Post by Bozur on Sept 27, 2005 4:11:27 GMT -5
Unending Civil Conflict Makes Life Grim in Indian State
By SOMINI SENGUPTA and HARI KUMAR
Published: September 2, 2005
IMPHAL, India - A garland of red hibiscus adorned the
dead man's portrait, and provisions for the afterlife were laid out for the mourners to see: new slippers and towel, a white undershirt, dessert plates piled high with bananas and sugar-cane candy.
Amit Bhargava for The New York Times
A member of India's security forces stood guard over a busy market in Imphal, the capital of Manipur in the country's restive northeastern region.
Amit Bhargava for The New York Times
A heroin addict was shackled on arrival at a detoxification shelter in Churachandpur. The chains prevent flight when withdrawal sets in.
Rameshwar Ahanthem, 26, a day laborer mistaken for a guerrilla, was beaten to death by Indian troops. His killing came under the aegis of a law that gives Indian troops extraordinary powers to quash ethnic insurgencies in this part of the country. His funeral rite on a midsummer afternoon offered a snapshot of the routine, gnawing anguish of daily life in the remote and forgotten state of Manipur.
The conflict here is more remarkable for its stamina than its death toll: roughly 200 people a year have been killed in the last few years, according to official statistics, far fewer than in Kashmir, for instance.
As in much of the Indian northeast, Manipur has been engulfed by civil conflict virtually since the birth of the country a half-century ago. The only change over the years is that the number of guerrilla groups has mushroomed.
Today, even as India flexes its muscle on the world stage, Manipur stands as an emblem of its unfinished business of binding together its people to resolve what Sanjib Baruah, a political scientist who studies conflict in the northeast, calls "India against itself."
"India's nation-building project is in more trouble in northeast India than it is usually realized," said Mr. Baruah, a professor at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, N.Y., who is spending this year in India. "We have not done very well in terms of winning hearts and minds."
The rest of India - to say nothing of the world beyond - is all but blind to the plight of this restive corner of the country, part of a lush, hilly swatch of land that juts out of the east toward Myanmar.
Foreign journalists must have permits to even set foot in the state, and those are only rarely issued. India's home minister, Shivraj Patil, in an interview earlier this year offered this justification for the virtual prohibition against foreign journalists: "Because you are so interested."
The conflict dates to the creation of modern India. Like Kashmir in the north, Manipur was a princely state under British rule, and its incorporation into Indian territory in 1949, two years after independence, remains a sore point among many Manipuris.
More than a dozen ethnic armies operate here, each with its own separatist agenda. What they share is a deep distrust of Indian soldiers and a sense of apartness. In the half-century of conflict, India has poured in troops and money. But neither seems to have stanched political grievances or everyday misery.
"Our lives are not secure," is how Rashtrapati Singh, an engineer with the state public works department, put it. He was among 200 engineers who quit because of threats from insurgents this summer. "You cannot bear the pressure," he said.
Extortion by guerrilla forces is common. Economic blockades, most recently for two months this summer by the Naga hill tribes demanding a separate homeland, regularly choke the flow of fuel and medicine coming into the state. In early July, Naga protesters set fire to dozens of government offices across the state.
In April, a mob from another ethnic faction, angered at the use of Bengali rather than Manipuri script in official documents, burned down the state library here in Imphal, the state capital, and with it a trove of rare archives; they lie today in a half-burned heap on the yard outside.
To make matters worse, heroin addiction and AIDS have cut a devastating swath across Manipur. A handful of guerrilla groups responded to the crisis last year by mounting an audacious antivice crusade that included shooting the kneecaps of those deemed to be corrupt or addicted, from drug dealers to snuff addicts to local government officials.
The vice chancellor of the local university in Imphal fell victim last December, allegedly over the appointment of a university employee; he now hobbles around with a cane and remains too fearful to speak about his fate.
Then there is the seething grievance against the Indian troops and paramilitary forces that saturate the state, and particularly against the sweeping powers they are granted by the Armed Forces Special Powers Act, which allows them to search, detain and interrogate anyone suspected of guerrilla activity.
In practice the law, which applies only in the northeast, makes it next to impossible to hold soldiers accountable to a civilian court. To take any member of the Indian armed forces to court, the central government must give special permission, which it rarely does.
