Postcards from Fraught Lands: A scholar in search of unquiet datelines
TRAVELLING THROUGH REGIONS IN CONFLICT ALTERS THE MEANING OF travelling itself. There are no travel agents and curated itineraries. Distances are not measured in tourist spots or exotic holiday sanctuaries. There is no unwinding or relaxation. Instead, travelling through conflict areas, distance is measured in patience, manoeuvrability and luck. Travel agents are replaced by trusted contact points and sanctuaries are the odd decent place to sleep at night, a clean duvet—a luxury. And all of this is navigated all alone.
Over the 20 odd years that I have been on the field in conflict areas, I have found that conflict announces itself even before you start planning for the trip. In the life of a researcher, a student of complex areas, an anthropologist and a writer, it is up to you to decide how far you want to go to understand the subject. Many choose to look at conflict from an academic point of view, fit it into frameworks; some don’t have the stomach to meet the involved parties and some can’t raise the funds; for many others it is an unnecessary risk. So naturally whenever I decide that it is time for me to “go”, I inevitably get asked a lot of questions. Some will ask: what is the need? Is it necessary? Who will meet me at the destination? Where will I stay? And the last but the cleverest of the questions: “Will it be safe?”
All of these inquiries are natural. Many times it is asked out of sincere concern and others out of sheer wonder, for fieldwork is a thing of the past. In today’s world a tap of the key on your computer can bring you information that even 20 years ago would take months to source, days in the libraries going through a serpentine trail of knowledge and hours discussing the findings with your peers. Why would one then not gather information in the comfort of their well-lit, air-conditioned central Delhi offices, and choose instead to confront more often than not uncomfortable, exhausting and sometimes futile situations?
A simple answer would be insufficient because the truth is that one does not undertake such journeys on a whim; that it is not merely about the thrill. But while it is true that without the stomach for some risk, a mild addiction to the adrenaline rush or the recurring need to feel a type of satisfaction incomparable to any other feeling you have ever felt— after a successful trip in the field—one would not be a good candidate for fieldwork in conflict areas. That said, all of it ultimately circles back to the pursuit of knowledge and the discipline to master one’s subject. Only if you have been on the field, will you know that there isn’t a book in the world, a lecture, a documentary or a theory that can teach you what you learn by immersing yourself in the environment, by meeting those who really matter to your study, hearing first hand, learning every second from what all your heightened senses are absorbing.
Travelling through regions in conflict alters the meaning of movement as well. Movement does not any longer mean physical movement but also the glances, the silences, the pauses in conversations, the moods that remain tense and watchful. Through the exhaustion of travelling, in buses, cars, bikes or on foot, the movement never stops, even in your sleep.
THE FIRST TIME I decided to travel to the northeast region of India, it was still psychologically distant from the rest of the country. Geographically too it was disconnected and the easiest way to travel was to take a flight to Guwahati, Assam. The initial contacts had been given to me by some influential people in Delhi. I had contacted them before I left Delhi and requested a place to stay for a few days and a pickup from the airport. The idea was to travel to some of the most insurgency affected areas and study insurgent groups and their nexus on ground.
I was asked many times before I left by my friends if there were hotels to stay and if people commonly ate “dogs”. The lack of knowledge was staggering but then who knew? I had not travelled there before. I was full of cautious excitement. I packed some simple cotton kurtas, jeans and sneakers. I had a Sony digital camera, a rage in those days and a laptop that weighed a ton. I had imagined that three weeks would be enough.
Upon landing in Guwahati, I realised that my accommodation was in a girls’ hostel, where I was to share a room with 10 other girls. It was strict and there were rules to follow including getting ready by 5am to do yoga. That was enough for me to realise that I needed to get my bearings around the city sooner than I thought. Guwahati was a small city then, it didn’t have any big brand hotels and there were hardly any restaurants or local transportation for tourists. By a stroke of luck I remembered that I had a friend from the city who studied in London with me. I called him and he put me in touch with his friend who ran a guesthouse. The guesthouse, in the hills of Guwahati, became my home not for the three weeks that I had planned but for three months.
The first trip that I decided to take outside of Guwahati was to the town of Haflong in the Dima Hasao district of Assam. I had to take a bus, as it was considered the safest way to travel. Kidnappings, extortions and illegal tax collections across the region were common, so either people travelled in a convoy of cars or took public transportation. I still remember waiting outside the bus, laptop on one shoulder and a duffel bag on the other, waiting for someone to come and take it from me to place it in what I thought would be their baggage storage area. Little did I know, every inch would be occupied by passengers, my seat that was for three would be cramped with five people. I travelled overnight, nearly for 15 hours without an inch to move and a slightly inebriated gentleman standing next to me with his hand resting on my head. When we eventually got a chance to get up, my knees were locked. With excruciating pain I managed to get up, but for years after the trip, the pain became a reminder of my first bus ride.
I interviewed residents of Haflong who were victims of extortion or forced religious conversions. I collected literature that was published by insurgent groups, I travelled to see the famous Jatinga. When I reached Jatinga and saw a sign painted on a watchpost that read “shoot us with cameras, not guns”, I was naturally confused about who “us” was. Was it the birds, the animals or the people who lived there? Anyone who knew these areas would be inclined to believe the sign meant people. But then, this really was the zeitgeist of the time, not just in Dima Hasao, but the entire Northeast India.
