Education and Society in a Changing Mizoram: The Practice of Pedagogy 9781136198052, 1136198059

Table of contents :
Cover
Education and Society in a Changing Mizoram: The Practice of Pedagogy
Copyright
Contents
List of Maps
List of Figures
Glossary
Preface
Acknowledgements
Introduction
1 The Backdrop
2 Mara Social Structure: Past and Present
3 Education: A Historical Journey
4 Schooling: Process and Experience
5 School and Society: Home, Community and the State
6 Conclusion
About the Author
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Education and Society in a Changing Mizoram

Transition in Northeastern India Series Editor: Sumi Krishna Independent scholar, Bangalore The uniquely diverse landscapes, societies and cultures of northeastern India, forged through complex bio-geographic and socio-political forces, are now facing rapid transition. Yet, popular and academic perceptions tend to be limited primarily to the various conflicts in the region. This series, therefore, aims to broaden the focus to the processes and practices that have shaped, and are shaping, the peoples’ identities, outlook, institutions and economy. Eschewing the homogenising term ‘North East’, which was imposed on the region in a particular political context half a century ago, the series title refers to the ‘northeastern’ region to more accurately reflect its heterogeneity and the varied issues confronting its diverse peoples. The series will encompass a broad rubric of themes related to culture, social relations, human and economic development, the environment, technology, governance and juridical systems. Seeking to explore how the ‘mainstream’ and the ‘margins’ impact each other, the series will foreground both historical and contemporary research on the northeastern region including the Eastern Himalaya, the adjoining hills and valleys, the states of Arunachal Pradesh, Assam, Manipur, Meghalaya, Mizoram, Nagaland, Sikkim and Tripura. It will publish original, reflective studies that draw upon different disciplines and approaches, and combine empirical and theoretical insights. The monographs and the occasional edited volume are intended to make scholarship accessible for a wide spectrum of general readers and to help deepen the understanding of academics, policy-makers and practitioners.

FORTHCOMING Sanghamitra Misra Becoming a Borderland: Space and Identity in Colonial Northeastern India Deepak K Mishra, Vandana Upadhyay and Atul Sarma The Unfolding Crisis in Assam’s Tea Plantations: Employment and Occupational Mobility

Education and Society in a Changing Mizoram The Practice of Pedagogy

Lakshmi Bhatia

~l Routledge

S~

Taylor & Francis Group

LONDON NEW YORK NEW DELHI

First published 2010 by Routledge 912–915 Tolstoy House, 15–17 Tolstoy Marg, New Delhi 110 001

Simultaneously published in the UK by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, OX14 4RN

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

Transferred to Digital Printing 2010

© 2010 Lakshmi Bhatia

Typeset by Star Compugraphics Private Limited D–156, Second Floor Sector 7, Noida 201 301

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publishers.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-415-58920-8

For Aranya God’s very own souvenir of the Mizo and Mara Hills

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Contents List of Maps List of Figures Glossary Preface Acknowledgements Introduction 1

The Backdrop

ix xi xiii xxi xxxiii xxxv 1

2 Mara Social Structure: Past and Present

26

3 Education: A Historical Journey

57

4 Schooling: Process and Experience

80

5 School and Society: Home, Community and the State

141

6

Conclusion

183

About the Author Bibliography Index

195 196 209

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List of Maps 1. Map of India showing the location of Mizoram 2. Map of Mizoram showing the districts 3. Map of Mizoram showing the distribution of different tribal communities 4. Map showing the distribution of Mara sub-tribes in Myanmar

xxviii xxix xxx xxxi

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List of Figures Ia Ib Ic

Mizoram: Society in transition Mizoram: Technology touching life A glimpse from fieldwork

1.1 1.2

Women vendors at a vegetable stall Women selling smoked pork

3.1

Life is all about improvisation: On the ‘motor’ (Mizo-Tawlailir)

61

4.1

Aspects of school culture: School boys in their self-made bamboo spectacle frames School children engaged in Tlaraihrina (Mizo: Hnatlang)

