Peaceful Land of Angry Languages

Silly Siliguri. The perfect description of the 'border' town: The border between 'West Bengal' and the 'Gorkhaland' that is spoken about, shouted about and 'striked' about and yet still to be legalised. It must be difficult for the GNLF to put pressure on the West Bengal and national government by demanding a complete shut down in goods and services from its own people. Although two days is not enough to make an accurate conclusion, and it would be unlikely that support is indeed unified, it did seem that the majority of Darjeeling's inhabitants still supported the demands of the GNLF. In the most basic of terms, people spoke positively about the creation of 'Gorkhaland' and negatively about their position within West Bengal. Moreover, people seemed to respect rather than resent the enforced strike. They vocally joined the demonstrations, and they joined in the thousands, filling up the narrow streets and standing and smiling in solidarity. Those who 'escaped' with us did so humbly. They appeared apologetic to the GNFL party leaders. And today the leadership of the GNFL has paused to give the people it claims to represent an opportunity to prepare: Darjeeling announced a two day relaxation in its 'indefinite' bandh in order to allow people to stock up on limited supplies. Unfortunately Siliguri announced a retaliation strike: the aim of which was to prevent supplies from reaching the hill station. The popular support for this retaliation seemed much less convincing as police marched around Siliguri 'reminding' people to close their shops and restaurants. A band of boys and young men walked around waving the CPI-M flag, but their efforts seemed more recreational than political. However, resentment was clearly rising towards the Gorkha's with violence directed towards Siliguri's Nepali speaking residents. I heard accounts of tourists from Sikkim who had been left 6 km outside of Siliguri. Apparently their jeeps were unable to pass through the crowds of Bengali speakers who were “brandishing sticks and knives” threatening the Nepali speaking suburbians.

The fighting breaking out around Siliguri was based primarily on a distinction made between mother tongues. This segregation through language is a challenge which India has being trying to negotiate since independence. Nepali and Bengali are two of 1652 mother tongues listed in the national census; with Sanskrit the common written medium. However, until the Gorkha's stop feeling/being seen as Nepali speaking invaders from Nepal rather than 'Gorka's' from 'Gorkhaland' tensions are going to continue to grow. Moreover, it is not that the Gorkha's are rallying against 'India' but rather against the government of West Bengal. In fact Darjeeling itself is a pretty diverse town: full of Indian 'Nepalis' speaking Bengali to their Bengali friends, Tibetans who have made India their 'temporary' permanent home and who speak Nepali with their 'Gorkha' friends and the older Gorkha gentleman, educated in the UK, who worked for the state and who now stand on the street corners discussing politics in most perfect and polite form of English to be found outside of Buckingham Palace. And then of course there is the Assamese from neighbouring Assam, Dzongkha from Bhutan and Limba, Lepcha and Bhutia of Sikkim, which are only a few of the many other dialects of the north and east which remain indistinguishable to my 'English' ears, but which are spoken throughout of the town. What the Gorkha's do want is to be recognised as equal Indian citizens of their own autonomous state. In the past India has managed to negotiate differences by recognising them. The multilingual country has diffused marginalisation of minorities by allowing different languages the space to be learned and to be spoke; but the question remains if West Bengal and the national government are prepared to allow the creation of a new state for the space to exist within? Ultimately, the events in Siliguri demonstrated that more also needs to be done to reassure/ reintegrate the Bengali speakers.

In regards to my exploration of this imagined 'Gorkhaland' I was ready to be defeated and try and visit the Kingdom of Sikkim in the North – of West Bengal. Sikkim received its own recognition as a separate state within India in 1975 (or 2003 if you are the Chinese government) so now it is trying its best not to be drawn into the current political/ geographic debate. However, by virtue of its position at the end of the highway which runs through Darjeeling to Siliguri the strike and counter strike severely restricted the movement of people and supplies to and from the area. Movement along the highway had been restricted to army personal for the safety of all potential travelers. In fact the restriction was taken so seriously by the bus and jeep drivers that I heard a driver refuse an offer of 3000 rupees (higher than the average monthly wage for a Bengali) for the journey which should have cost 150 rupees. This refusal gives values in economic terms to the gravity of the situation. Alternatively helicopters were scheduled to transport people out of the northern kingdom. It seemed as if we were trying to move against the flow, which ultimately left us little choice but to go with it.