After my first trip to Haflong, there was no stopping me. I had begun to understand the lay of the land. I travelled next to Meghalaya, where it took five days of cautious conversations to persuade a victim to speak, finally recounting how insurgent groups had extorted money from him at gunpoint for decades. In Nagaland, insurgency felt less like an exception and more like a condition of everyday life. When I returned to my room one evening, I discovered that my documents, books and pamphlets, everything I had collected, had been quietly sifted through in my absence. From that moment on, I carried all my literature on my back.
On another trip, I was determined to meet a faction of the NSCN, the most active insurgent group in the country, often described as the mothership of insurgency in India. I waited for two days in my room before the call came. I was told to be near a market at a fixed hour. But there was no name, no description and no indication of how I would be recognised. At 6pm, a white Maruti pulled up beside me. Two men motioned for me to get in, and we drove through the city, weaving through a crowded market. The familiarity of the city centre eased my nerves briefly. The car stopped at a small hotel. A code name was given at the reception, and I was escorted upstairs. As I stepped out of the lift, the atmosphere shifted. Men carrying weapons were lined in the corridor. I was taken to a well-guarded room where two men were waiting. The conversations that followed were measured at first, but I quickly gathered my wits and realised, if it wasn’t important to meet me as well, these men would not have wasted their time. I sat up straight, smiled at them and asked them if I could record the interview. They said yes, and we remained in contact for years after that.
Over the years, I have met many ethnic armed organisations, both within the country and beyond. Some revealed moments of humanity, others inspired only a grudging empathy. With a few, however, the reaction was visceral almost as if the blood on their hands had not dried and it was seeping into the room itself.
After hundreds of trips over two decades, my most recent work has focused on Myanmar, a country in intense conflict between Ethnic Armed Organisations (EAO) and the military junta. While much of the world observes from afar, I have travelled through Myanmar three times this year, moving across Tatmadaw-controlled areas and along multiple border regions held by different EAOs.
The work is demanding. Days are spent moving between stakeholders, often with five or more meetings a day. During the first leg alone, I interviewed over 60 people in less than two weeks. Much of the effort is devoted to logistics securing appointments and navigating access but equally to building trust in an environment where speaking openly carries risk.
In the Tatmadaw controlled areas, I travelled everywhere by road. From Yangon to Mandalay to Pyin Oo Lwin to Naypyidaw to Myawaddy, amongst so many countless small towns. The buses were comfortable, the language difficult, and the people some of the most helpful in the world. But try to talk to a local about politics and you will see them withdraw. All of these towns look normal, markets are bustling, malls are running, restaurants are full and clubs are packed and in full swing even though there is a night curfew. Young people have found a way out. They enter the clubs just before the curfew sets in and leave after the curfew is lifted at 4am. However, under the veneer of relative normalcy, the anxiety is palpable.
The EAO controlled areas are worse. With hardly any infrastructure, most towns are rapidly becoming ghost towns. On one occasion, I stayed in a local guesthouse with no food to eat; I had to walk into a local home and pay for some of their home cooked meal. At a time when you have travelled over 400km by road, navigating landslides every hour or so, a bowl of plain rice and boiled egg tastes like food from a Michelin star restaurant. However, all trips are not successful. After making this long journey, the EAO leader I was to meet cancelled the appointment.
Another time, in a remote forest, a tree had blocked the road ahead. I had to reach that evening, as early next morning an important EAO leader was coming to meet me at the village. With only an hour or so of light remaining, I had to make a decision: Either turn back or find a way to go ahead. I did turn back. But as luck would have it, I had a driver and a local with me. We found a village home and paid them `500 to borrow their dao, an axe like wood chopper. We chopped the tree trunk and carried the dao with us with the promise that on our way back we would return it. Resourcefulness is the key to a successful expedition.
There are lighter moments too. In a Thai border town, I was scheduled to meet the spokesperson of a major EAO at a coffee shop. I arrived early and immediately identified the group’s spotter. He stood out conspicuously dark sunglasses indoors, no order placed, seated at a clear vantage point. Throughout my wait, he attempted to discreetly photograph me, presumably to signal his team that I was alone and non-threatening. While the message likely went through, the disguise did not. At the very least, I felt an urge to offer him some unsolicited career advice on the art of blending in.
NO MATTER HOW many trips I take or how intense the conflicts in the places I visit become, the final act is always the same: boarding a plane and returning home—exhausted, grateful, and carrying a quiet sense of accomplishment. Friends and adversaries alike often ask me how I do it. Isn’t being a woman an impediment in the places I go? My answer never changes. Never underestimate human intelligence. When you are true to your craft, committed to the process rather than the outcome, and honest in your intent, people sense it.
Along the way, I have made friends. I have seen landscapes few ever will. I have eaten a bowl of rice and a boiled egg, served on a newspaper in a stranger’s home I will never visit again, with the same joy I might feel in the finest restaurants of Delhi. I have also witnessed suffering, the scale of chaos human beings can inflict, poverty and displacement, and educated men and women who have given their lives to causes they believe serve their country, losing everything, including themselves, in the endless conflict.
There are no judgments here, no sides to take. There is only travel—a kind of journey that quietly, irrevocably, alters the meaning of life itself.