97

4.2

xxiv xxiv lxiii 7 7

111

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Glossary Abeipho Chiefly clans Aggarbatti Hindi word for incense sticks Ahiah Chillies Ahlas and Adeuna Post-marriage dues Ahneiphapa Mode of acquiring a mate through negotiation Ahrei Axe Aika Verandah Aitla A long platform leading to the chief’s house Amakia Marriage procession to the bridegroom’s house Ana A central term in Mara religion; denotes that which is forbidden Aoh A central term in Mara religion; denotes rest after important sacrifices Aphei Adultery Apiapa Wrestling Arakhei Elopement Artui Eggs Asi Chestnut wood Asia Trial by ordeal Athila Mourning dance Athipa A dead person Atu Iron hoe Awdua A coop for setting fowls Awhchari Hen’s basket Awhsa (Mizo: Arsa) Chicken Avopatopatla A sacrifice to the skies Avyu A type of tree (Gmelia arboria) Beihrual Special Gospel camps Beikypacha (Mara) Blessed by God Bia Arum Bidi An indigenous cigarette Bochhi The Indian fig tree worshipped by Maras Burma-mi People of Burma Chahry Tying Chaiphiapa Metal belts

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Chakeichakana A marriage due for crossing the threshold of bridegroom’s house Chapu Jhum house Chasipaw (Mizo: Thlasik) Winter Chava Spirits of river Chemsenbawi A slave who acquires this status after committing a murder Chhamai Maize Chhimtuipui lit. The big river of the south; also the name of a former district Chhipa Month of June Chholothyupa Putting the weight Chhonchonpipa (Mizo: Pu Pawla) A person in the traditional Mara religion who was believed to send towards right those bound for athikhi and to the left those bound for sawvakhi Chithiku A festival celebrated in October after the collection of vegetables from jhum Chynapa Upper garment for men Chysapathaipa A saintly man who served as a cook Dua a Ceremonial garment for men Dua-kalapa Lower garment meant for casual wear Duhlian The Mizo dialect that serves as the lingua-franca in Mizoram Eimano A form of address for persons of the speaker’s grandmother’s generation Eimapaw A form of address for persons of the speaker’s grandparent’s generation Eima satha paw A form of address for men who are unrelated but are of speaker’s parent’s generation Eima satha no A form of address for women who are unrelated but are of speaker’s parent’s generation Eiruk Duhlo Khawmpui Anti-corruption rally Eiunaw A form of address for a close friend Fathlun Youngest son Hakaholh The Lai language Hawlypaka A path through which all spirits were believed to pass Hazopano Pentecostal Day Hmiatla Atonement price Hnamchawm The common people Hnora Lower garment for men

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Hrakhei Metal belts Hrokei Brass hairpins Hrupathlei Hasala Insanity Ia A ceremony performed after a successful raid in which heads of the slain were taken Isua Krista Kohhran A denomination of southern Mizoram Kahmi Ladder Kahmikiana Marriage price for climbing the ladder of bridegroom’s house Kahri-tla Name of a mountain peak Kaohrei Upper garment for women Karaoti Nicotine water Karo Women’s pipe Keimacha, keihawti Formal friends Khaoh-laipa A big hole near a place, Leisai, from which Maras trace their origin Khapia Crossbeams Khazanghra The great darkness Khazopano Easter Sunday Khazopina A sacrifice to God, the giver and preserver of life Kheibu Bee’s nest Kheihlu Bee’s wax Khichhaipa A form of address for strangers Khireipa (Mizo: Khawchhiar) A village writer Khiso High mountains Khothlahba The most sacred and precious objects consisting of household goods and sacrificial implements Khrisma Christmas Khuthi Impotence Khutho A turban Kohhran Upa Church elder Kraws-Phesai (Mara) Soldiers of the Cross Kristian Nu Pawl Christian Women’s Association Kristian Thalai Pawl Young Christian Association Krizhypa hla bu Christian hymn book Kuei Prominent citizens Kuhva Betel Laisa (Mizo: Nula) Young girl Laizo (Mizo: Tahan) Categories of migrants from Myanmar Lal Chief