The enquiry desk, reservations desk and booking office at Siliguri train station all told us the same thing – the trains back to Kolkata were full. Four extra trains had been scheduled the day before, but they had left only partially filled as no one (including the booking offices) knew about them. Sure enough the train station today was overflowing with Bengali tourists trying desperately to leave their holiday. We bought a bus ticket. A curfew was announced. No buses were allowed to leave. We stood at the side of the road as an army jeep drove by. A smart young Indian from Kolkata stood next to us. We were all told to leave the pavement. The smart young Indian insisted on 'helping' us. He said we could share his seat on the night train and yet ultimately he wanted to give us more than a section of a plastic cushion. Without a doubt we caused him far more stress than the local events did. I felt embarrassed at this shy strangers determination to find us seats. Why did he want to 'help' us? Because we were foreigners? Would he have felt the same if we were foreigners from the developing world? If our skins were a darker shade? Conversely would I have helped this strange man if he was stuck in Oxford? Would I have spent my afternoon arguing with the local bureaucracy, paying 'corruption' fines and then sharing my food? Ultimately, his determination meant that we were piled onto a full train with each of its ten or more carriages crammed to the corridors. Slowly the mechanic giant rattled its way away from the hills, dragging with it 1000 plus people and leaving behind calls for statehood to be read about, folded away and pushed down the side of the seat.

Arriving back in Sealdgh station was bizarre. Seeing the people who I work with from the 'other' perspective – as dirty bodies laying on the platform. As bodies who were sidestepped, kicked or avoided. Bodies which could easily be 'filtered' out – to be turned into sub-human beings laying invisible, waiting for the hours to pass before their one meal is delivered. Arriving back in Kolkata was also bizarre - being asked by Bengali's in the state's capital how my holiday was and listening as they laughed about the fruitless persistence of the Gorkhas and spoke about my 'bad timing'. Being asked by the manager of the guest house not to talk to the porters about Darjeeling. Answering the barrage of questions about Darjeeling asked by the 'Nepali' porters. Listening as they spoke about their frustration of the 'situation', trying to coax them to share their political views, and hearing the longing in their voices as they spoke of their Himalayas. The porters who share with me their resentment of having to choose work over their families, and who ask me directly and indirectly, and with a mixture of English and Nepali, to confirm the ''friendliness' and 'beauty' of their peaceful land.

For a beautiful book exploring the complexities and contradictions of the area around Darjeeling read Kiran Desai: The Inheritance of Loss

Resentful Retreat

Another blissful sleep followed by a resentful wake up. Matilda knocks on the door. Are we going to leave she asks? She is clearly concerned that her only guests are still here. We reply that we had a great day yesterday and intend to stay for a few more days. She asks for our passport details in case our embassies contact her. I restrain myself and take a short hot happy shower before piling on my piles of t-shirts and two pairs of trousers. I am enjoying not wearing my kuta, or having to wrap my body up in a scarf and camouflage my blond hair. The hills are clearly far less conservative than its lowland capital. We walk out to meet Sherab and Jake at a cafe they claim is famous for its breakfasts. We stand at the door which is only slightly ajar and a small servant quickly ushers us inside. Sherab and Jake are already seated with pages of Tibetan script laid out in front of them. My friends tease them they must be CIA spies. I laugh too loudly for the owner quickly motions me to be quiet. She is clearly concerned that her disobedience of the 'indefinite' strike will be alerted by my merriment. We talk in subdued tones. We eat porridge and drink milky chai, sweetened with golden sugar. Jake drinks coffee. Apparently, just a few days before tourists would be queuing for a seat. The cafe must be losing a lot of revenue and I wonder what the owner really thinks of the GNLF tactics? We profusely thank her and duck down back out through the shutter which has now been pulled down to mask the partially opened door. Sherab offers to take us to the monastery where he lives. It is only a short walk away through quiet streets. The echoes of distant chanting can be heard, but from the distance they sound more like shouts from a children's playground. Sherab's monastery is beautiful. It is tiny, with a small temple welcomed by a patch of green grass and a frame of bushes. His room is even more simple than Jake's with a stone floor, a door which doesn't quite shut and a tiny table/shrine. We sit on his single bed and I ask permission to look at his pile of books. My attention is immediately directed to a tiny publication by Nepal's Kopan Monastery: The Four R's. The coincidence unnerves me as this is the one Buddhist practice which I am familiar with and which has helped me more than any psychologist ever could.

