The name is Diyun. I won’t call it “my home city” as it hardly has any semblance of a city. It was once a vast expanse of impenetrable forests and jungles. Now, it’s a quaint upcoming township located in eastern Arunachal Pradesh in the district of Changlang and so, I would rather simply call it “my place”. This is where I was born. As with everyone else, one’s place of birth always holds special significance and, by and large, defines one’s core “who you are” and also perhaps where you finally end up in life. I can, however, vouch for the fact that the story of my place is intricately interwoven with my personal life’s story.
The story of my place might sound strange and incredible but this is what it is. My place was made habitable by my forefathers including my late grandparents who migrated from erstwhile East Pakistan, now Bangladesh, to erstwhile NEFA (North Eastern Frontier Agency), now Arunachal Pradesh before being finally rehabilitated by the Government of India under a definite plan of rehabilitation during the period 1964 to 1969. My parents were born here and subsequently, I was.
As a young kid, a charitable educational institution took me under their tutelage far away from home where I spent seven years. It was commonplace for me as a kid to get news of some groups coming to my place and burning down houses, hear anecdotes of oppression, poverty and financial struggles faced by the people, including my family.
Today, the situation as well as the landscape has changed but the larger issues continue to haunt my place. An ‘outsider’ tag continues to be attributed to a large section of the people residing here. Retributions suffered as a consequence can be said to border on xenophobia, and include allegations of indigenous peoples’ rights dilution, population explosion, illegal migration, violation of law of the land, etc.
The majority people of my place are barred from applying for state government jobs, participation in election to Panchayati Raj institutions, cannot obtain licenses that require government authorisation, including trade, land rights, ration card, etc. and are excluded from most of the social welfare and livelihood schemes implemented by the government across the nation. Subsequently, they are even rendered ineligible or cannot avail themselves of bank loans including Mudra loans.
In general, as a consequence, there is a prevalence of artificially created identity crisis, perennial economic and academic backwardness, loss of cultural identity and heritage, discrimination, exploitation, lack of equal opportunity and various other socio-economic issues. And, I am a product of my place.
My place continues to be shackled and precariously reel under untold challenges. These, in turn, take their heavy toll everyday on the majority of its residents who are born here in ways mainstream India can hardly imagine. But, here, people feed on hope, that they shall overcome someday, and depend solely on their ingenuity to stay alive and thrive.
Looking back and as I dig deeper into my conscience, I’ve come to be convinced that my place has had the biggest influence on me as a normal human being. On the one hand, it has given me its deepest scar while on the other, it has taught me patience, resilience, to live in turmoil and also given me hope.
As a saving grace, my place is still in a learning phase and has miles to go before it sleeps. But it also offers a thousand lessons to learn. Personally, I take solace in the fact that my place has the brightest moonlit skies, freshest morning mist, sparkling river water descending from lush green mountains and soothing fresh air which the more one fills one’s lungs with the less it is.