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Lalsiama God’s creature Lapino ma (Mizo: Mak) A form of divorce Lengdawn Courting of Girls Leurahripas Spirits of mountains, pools and forests Loparo Spirits of rocks Lo-siam-mi Cultivator Ly fine Lyu-chapa A representative Lyumei Burning of jhums Lyumo Selection of site for cultivation Lyurah Spirits of the forest Lyuvakhutla Cutting of jhums Machas Elders Machhipho Plebian clans Maluso A woman who has outlived three husbands Maophao Obligation Mara reih Mara language Masia-a-cha A game of elephant hunting Maulitla The peak of Mauli Mei-mei and Poilo Denote a carefree attitude Mi-anglo To be unlike other fellow beings due to mental deficiency Miapali A sacrifice performed for the newly-weds to wish for their prosperity Miesa (Mizo: Kelsa) Mutton Mipui People Mithun Bisons Inpuichhung bawi Slave Mizo Tawng Mizo language Nano Father’s sister Nga (Mizo: Sangha) Fish No-chyu Mother’s price Nochyu Aunt’s price, akin to Lushai nimas Nopi Summer O Spirits of house Okia (Mizo: Manpui) Main marriage price O-mabei Man’s pipe Pacho A bamboo rack on which meat and pork are smoked Pako Special doors of a chief’s house Pala tipa Name of a lake

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Pana A central term in Mara religion; denotes a period of seclusion Parapa Father’s sister’s husband Pathianni Sunday, ie, the Day of the God Pazo Long bamboos Peira Paradise Phipahripa Flying white ants Pho Clans Phophapa, Phosiapa Patrician clans Phypi Blue Mountain Piali Fence Puan Mizo women’s dress Puma (Mizo: Lushum) Marriage price paid to bride’s mother’s brother or pupa Pumtek A highly valued black and white bead Racha Beer pot Rakho (Mizo: Khumpui) The main bed Ramaw A type of bamboo Ramdangmi People of a different land Ramhual Agricultural experts Ramrilehkha A boundary paper Rapaw Another type of paddy tax Raso/Rahma Sub-types of long bamboo Rinawma Honesty Ru Death due Ruihlo do Anti-drug campaign Sabai (Mizo: Fathang) Paddy tax Sahaw (Mizo: Sachhiah) Meat tax Saheb A white man Sahma (Mizo: Zu) Rice beer Sahmapi/Sahmahei Types of rice beer Sahria A bag Sahriaku Harvest festival celebrated in December Saiza (Mizo:In-hrang bawi) Slaves who lived in a separate house Saraihrea Harvesting Sakhei Rice subscription for public purposes Sakia A female tutelary deity Sande Sikul Sunday School Sande sikul zirtirtu Sunday School teacher Sapha Rice Satlia (Mizo: Tlangval) Young boy

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Satu Sowing Sathi A village feast to entertain a visiting chief Sato Millet Savo (Mizo: Zawngling) Name of a village Saw Spirit of the slain Sawleipa The state of a woman’s barrenness Sawnpakua (Mizo: Sumchhuah) A form of divorce Sawva Granary Sawvakhi Abode for all those who have died an unnatural death Seipawchyu A marriage due of the chief’s sister or daughter paid to the chief’s favourite slave Sialycha Bean game Sikisa A ceremony Sisazi A constituent of the main marriage price, Okia Sokhao A mortar for pounding rice Sokhai A pestle Syudaipa (Mizo: Thirdeng) Blacksmith Tako A dao Thaira Firewood Theithaipa Village priest Thirdeng Blacksmith Thlakai A shelf for pots, pans and plates Thlalo A memorial stone Thlapa Spirits of the jhum Thlapha Kind of soul that is believed to be benign Thlazo Month of August Thobia/Thohy Types of edible roots and tubers Tholaipa Big tree Thopi (Mizo: Thingpui) Tea Thyuheino Easter Saturday Tikho (Mizo: Tuikhur) Local water point Tini A marriage due payable to paternal aunt Tipani Marriage ceremony Tipo Lake Tla-Awpa (Mizo: Tlangau) Village crier Thlachhi A kind of soul that is believed to be mischievous Tlah Mountain Tlapi The general public Tlangval Young man Tlaraihrina (Mizo: Hnatlang) Community work

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Tlawmngaihna Moral code among the Mizos that prescribes the practice of self-sacrifice Tlemte Little Tlosai Zua-no The Lakher princess Tlylia A ground for dancing Tlyliabopa Priest who performed tlylia sacrifice Tunoni Niece Tupapa Nephew Upas Elderly persons Vai Outsider Vaih (Mizo: Veng) Locality Vai-nu An outsider woman Vaipa A male outsider Vaosa (Mizo: Vawksa) Pork Vesthaw Pig oil Viachaosa (Mizo: Bawngsa) Beef Viasa/Kadua A form of address, meaning ‘my friend’ Vohle Subscription of one piglet Vopia (Mizo: salam) Court fees Zawlbuk Youth dormitory Zidei An annual due of basketful of rice Zirlaite Students Zizapuapa Swings Zuri Spirit distilled from sahmapi or sahmahei Zuruni Day to consume rice beer