Manipur erupted in anger against the law after the killing of Thanjam Manorama in July 2004. Ms. Manorama, 32, was taken from her home in the dark of night, shot dead and left in a field.
Semen stains were found on her underwear, according to reports in the Indian news media. The military said she was a militant and challenged a state government inquiry into her killing, citing the Special Powers Act. An army spokesman said in a recent interview that there was no conclusive evidence of rape.
The attack against Ms. Manorama set Manipur boiling. In one of the starkest acts of protest the country has ever seen, nearly a dozen elderly women stripped themselves naked, stood in front of the military base in Imphal and held up a haunting imperative on a homemade white banner: "Indian Army Rape Us."
Last November, on the heels of the protests, the government in New Delhi set up a panel to review the law. That panel submitted its recommendations in June, but they have not been made public. Accounts in the Indian press suggest that parts of the law may be amended, but there have been no suggestions from officials that the law will be scrapped.
"It will be old wine in new bottle," said a local human rights worker, Babloo Loitongbam.
Calls for the law's repeal continue. Its most celebrated opponent is a Sharmila Irom, who lies in a hospital bed, between life and death, officially in police custody. Ms. Irom has been on a hunger strike since 2000. The state has begun force-feeding her through a nasal tube.
Since Ms. Manorama's killing, Mr. Loitongbam's group, Human Rights Alert, has documented 10 extrajudicial killings by government forces. The latest was that of Mr. Ahanthem. His family was offered compensation of about $2,380 and a government job for one of its members.
By far the most bleak portrait of Manipur's desperation can be found by driving two hours from the capital to the provincial town of Churachandpur. There, in a Christian-run shelter called Gilead's Balm, rest the inheritors of decades of war: men, mostly in their 20's, all heroin addicts, some living with AIDS.
A peculiar innovation has made this and similar shelters in Manipur popular with the addicts' families. The addicts are shackled at the ankles, so no matter how desperate they become for another fix, they cannot run away.
Tom Malsawn lay on his bed, pale and weak. At 27, he had been an addict for seven years. He stole from his parents to satisfy his habit. He was herded into four different shelters. Nothing worked. This was his second time at Gilead's Balm. By July his family reached the end of its tether. They took him there to be chained once more.
Somini Sengupta reported from Imphal for this article, and Hari Kumar from Imphal and Churachandpur.
By SOMINI SENGUPTA and HARI KUMAR
Published: September 2, 2005
IMPHAL, India - A garland of red hibiscus adorned the
dead man's portrait, and provisions for the afterlife were laid out for the mourners to see: new slippers and towel, a white undershirt, dessert plates piled high with bananas and sugar-cane candy.
Amit Bhargava for The New York Times
A member of India's security forces stood guard over a busy market in Imphal, the capital of Manipur in the country's restive northeastern region.
Amit Bhargava for The New York Times
A heroin addict was shackled on arrival at a detoxification shelter in Churachandpur. The chains prevent flight when withdrawal sets in.
Rameshwar Ahanthem, 26, a day laborer mistaken for a guerrilla, was beaten to death by Indian troops. His killing came under the aegis of a law that gives Indian troops extraordinary powers to quash ethnic insurgencies in this part of the country. His funeral rite on a midsummer afternoon offered a snapshot of the routine, gnawing anguish of daily life in the remote and forgotten state of Manipur.
The conflict here is more remarkable for its stamina than its death toll: roughly 200 people a year have been killed in the last few years, according to official statistics, far fewer than in Kashmir, for instance.
As in much of the Indian northeast, Manipur has been engulfed by civil conflict virtually since the birth of the country a half-century ago. The only change over the years is that the number of guerrilla groups has mushroomed.
Today, even as India flexes its muscle on the world stage, Manipur stands as an emblem of its unfinished business of binding together its people to resolve what Sanjib Baruah, a political scientist who studies conflict in the northeast, calls "India against itself."
"India's nation-building project is in more trouble in northeast India than it is usually realized," said Mr. Baruah, a professor at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, N.Y., who is spending this year in India. "We have not done very well in terms of winning hearts and minds."
The rest of India - to say nothing of the world beyond - is all but blind to the plight of this restive corner of the country, part of a lush, hilly swatch of land that juts out of the east toward Myanmar.
Foreign journalists must have permits to even set foot in the state, and those are only rarely issued. India's home minister, Shivraj Patil, in an interview earlier this year offered this justification for the virtual prohibition against foreign journalists: "Because you are so interested."