A twenty one year old ex-Italian monk who also lives at the monastery phones Sherab. He is concerned by the change of events. We walk to the monastery's kitchen and sit with its four Tibetan monks, one ex-Italian one and a Chinese student of Tibetan. We are asked if we want to share the daal bhat that they are eating. We decline. The ex-Italian monk tells us he is leaving to Nepal. He says that overnight the 'situation' has become much worse, with rumours of violence spreading. The monks are concerned that their food supplies are inadequate. Shouts from outside begin to filter through our conversation and one by one the table disbands and moves to the edge of the garden. Below the monastery a large crowd has gathered around a small police stall. Unlike yesterday it seems unorganized and much more passionately voiced. Within minutes wise Sherab has packed a small rucksack and Jake is patiently seeking the advice of his teacher despite the intermittent mobile reception. The lack of information, the access to food and transport and the immanent departure of our remaining new foreign friends seems to tell us it is time to leave. Reluctantly, for I love this place and feel spoiled for seeing it without the 20,000 other tourists.

We make our way back to Andy's, passed the shouting crowd. One tire has been lit and is blowing black noxious smoke into the crowd. A protester bends down and uses its flame to light his cigarette. Although the crowd are clearly more vocal than yesterday, the atmosphere is far from threatening. Smartly dressed women, with painted lips and gold earrings link arms next to men in their distinctive tweed jackets and leather shoes. We squeeze through the mass, find Andy's, throw our clothes into the bags and meet Jake at the main bus terminal.

There are no buses. In fact there are no vehicles at all. Within the short time it has taken us to pack Sherab has already left with the Italian ex-monk and the Chinese student of Tibetan. A crackly phone call tells is that they have caught the last jeep. We ask about transportation to Siliguri and are given the reply: 'impossible'. We turn to discuss our options but are called over towards a crowd of men in the middle of which stands a parked jeep. Our bags are thrown on its roof and we are thrown inside. An intense debate surrounds us as the remaining seats are quickly occupied by locals. The doors are reopened and we are shouted out. Our bags removed from the roof and the driver tells us 'impossible'. Confused we stand and passively wait for a solution to appear. Within minutes it does. Our bags are replaced on the roof and we are replaced inside. It seems the GNLF have given their consent to a final jeep of 'tourists' to leave Darjeeling. The all important word of exemption is scribbled on a sheet of paper and the front seat passengers optimistically try to glue it with nothing more than condensation to the inside of the windscreen. I fish around in my rucksack and find a tiny roll of tape. It works and our labeled 'TOURIST' jeep full of four 'tourists' and about nine locals careers out of the square to stop a few meters later. Our driver jumps out and begins negotiations. A few minutes later a shutter is rolled up and our jeep reversed into a closed shop which in more peaceful times is actually a petrol station. Off we go; speeding down the hill, breaking only to cruise around the hairpin bends and floating through the encompassing mist.

The first 'check point' emerges. The jeep slows and the GNLF approach. It is a group of women. They approach us, look at our 'label', look at us, and then wave us on. The second check point is not quite so easily fooled. It consists of a wooden bench upon which sit a line of tweed jacket wearing men. They tell our driver than no vehicles are allowed past. They politely explain to us, that although we are clearly 'tourists' the rest of our jeep clearly are not. They apologise for any inconvenience but cannot let us continue. We will have to return back up the hill we have just sped down. Some more words are exchanged and our jeep does a 360 degree turn and much to the confusion of the 'tourists' we continue towards the plains as the GNFL return to their bench. It seems this literally was the 'bench mark' as after this I just had to reveal my blond hair (much to the amusement of the old man sitting behind me) and we were waved down the hill.

I felt a strange mixture of emotions. As the coolness of the air was replaced by a warm humidity and the fog lifted, I didn't feel relieved but rather annoyed that I was 'exempt'. Just like in the Occupied Palestinian Territories I was able to be 'freer' than the local people, whose land I was a guest. Moreover, I wanted to learn more about the Gorkha's demands. I still had unanswered questions about the apparent support for the cause despite the self-harm in the methods. I still wanted to walk around the tea gardens, visit the monastery's and talk to Tenzin about why he can't return to Tibet.

We arrive in Siliguri to be told that there is a strike in retaliation to Darjeeling's strike. We ask if we can catch a jeep to Sikkim, 'impossible' we are told...