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Preface My

engagement with the subject spans over a decade when I undertook intensive fieldwork from the mid-1990s to 2007. I first became acquainted with the northeastern region as a student in the Department of Sociology, at the Delhi School of Economics. In the University hostel, I made friends with some girls from the region. Later, family commitments happened to take me to Mizoram and to Chhimtuipui (now Saiha), the southern-most district of the tongue-shaped state. This was to be the beginning of my academic engagement with Mizoram. I studied two state-run middle and high schools, one in an urban setting and the other rural. The task ahead was Herculean as I was totally new to the field and its sociocultural specificities. However despite all trials and tribulations, I am content that this work has finally been accomplished. After several years of being marginalised, the northeastern region has finally started getting its due share of national attention. The present study may be seen as an effort towards understanding the region better through the lens of education. It does not deal comprehensively with all aspects of school education but it does give a glimpse of how one can understand a society through the medium of education. The introductory chapter begins with an overview of literature pertaining to the subject and then goes on to analyse the two key concepts of education and society. It also delineates the theoretical and methodological underpinnings through which the study can be contextualised, besides a brief introduction to the field setting and a note on the fieldwork. Chapter 1 provides an outline of the historical and socio-cultural background of the people: their origin, migration, language, general habits and the folklore. It also describes the early relations with the British, the new socio-religious order and the administration of education in the pre-independence and post-independence period. Chapter 2 then presents a picture of the Mara social structure in the past and present with parallels drawn from the Mizo society. This has been done to ascertain what Malinowski calls ‘the firm skeleton of the tribal life’ (1966: 11). If we were to limit ourselves

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to the analysis of the process of schooling alone, it would imply ‘cutting an artificial field of enquiry’ (Malinowski 1966). Keeping this broad perspective in mind, the chapter carries a description of the village life and administration; social stratification; marriage, family and kinship; economy and religion. In order to analyse the changes in society following the introduction of British rule, we must first look at ‘what’ changed and to ‘what extent’. Next, Chapter 3 puts education in a historical perspective. It gives an account of childhood and socialisation in the pre-British Mara society and goes on to trace the emergence and development of formal education under British rule. The process and experience of schooling is delineated in Chapter 4. The chapter deals with teacher–pupil interactions in the classroom and outside, interaction among teachers as well as teacher and pupil cultures. The chapter also focuses on the values purported to be transmitted by the school curriculum with special reference to gender, nationalism, citizenship and religious values. I also discuss the perusal of science and mathematics education as these have been identified as problem areas of education in Mizoram. In Chapter 5, my attempt is to understand the school in the context of its linkages with wider society. Therefore, the chapter analyses the relationship between home and school, and between community, state and the school. Finally, Chapter 6 provides general observations and the broad conclusions reached through the study, after a long association with the field and sustained academic interest. While much of the fieldwork was carried out for more than two years in the mid-1990s, I was also able to revisit the area in 2007. This was an exhilarating experience. The nervousness and anxiety of the earlier fieldwork situation was replaced by a sense of assurance and confidence that comes with familiarity. As I alighted, I was once again deeply impressed by the spontaneity, spirit of cooperation and cheerfulness of the Mizo people. Much has changed in the society since my last visit. With the advent of the information technology revolution, young and old alike are using mobile phones in a big way. The computer has made its appearance too. Fashion shows and reality TV shows such as the Mizo Idol, on the lines of the Indian Idol, are popular; luxury cars with loud music whiz past on the roads of Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram; and the interactions between young people of opposite

