes, and colours, thanks to the lack of their predators. This realization that animals and birds are missing in an immensely rich ecology pushed me to try and understand Nagaland's story. So here it is now, through my eyes. Nagaland is, to me, quite obviously a state in transition. It attempts to balance at a point that many have passed through. A place that is so treacherous and inevitable. For someone like me who has lived all my life in urban areas, this turning point at which Nagaland stands, is obvious and painful, yet amazing to witness. Once a space for several Naga tribes isolated from each other by mountains and rivers, Nagaland is now struggling to unite for its dream of freedom. After the British put the North-East of India as a few big chunks under the Indian constitution, the Naga people have fought for freedom from India. An honest struggle for freedom to preserve their culture and people, led to the formation of Nagaland as a new state. Now the freedom movement has turned into a corrupt organization attempting to place one Naga tribe over another with an abysmal gap between them. With the increasingly dramatic changes in the lifestyles of the dwellers, capitalism and corruption have found their way into the hearts of people in power. The rapid change that I speak of is what puts Nagaland at a turning point. The exponential rate at which lifestyles have changed for the people can be seen between just two generations. There is immanence and alienation at every corner. Goats grazing at the airport while Jeeps zoom around is not an unusual sight. I am on the road now in a Jeep myself, I gaze around at the immense beauty of the hills, when I am jolted out of my wonderment to the reality of an unbelievable bumpy national highway destroyed by landslides. Landslides that have been caused by logging, excessive stone mining, and heavy rainfalls. The pollution enters my nostrils and lungs while I am on the road, but just off the road, I stand amongst the trees breathing in what I believe to be the freshest smells on earth. The radio comes on and someone says, 'oh this is Khasi music'. You may be quite surprised to know that Khasi music sounds very similar to rock music. Actually, it is rock music. I enter Kohima now, a big city. It is full of youth walking around in hip western clothes that come from Thailand. Most of the same youth, take the bus back in the evenings to Khonoma. Khonoma is a beautiful village on the hill in an isolated part of Nagaland. I enter a house and a young girl in Levis jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt squats on the floor while she cooks on a wood stove. I go to many different houses in the village and they load me with food growing in their gardens. Their paddy fields lie in the distance while the chicken run around freely. They discuss their land, the forests, the river, and the tree from which their furniture was made. I am overwhelmed by their generosity. But why is the forest so quiet? The animals are dead and the birds have fled. A journalist attempted to search for a story from the Naga tribes that displayed an awareness of human beings' dependence on nature. After her disappointing search she said, "the stories have been forgotten. All I found was cruelty towards animals in the stories that remain." The youth wonder whether to live the life of their parents or reach towards "development." "Development is the answer to our problems" said one man. The youth live in a world of technology, while their parents and grandparents remain the dying race of basket weavers. See photos: http://emotionallandscapes.weebly.com/photography.html
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