Tribute to the living

It is just one year after the rape of young girls and women in Tipaimukh. The sore still lingers. Not just a trace. But in pain. In helplessness. In anger. Dejection. And shame. Memories will never forget. Nothing is healed. It will go down as the sore bruise in the history of Zoram Khawvel.

I remember our visit to the Tipaimukh villages in the early part of February 2006. The rape victims were nursing their shame and pain in the deserted villages. Many left for Mizoram to seek refuge. Some of the rape victims too. Those left behind, unable to flee, remained owing to various reasons. Some were too poor to even flee. Some dare not leave with their bags of shame and pain of being raped. Some did not leave saying it would be too difficult to start a new life in a new place.

The village was wet with tears. It was high dry from any help. It was just empty and hollow. Some brought the snake when they needed the bread. Those were their brothers. Their fathers. Their mothers and sisters. But they had to bite the snake too. Misery was printed large everywhere. The village was silent with the grip of fear. It was shivering with anger. It was on the verge of bursting out with desperation. They thought and wonder, who would care?
The man and human in me were reduced. I was so small that I almost forgot I was alive. I almost see myself fading away as I was confronted with victims and their sad stories. The eyes were moistened and blurry. The voice mutters and croaks. The body was moving against the science of what was normal. Silence was all that I could afford as I listened to their stories.
They were young. Just about to flower to the beauty of youth. The age of hope and aspirations have embraced them. Their dreams of woman-to- be have touched their innocence. They were clothed with the pride and dignity of woman. It was the time when their head was held highest. Queens of the local hearts they knew they were. The magic of love and life has started to tail them. They were the shelter of young hearts. They, the source of beautiful songs and music that grows from the village. It was that age they just started to open to. It was supposed to be their time. The moment was waiting for them.

Unfortunately, the spillover of men draped in disguise of political salvation robbed them of their innocence. The heart of life was torn for them. It was a loss. The biggest loss. The night turns darker for them. They wish no more for the sun to rise. Unlike the day before, there was no longing to see the day faithfully following the night. It ripped them apart. The glow fades. It shocked them to shame. There was no other word to define the act that was done to them. They were raped.

We started our visit from the first victim’s house. The house was a pastor quarter. She, the pastor’s daughter. We entered from their kitchen. The house was glowing with fire from the hearth. The fire dance wild with yellow flames making larger than life shadows of us on the wall. It was not the dance of joy. The restless flames seem to be burning with the desire to express what the victims parents must have shared as they tame the fire. If today voices were given to the voiceless, the world would draw closer to hear the truth. If today the voiceless were allow to speak out, many of the wolves would be naked with their sheep’s skin ripped. Meanwhile, our shadows seem to grow bigger as we struggle to find words. The victim’s father was also badly beaten by the same perpetrators so that they went to Silchar for medical check up. Her mother told us that she’s been isolating herself since that fateful night. The Pastor, a humble and polite one, told us her daughter has been waiting for us in her room just above the kitchen. We went up to find her sitting bowed and alone with a Bible in her hand. Our footsteps were loud in the quietness of the isolated house. Like the march of ten thousands foot soldiers. The Bible in her hand seems to be her last resort. The Book was at ease in her hands. She was seeking peace in The Book. The Book had a red lining and black cover. She was holding the Bible as if to find an answer to what she was thirsting for. I wonder what she must be praying for at that time. Was it for forgiveness? For strength? For His blessing? Or for helping to forget. Will it be: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” We started talking. Words flows with tears. It flows with shame and anger. It flows with the desire to hide forever. The desire to die. It was not fun at all for the listeners.

I struggled so that my tears did not find a way outside my eyes. It was not very good time to wet the eyes. I thought to myself that it would be more shameful if I return to be silent. I would do them more injustice if I only listen to their stories and did nothing, which I ought to do. I would cease to be a man if I dare not stand up for what is right against the wrong. I would cease to be human if I cannot call wrong as wrong and right as right. If I remain silent, what will I say when the merciful providence ask me where my brothers and sisters are? What will I say, if, tomorrow my sisters are also raped? Will it be fair if I remain silent today and expect others to speak out against it? What will I say if today I remain silent and others also do the same tomorrow? Where would I hide if I remain silent today and others speak for the same sufferings tomorrow? Will there be forgiveness if that takes place? Will I be forgiven? Will I be able to forgive myself? If I were silent today, the sins of silence would haunt me till the grave. Pilate would not be there to help me wash my hands. It would be unusual to sleep the long sleep with dirty hands. I would not be able to forgive myself for that. God will sulk over such creations. Black Eyed Peas have a question for everyone: Where is the love?