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sexes are much more open now. Desires are being shaped in tune with the times — the dream of many a young men and women is to become rich, possess a Master Card and to travel around the world. One can find the latest gizmos in the market like digital cameras, handycams and LCD and Plasma TVs (see Figures Ia and Ib). However, these changes are not specific to Aizawl or to Mizoram. They reflect much of that which is happening elsewhere in India and the world. Moving southwards in Mizoram towards Lunglei, Lawngtlai and Saiha, these transformations are not as sharp and rapid, but muted. It may take a few more years for the changes to reach these destinations. A notable development has been the expansion and further strengthening of the position of the urban middle class — a product of Christianity, western education and economy — as the producer, articulator and transmitter of the ideology of ethnicity, including the development of language and literature; incorporation of new ideas in religion; and in the political and other areas of the public sphere, including education. This middle class reflects a process of nationality formation from below or ‘little nationalism’, which is markedly different from the composite ‘great nationalism’ of the Indian mainstream as I have highlighted in Chapter 6. Nevertheless, there are some nascent signs of resentment among people against the middle class, especially the political elite, thus eroding its legitimacy to some extent. New civil society organisations such as the People’s Right to Information and Development Implementation Society of Mizoram (PRISM) are now active along with the earlier organisations such as the Young Mizo Association (YMA), the Mizo Zirlai Pawl (MZP) and the Mizo Hmeichhe Insuikhawm Pawl (MHIP) or the Mizo Women’s Association. During my visit, the PRISM had organised Eiruk Duhlo Khawmpui, an anti-corruption rally, against what it believed to be the cornering, by some of the political elite, of the lion’s share of resources which should rightfully accrue to the people at the grassroots. The YMA, for its part, has been pressing for some time for the return of the migrants from Myanmar due to the common perception that social problems such as drug addiction, thefts, burglaries and murders were rising due to the population influx. The number of migrants from Myanmar is estimated to be around 50,000. However, the positive contributions of the teachers from Myanmar in science and maths education and in the revival of art and culture are generally recognised, as I have pointed out in

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Figure Ia. Mizoram: Society in transition Source: Courtesy of the author.

Figure Ib. Mizoram: Technology touching life Source: Courtesy of the author.

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Chapter 4 of this book. The mild resistance towards the Myanmarese migrants is a new development. But the feeling of fraternity among the Chins and Mizos and the recognition of the broader Zo identity prevents an open conflict as compared with the open resistance to Chakmas and the non-Mizo population.1 The ways in which these attitudes reflect in education and how they influence the school have been dealt with in the relevant chapters. The other significant issues besetting the contemporary Mizo society are drug addiction and HIV/AIDS. These issues are being taken up by the YMA and other voluntary organisations. For instance, the major theme of the Annual General Conference of the YMA in 2007 was the anti-drug campaign (Ruihlo do). These substantiate my earlier observations related to the case studies pertaining to pupil culture (see Chapter 5). Indeed, these trends have become stronger with the passage of time. Thus, the need for moral education as emphasised by the eminent sociologist Emile Durkheim is as much relevant today as it was a decade earlier. In the Mara area, the Mara Chano Py (Mara Women’s Association) has begun to play a significant role in public life along with Mara Thly Py (MTP) and Mara Students’ Organisation. In 2007, the Maras celebrated the centenary of their church. In the realm of faith, besides the Evangelical Church of Maraland (ECM), the largest denomination among the Maras and other denominations that are found in the area, the oldest denomination viz., Independent Church of Maraland (ICM) which later acquired the nomenclature of Congregational Church of India (Maraland), has for sometime now, been divided into the Saiha group, which is more accommodative, and the Serkawr group, which retains its old ways and worldview. The socio-religious transformations have been instrumental in shaping people’s perceptions about their ethnic identity, including the students’ views about their self identity (see Chapter 6). People in general are much more fluent in Hindi now as compared to a decade earlier. This can be attributed not so much to schooling and the education system, though Hindi is now taught in the primary school too, but to the increased viewership of Hindi news channels and TV serials and programmes. The significance of Hindi in forging national unity is being realised.2 Significantly, classroom practices have remained much the same since the mid-1990s, except that a few senior students now carry mobile phones to school, especially in the urban set up. Computers

