I first drafted this poem on Christmas Eve 2016 in a Zeme Naga village called Laisong in the Indo-Myanmar borderlands. I was with Catriona Child, an activist and environmentalist who works in Naga areas, collecting oral histories about the Second World War and how locals memorialized the famous British female anthropologist Ursula Graham Bower, Catriona’s mother. Bower arrived for fieldwork here in 1937 and eventually worked in this region as an ethnographer, government representative, and later, a wartime intelligence and guerrilla leader after the Japanese invasion of neighboring Burma in 1942 and the push into the hills of India in 1944. The gramophone in the third stanza references her device, which Catriona told me her mother often used to entertain her friends in the village during her stay here. Catriona and I have a mutual interest in the War, but more broadly, in working together to engage and expand Bower’s family archives. By archive, we refer not only to papers and documents but a whole range of audio-visual materials and stories about Bower and how Nagas, in particular, remembered and continue to reference her. For us, this is also a project of co-interpreting an archive and exploring different world-views which met in Naga contexts in Assam and present-day Nagaland. We were in Laisong, which is in the Dima Hasao district of Assam, where Bower was based. Laisong is a Naga village inhabited by the Zeme Naga tribe. We additionally conducted documentation work in the area during celebrations of the winter festival, Hgangi. One village, in particular, was said to be the “last” of the communities to practice what was thought of as the pre-Christian “animistic” religion and its concomitant rituals and rites. It is noteworthy that only in recent decades have many Zeme rural communities converted to Christianity, while the variants of a native “Heraka” religion (increasingly becoming “Hinduized”), revived in the 1930s as part of an anti-colonial millennial movement, continue to be practiced. In this context, it is interesting that the “animist” Paupaise religion and the ritual celebration of an important seasonal event of the local calendar were perceivably layered with other religious motifs (such as Hindu ones) while reiterating the “indigenous” and “tribal” nature of the rituals. Moreover, the Naga folkloric and cosmological world has a rich tapestry replete with a parallel spiritual universe, origin myths, and numinous beings, including fluid human-animal relations professed through lore and lycanthropic forms. The poem’s narrative is inspired by these traditions, reflected in recent decades of literature produced by Naga writers in English and other languages. Often in these stories, the “real” anthropogenic world is interwoven with mythical and magical realms, and sensory boundaries are blurry. The Zeme communities claim to have been historically, geographically, and politically “excluded” from the ethno-territorial political formation of Nagaland and are spread across several states in northeastern India. The area in question is also dotted with “blank spaces” as to what constituted state and non-state (or “rebel state”) spaces and was strongly affected by the history of armed conflict. To generalize, the political dividends and collateral arising from the decades-long Naga self-determination movement and armed conflict since the end of the Second World War have been uneven, and communities here faced particular forms of exclusion, community fragmentation, and hardship. Zeme Naga-dominated areas around Laisong are particularly marginalized since they remained within Assam as a minority community in the border areas. Nagaland was created in 1963 after the territorial re-organization of Assam. Many Naga tribal communities also inhabit areas that fall outside the state in Assam, Manipur and the neighboring country of Myanmar. However, these groups do not enjoy the rights and protections that Nagas within Nagaland do. The poem reflects my interest in space, while references to cosmology are a less direct intervention of my research, but a subject of personal curiosity. Both space and cosmology are deeply interwoven into Naga folk-life and oral and material culture. The boundaries between what one might consider real, mythical, and surreal from a “rational” point of view are quite blurry and fluid. As such, my choices in framing the poem are inspired by this context and how I felt sitting under the stars on that night as I penned my thoughts. I sought to capture the layered realities and fragmentary temporalities without reifying or overly romanticizing them. In retrospect, while drafting revised versions of the poem, the methodological complexities became starker. Time, experience, and perception of space are collapsed, yet the depth of dimension is simultaneously comprehensible to the “outsider.” I use this term because it is loaded and hard to clarify even from my positionality in this context. I was an Assamese person in a Naga village within Assam, invited there by a British person pursuing her own historical and familial connections to the place and people there. One of the village elders had often introduced me as “our Assamese brother.” The insider-outsider binary is very stark in the region as a whole due to a long history of ethno-territorial conflicts that have only fuelled xenophobic discourses about “outsiders.” The contradictions of these binary discourses and territorial regimes are also more problematic as even Nagas in Assam, like our friends from Laisong require a special authorization called the Inner Line Permit to visit the state of Nagaland, which is the professed “homeland” of Nagas. To some extent, my position on that spectrum of insider-outsider also collapsed in my interactions and relationship with people in Laisong. The political histories of this village and the region as a whole are complex. The layered realities described in the poem are somewhat at odds with the ethnographic mode of perceiving, and in the end, actually undermine the narrative authority of the ethnographer precisely by confusing the assumed notions of being, boundaries of social difference, as well as myth and folklore in the area, including the history of the Second World War, which was, after all, a global, imperial war and did not mean the same thing for people here compared to European, American, Russian or Japanese empires that were fighting each other. Yet, other wars and conflicts, especially since WWII, have impinged on people’s lives in Laisong and Dima Hasao as a whole, caught in a coercive social economy between Indian armed forces and “insurgents.” The insurgent cadres also have strong kinship ties and often emerge from the local context, inviting coercive counterinsurgency measures that govern everyday lives. The reference to the army officer in the poem is inspired by an actual event during the Christmas feast in the Zeme village of Laisong in the Southeastern border zone of Assam. The presiding army Major from the adjoining Assam Rifles camp, with whom villagers here have had a troubled past, had been challenged in jest by a colleague to bite into this chili. The officer, however, diplomatically declined. I find poetic inspiration in this event, which I saw like one of those Orwellian moments like in George Orwell’s Shooting the Elephant (1950), when colonial authority was put to the test and had to be performed by pulling the trigger to kill the elephant, only to meet the expectations of the Burmese onlookers (see also Guha 1997). For me, any pretensions of an ethnographic “gaze” are blunted out, which is also a humbling experience. I did not see myself as an ethnographer there in the first place, but writing the poem pushed me to engage this question. Here I do not have the typical gaze of an anthropologist looking through a photographic lens as once may have been the case with several colonial anthropologists who worked on different Naga groups. Rather, I find myself enmeshed within the layered experiences of reality and perception that go into the continuous process of history-writing and lived history, neither of which are linear. Then there is the futility of ethnographic description, never being able to capture it in entirety, but only fleetingly, even if these realities can be visceral for the people living there. The dissolution of the body and perception of the ethnographer also signals the embeddedness and entanglement of the person to the “field,” which continuously constitutes what is imagined as a field-site. Thus, the ethnographer and field are in constant flux, much like layered histories, bodies, and changing meanings of objects across contexts and time. Depth of Field in the poem’s title refers to greater perceptual insight. Although it is a visual metaphor from photography, the depth here is a simultaneous broadening and sharpening of interpretation and access that de-centers the authority of the gaze, another optical metaphor. Field, too, carries dual meanings, both a site of investigation and the multiple sensory and temporal realms that come together.
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