The conflict dates to the creation of modern India. Like Kashmir in the north, Manipur was a princely state under British rule, and its incorporation into Indian territory in 1949, two years after independence, remains a sore point among many Manipuris.
More than a dozen ethnic armies operate here, each with its own separatist agenda. What they share is a deep distrust of Indian soldiers and a sense of apartness. In the half-century of conflict, India has poured in troops and money. But neither seems to have stanched political grievances or everyday misery.
"Our lives are not secure," is how Rashtrapati Singh, an engineer with the state public works department, put it. He was among 200 engineers who quit because of threats from insurgents this summer. "You cannot bear the pressure," he said.
Extortion by guerrilla forces is common. Economic blockades, most recently for two months this summer by the Naga hill tribes demanding a separate homeland, regularly choke the flow of fuel and medicine coming into the state. In early July, Naga protesters set fire to dozens of government offices across the state.
In April, a mob from another ethnic faction, angered at the use of Bengali rather than Manipuri script in official documents, burned down the state library here in Imphal, the state capital, and with it a trove of rare archives; they lie today in a half-burned heap on the yard outside.
To make matters worse, heroin addiction and AIDS have cut a devastating swath across Manipur. A handful of guerrilla groups responded to the crisis last year by mounting an audacious antivice crusade that included shooting the kneecaps of those deemed to be corrupt or addicted, from drug dealers to snuff addicts to local government officials.
The vice chancellor of the local university in Imphal fell victim last December, allegedly over the appointment of a university employee; he now hobbles around with a cane and remains too fearful to speak about his fate.
Then there is the seething grievance against the Indian troops and paramilitary forces that saturate the state, and particularly against the sweeping powers they are granted by the Armed Forces Special Powers Act, which allows them to search, detain and interrogate anyone suspected of guerrilla activity.
In practice the law, which applies only in the northeast, makes it next to impossible to hold soldiers accountable to a civilian court. To take any member of the Indian armed forces to court, the central government must give special permission, which it rarely does.
Manipur erupted in anger against the law after the killing of Thanjam Manorama in July 2004. Ms. Manorama, 32, was taken from her home in the dark of night, shot dead and left in a field.
Semen stains were found on her underwear, according to reports in the Indian news media. The military said she was a militant and challenged a state government inquiry into her killing, citing the Special Powers Act. An army spokesman said in a recent interview that there was no conclusive evidence of rape.
The attack against Ms. Manorama set Manipur boiling. In one of the starkest acts of protest the country has ever seen, nearly a dozen elderly women stripped themselves naked, stood in front of the military base in Imphal and held up a haunting imperative on a homemade white banner: "Indian Army Rape Us."
Last November, on the heels of the protests, the government in New Delhi set up a panel to review the law. That panel submitted its recommendations in June, but they have not been made public. Accounts in the Indian press suggest that parts of the law may be amended, but there have been no suggestions from officials that the law will be scrapped.
"It will be old wine in new bottle," said a local human rights worker, Babloo Loitongbam.
Calls for the law's repeal continue. Its most celebrated opponent is a Sharmila Irom, who lies in a hospital bed, between life and death, officially in police custody. Ms. Irom has been on a hunger strike since 2000. The state has begun force-feeding her through a nasal tube.
Since Ms. Manorama's killing, Mr. Loitongbam's group, Human Rights Alert, has documented 10 extrajudicial killings by government forces. The latest was that of Mr. Ahanthem. His family was offered compensation of about $2,380 and a government job for one of its members.
By far the most bleak portrait of Manipur's desperation can be found by driving two hours from the capital to the provincial town of Churachandpur. There, in a Christian-run shelter called Gilead's Balm, rest the inheritors of decades of war: men, mostly in their 20's, all heroin addicts, some living with AIDS.
A peculiar innovation has made this and similar shelters in Manipur popular with the addicts' families. The addicts are shackled at the ankles, so no matter how desperate they become for another fix, they cannot run away.
Tom Malsawn lay on his bed, pale and weak. At 27, he had been an addict for seven years. He stole from his parents to satisfy his habit. He was herded into four different shelters. Nothing worked. This was his second time at Gilead's Balm. By July his family reached the end of its tether. They took him there to be chained once more.
Somini Sengupta reported from Imphal for this article, and Hari Kumar from Imphal and Churachandpur.