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are also being used, though not extensively. The nature of interactions of the students across gender, ethnicity, rural–urban residence have not changed much. However, the increasing gap between the rich and poor students is much more visible now. The themes that I noted in the curricular knowledge pertaining to gender values, citizenship and nationalism and religious values run through the new textbooks too. Systemic tensions between the different bodies concerned with school education have emerged. It is now being emphasised that preparation of educational curriculum and textbooks at primary and middle school levels be handed over to the State Council of Education and Training (SCERT) from the Mizoram Board of School Education (MBSE). It was also being argued that the conducting of examinations at these stages must also be transferred to it in order that the MBSE could concentrate on High School and Higher Secondary Examinations. Meanwhile, in the past decade or so, the significance of education as a contested terrain has increased tremendously, not only in Mizoram but in other parts of the northeastern region as well. For instance, in September 2007, the Nagaland Board of School Education (NBSE), through a notification namely, the Nagaland Board of School Education Rules, 2007, attempted to bring the schools in the Naga-dominated hill areas of Manipur — in the Senapati, Tamenglong, Ukhrul and Chandel districts — into its fold and to introduce textbooks prescribed by the NBSE in them, alleging that the Manipur textbooks had distorted the history of the Nagas. The Manipur government interpreted this as a move towards the formation of Greater Nagalim. The society in Mizoram and other parts of the region is poised to undergo far-reaching changes in the twenty-first century with the development of transport and communication and massive investments in the education sector in the Eleventh Five Year Plan which has been termed as the Education Plan. Connectivity is being viewed as a precursor for development of trade and investment as the northeastern region is thrown wide open as a gateway for SouthEast Asia as part of the Indian government’s ‘Look East’ policy with the development of Sitwe Port in Myanmar by India3 and the setting up of the Asian Highway which will pass through the northeastern region of India.4 As the borders become more and more irrelevant, the entire region is set for a metamorphosis unless caution is exercised to take into account people’s perceptions, their

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culture, aspirations, views on security and right to development. Though the prime focus of the North-East Vision-2020 including the ‘Look-East’ policy is economistic, it can be safely said that that the impact would not be merely economic. Wide-ranging changes can be expected in the political, environmental and socio-cultural fabric of the region. This poses a challenging task ahead for social researchers of this region.

Notes 1. In the context of citizenship, Samuel P. Huntington has recently remarked: ‘Who is a citizen and who is not, come to the fore when autocracies democratise, and when democracies confront many new claimants on citizenship’ (2004:16). This observation is apt for the Mizo situation as well, with increasing trends of both internal and transnational migration. 2. See The Mizoram Post, 1 October 2007. 3. This project includes making The Kaladan river (which also passes through southern and south-eastern Mizoram and is called Chhimtuipui) navigable, rebuilding of Sitwe port and developing highway connectivity from the border in Mizoram (see The Hindu, 8 January 2008). 4. The Asian Highway is a network of 1,41,000 kms of roadway connection between 32 countries. Conceived in the 1960s, the project was accepted only in 2004. The AH 1, a principal route, shall pass through the northeastern states of Meghalaya, Assam, Nagaland and Manipur and would have wide-ranging effects on the region as a whole.

Map 1: Map of India showing the location of Mizoram

Mizoram

International Boundary

Source: www.mizoram.nic.in (accessed 15 April 2005); adapted by the author.

Map 2: Map of Mizoram showing the districts

N

Kolasib

Mamit Aizawl Champhai

Serchhip Kolasib

Lunglei

Mamit Aizawl Champhai Serchhip Lawngtlai

Lunglei Saiha Saiha Lawngtlai International Boundary

60

0

60

120 kilometers

Source: www.mizoram.nic.in (accessed 15 April 2005); adapted by the author.

Map 3: Map of Mizoram showing the distribution of different tribal communities N

Mixed Ralte and Hualngo Pnar Ralte Riang Lushai Mixed Hmar, Biate, Thadou and Tlau Mixed Paite and Tlau Lai Mixed Tlau and Lushai Chakma Mara Mixed Bawm, Pang and Magh International Boundary Source: K. S. Singh et al. (1995). Map not to scale.

Map 4: Map showing the distribution of Mara sub-tribes in Myanmar

Source: Prepared by S. Lianhmunga. Map not to scale.

