Kaka D. Iralu
I was born on March 3, 1956 and therefore did not see the horrors of war torn Nagaland in the early and mid 50’s. I am only told by my parents that 12 days after my birth, my mother carried me into the jungles of Dzulake when Khonoma village was burnt by the Indian army. In that forced dispersion of almost the whole village, my dad and late elder brother along with all my aunties and uncles and cousins under my grandmother’s care went underground. As for my grandfather and some other uncles, they were arrested before they could flee and were already prisoners of war at the Kohima central jail. Our immediate family’s dispersion into the jungles ended when I developed typhoid and my father was compelled to surrender with the whole family for my sake. I was told that my mother and I were released after a few months of imprisonment, but my father and uncles spent a year in prison for the simple reason that we were related to AZ Phizo. In short, at the age of seven months, I was already a political prisoner along with my father and grandfather. The war went on relentlessly and within a few months, six hundred and forty five Naga villages were burnt to ashes, and within that same year (1956), over one hundred thousand Nagas died from starvation, diseases and bullets. By April 25, 1957 there were ninety six thousand, two hundred twenty seven Naga prisoners of war in Indian jails all over Nagaland.( For more details, read The Naga Saga)
By 1962, after four years as Headmaster at Chizami village, my father brought back the family to Kohima. And that brings us to war torn Kohima town in the 1960’s. Just six years old and too young to know fear, the many all night battles of Kohima town used to be exciting experience for me and my elder brother. Our immediate neighbors in our house at Mission compound were the Indian army with their camp located at the present Transit Peace camp. Their camp used to extend right up to about 20 feet from our house. On the west, north and east, our house was surrounded by these army camps. As a result, many were the times when in the middle of the night, we were rudely awakened by the sound of gunfire, exploding mortars and the firing of heavy artillery from the present peace camp. The sight of the artillery shells streaking towards Bulie Badze side was like some bright comets lighting the whole Kohima town. It was a sight I used to be delighted in watching. Then there were those bright red machine gun tracer bullets stitching their way across the town from many hundreds of places fired from High school area, Ministers Hills, Bayavu hill, Governor’s Bhavan, present CRPF camp at Lieria etc. As these tracer bullets shot their way across the whole Kohima skies, I remember thinking that these neat lines of bullets resembled my mother’s stitches on our clothes which she used to do with our sewing machine. But however delightful the night scenes were, my father’s barking orders always made us move away from the battle scene.
My parents were then running a hostel in our newly constructed house where besides several others; there was also Pelebeino- the daughter of late Zashie Huire who was later President of the FGN. I mention this particular name because there was one night when in our hasty fleeing from our house, we nearly forgot Pelebeino. In those days, every house in mission Compound, as well as the whole of Kohima town, used to have trenches dug on the ground floor of their houses for taking shelter from bullets and exploding bombs. Our own family trench used to be under our first floor kitchen. On that particular night, it was raining heavily, when suddenly everyone was awakened by the sound of heavy gunfire and exploding bombs. As we fled from our upper storey rooms, I clearly remember my father shivering uncontrollably as he went up and down the stairs carrying one child after another into the trench below. He was trembling because, awakened in the middle of the night, he had found no time to put on a pant or shirt and was running up and down the rain drenched steps only in his vest and underpants. As soon as he thought everyone had been safely shifted from the upper rooms, the roll call stared in subdued tones inside the dark trench. “Neithou,” “Avihu,” “Vethizole” and on- to which every one responded “Present.” But when it came to “Abeino” (Short for Pelebeino)-there was no response. The daughter of the President was still sound asleep in her bed, totally unaware of what her father and his kind were stirring up in Kohima town in the middle of the night! Then I saw my father sprinting up the wooden steps of our house only to hear him again falling down the steps THUNG, THUNG, THUNG, and THUNG. He had slipped on the steps and both of them landed at the edge of the trench completely drenched by the rain. Then as the ferocity of the battle raged on, after a quick discussion with my mother, the decision to flee to a safer house was taken. It was to my grandmother’s house, located about four hundred yards across a small stream that we always fled on such occasions. The exercise had been undertaken on many former occasions that all of us knew every nook and cranny of the stream even in pitch darkness. As we fled through this small stream, we used to catch glimpses of one another as exploding mortar bombs and tracer bullets lightened the otherwise dark night. Sometimes mortar explosions used to throw dirt onto our backs as we crawled in the stream, but for me this was all part of the excitement of war. Then we would finally reach my grandmothers house and trench which would be, by then, full of the extended family. As usual, the next day, parents would be heard recounting the previous night’s civilian casualties in hushed voices. On such occasions of whole night battles, we would always return in the morning to find our house full of bullet holes and many lead balls wedged inside the beams of our house. This, my brother and I, used to extricate and sell for Rs 2 a kg to the Naga army agents. In those days, Kohima town was a place full of bullet holes.
Then there was that other time when in the middle of the war, my father took my brother and me for catching crabs. Before we left for the catch, there was a long debate between my father and my elder uncle because the Naga army had already warned the civilian population of Kohima that they would launch their attack on Kohima town at 4 p.m. that day. We never the less went and caught a lot of crabs in Chanuo ru. In order to be on the save side, we returned home early before the dead line. I vividly remember the kitchen scene that day. My mother had cooked pork and the aroma of the curry was wafting around the whole kitchen. We were all so hungry after the day’s strenuous work of digging crab holes in the wet mud. My eyes were therefore riveted on the pot and I was anxiously waiting for my mother to dish out the pork curry. After a short prayer, my mother was just dipping the big spoon into the pot when my father, after checking his watch, announced: “It is exactly 4 p.m.”Then before my mom could scoop up anything in the spoon, there was this loud BHOOOM of a mortar explosion fired from the direction of the present Science College. The next second, the whole of Kohima town exploded in gunfire. I remember noting that the Naga soldiers kept their word to the second and that the Indian army’s response was also very swift. The only regret was the immediate fleeing from our house with salivating mouths sans pork sans rice!
Then cutting a long story short, there were those occasions when on Naga Independence day- 14th August, the Naga soldiers would hoist the Naga national flag on top of Pulie Badze. They would hoist several flags that would proudly flutter in the mountain defying the Indian army’s massive presence in Kohima town. No sooner would these flags be hoisted, and then Indian Light Armored Tanks would line up below our house on the main road at Kezieke. Up to ten fifteen tanks would then fire away at the flags until they were all shot away from the mountain top. The sight of these tanks firing away into the mountains as seen from my grandfather’s house above the road is an unforgettable sight forever etched into my memory. I can still vividly see those young tank officers standing on their tank turrets, binoculars focused on the mountains and directing their gunners, shouting “75 degrees, fire,” or “85 degrees fire.” Some of the shells used to fall short of the mount and explode on the bases of Pulie Badze, while other shells used to overshoot the peak and explode in the Dzuna canyons. It used to take hours for the shells to hit their targets on the mountain top.
Such were the scenes in Kohima town in the early sixties when our courageous Naga army used to fight the Indian army not only in the jungles of Nagaland but attack even the very heart of Kohima town. Sadly today, we are fighting our own people in our own towns all over Nagaland.