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Acknowledgements My greatest debt in preparing this work for publication is to the late Professor Aneeta A. Minocha, who despite being critically ill, was most generous with her time and help. My thanks are also due to Professor Rajiv Khanna, Professor André Béteille, Professor Tulsi Patel, Dr Radhika Chopra and Dr Punyatoya Patra. I am also thankful to Professor Krishna Kumar, former Director, the National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT), New Delhi for his valuable comments on one of my papers. Some of my insights about education in the northeastern region do find a place in North-East Vision-2020, a valuable document aiming to provide a blueprint for action for the region, signed recently by the Minister, DoNER, Government of India. I owe a special sense of gratitude to the people of Mizoram, especially the Maras, among whom the study has been conducted. Many thanks to Jonathan, Albert and K. Mara for the help they rendered; to the staff at the Ratan Tata Library, Delhi School of Economics; the State Library, Aizawl, Mizoram; officials at the Mizoram Board of School Education, Aizawl; and to the Institute of Economic Growth, Delhi for providing me a congenial atmosphere for writing. Special words of acknowledgement for Sumi Krishna, the Series Editor, for her able guidance, friendship, and much more; and the Editorial Department, Routledge, New Delhi, for bringing this work to the public at large. I am also grateful to my father, who though being physically away, has stood by me like the Rock of Gibraltar, and to my late mother who included me in her silent prayers. My thanks are also due to my elder son, Sharanya, for being my constant companion in the field and younger son, Aranya, who in his own sweet and innocent ways spurred me on. Both of them are as much a part of this work, of the associated trials, tribulations and triumphs, as I am.

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Introduction The Problem

Mizoram,

the land of the highlanders, is a tongue-shaped state in the northeastern region of India (see Map 1, p. xxviii). Sharing international boundaries with Myanmar on the east and south and Bangladesh on the west, it is an area of immense geopolitical significance affected by both external and internal factors. Along with the other states of Sikkim, Arunachal Pradesh, Meghalaya, Assam, Nagaland, Manipur and Tripura in India’s North-East, Mizoram is a society in transition. Its tribal peoples entered the twentieth century confined to remote and obscure hilly tracts, practising an animistic faith, and completely unlettered. Today, Mizoram has the distinction of being the second most literate state in India. Modernisation — chiefly Christianity, urbanisation and political awakening — has swept the land of the highlanders, and in recent decades, the forces of globalisation are all set to further transform Mizo society. At such a historic juncture, it is important to understand the role of schooling in Mizoram and to contextualise this understanding in the microprocesses within the school system and in the linkages of school education with wider society. There are significant gaps in the existing research in the sociology of school education and on the interface between school and sociopolitical transformations in society. At present, no study exists that examines the complexities of education and the interlinkages between school and society, especially with reference to the remote hill tribes in Mizoram or elsewhere in northeastern India. This study therefore aims to explore and analyse critical aspects of education and society in Mizoram, using the framework of a ‘political economy of schooling in which important questions of not only agency and structure are considered, but the significant issues of the State, politics and of ideology and culture are addressed’ (Scrase 1993: 51). The work is located in the broad domain of ‘cultural politics’, a much contested and emerging area in sociological research. As has been argued in recent times, schools are not merely social but cultural sites too, where significant battles over ideology, language, land, history, and

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religion are waged. I examine not only the numerically dominant tribe, the Mizo, but also take the vantage point of the smaller tribes in Mizoram, such as the Mara and the Lai. Indeed, Mizoram has been largely neglected in tribal studies. J. Shakespear’s The Lushai-Kuki Clans (1988) and N. E. Parry’s The Lakhers (1976) on the Mizo hills are among the valuable early monographs on the northeastern region. Such studies, authored by British scholar–administrators before Indian independence, treat tribes as ‘other cultures’ and ‘cultural isolates’ (Danda 1996) and are influenced by the guidelines in ‘Notes and Queries in Anthropology’ (1951). However, there are pitiably few anthropological studies of these tribal communities in the post-independence period. Surveying the literature on tribal ethnography, Danda (1996) mentions that out of a total of 106 studies on northeastern India in the decade 1979–1989, 28 were undertaken on Nagaland, compared to only three on Mizoram. Not much has changed in the years since then with major tribal groups getting more scholarly attention. However, there have been significant shifts from the pre-independence approach. First, from treating the tribes as ‘cultural isolates’, scholars have now begun to examine tribal people in their networks with the wider society. Second, the trend is now towards problem-oriented specialised studies, such as B. B. Goswami’s The Mizo Unrest (1979), which focuses primarily on politics in Mizoram, rather than generalised descriptions of the tribes (Danda 1996). Sociologists have generally examined the relationship between education and stratification while paying meagre attention to the interlinkages between education and culture, as has been pointed out by the Indian Council of Social Science Research or ICSSR (J. Aikara 1994). As Béteille (2000) and other scholars have emphasised, more attention needs to be paid to the cleavages and contradictions in society. These antinomies are social facts for they have social causes and social consequences and any study of a changing society must turn its attention to these antinomies. The linkages of the school with settings outside the school system such as religion, family, ethnicity and local community and the State, need to be analysed too for these offer arenas where selection and socialisation occur and also amorphous spaces where identities are created, re-created or altered (Bernstein 1977; Woods 1983; Scrase 1993). My attempt is to show how one can understand a society and culture through the lens of education. My involvement with these

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issues spans more than a decade, with intensive periods of fieldwork in the mid-1990s and 2007. I studied two state-run schools (having both middle and high school sections) in the Chhimtuipui, presently Saiha district. One had a heterogeneous student–teacher population due to its location in the district headquarter town and the place offered a congenial site to comprehend the translation of official policies into practice. The other, located in a rural area, had a relatively more homogeneous population and offered a suitable site to observe the process of schooling in a remote corner of Mizoram, closer to border with Myanmar. Besides, the study also aims to comprehend the linkages between education and culture which is as yet an unresearched and unfathomed area, though in recent years, culture as an object of enquiry has been gaining prominence. The study assumes that culture and language are not superficial but form the very core of society where politics is played out, for symbol sharing is no less significant than power sharing. Those not sharing the symbols of authority, values and culture of the core group tend to view themselves as a minority. This process can be at different levels — national, regional and state. The assertion of a distinct identity can be on the basis of linguistic nationalism, religion or place. Attachment to a place, which is the site of the exclusive history of a group, is as important as attachment to the group itself. The inclusion or exclusion in school text-books of the regional history, symbols and heroes reflects the relative influence of a particular tribal community. A community may also feel threatened if some of its own members have begun to partake of the symbols of the core group. In this context, the significant questions addressed by this study are: How does the education system function in the frontier region of Mizoram? What are the inherent dynamics? What is the interface between society and education? How does home impinge on school? Are there any cleavages and contradictions in the norms and values imparted by the school and those imparted by the home and community? Further, is the role of the State in education benign and neutral, or is there a ‘politics of knowledge’? Does school education reinforce ethnicity as an ideology and strategy? In the following section, I discuss a range of conceptual and analytical perspectives on education and society, the two key concepts around which this study revolves. This provides the basis for moving to the theoretical framework and methodological

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underpinnings of the study. My purpose here is to enable the reader to locate the study in a broader canvas to comprehend the processes and structures of schooling in a predominantly tribal society, both specifically and in general terms. This is followed by a brief description of the field setting, and a note on the fieldwork.

Education and Society: Concept and Meaning In the social sciences, engagement with the pursuit of education has largely been restricted to the discipline of philosophy. In recent times, however, after the behavioural and social sciences gained prominence, scholars of psychology, economics, sociology and political science have focused their attention on the phenomenon of education as well. Given their diverse orientations, they have examined the concept of education in their own distinctive ways. Broadly, however, all have viewed education as being connected with activities related to learning, usually, though not necessarily, within the context of schools. In sociological literature, the phenomenon of education is generally explained by ‘what it does’ rather than ‘what it is’. For instance, in the classical sociological tradition, Emile Durkheim, among the first exponents on the subject, notes that education transmits societal norms and values to the individual. For him, education is ‘wholly and eminently social’ — that is, a reality sui generis. Those sociologists, who use a Marxist framework, argue that education serves to reproduce the inegalitarian society. The task of examining ‘what education is’ has therefore been, by and large, left to philosophers. From the Chinese philosopher, Confucius in 600 BC to American pragmatist philosopher of 1950s John Dewey, all philosophers have expressed their views on ‘what education is’ and ‘what it should be’. I now examine the theoretical concerns in education that have engaged the attention of sociologists, focusing on two main perspectives: the ‘positivist approach’, which sees individuals as reacting to social forces beyond their control, and the ‘interactionist approach’ which views the individual as actively constructing social reality. In the former, the functionalists were the first to concern themselves with education. The work of Durkheim, Talcott Parsons, Kingsley Davis and W. E. Moore expressed two major concerns: the functions of education for the society as a whole, and the relationship between education and other parts of the social system. Durkheim noted

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that a certain homogeneity is required if society is to survive. Education instils this in the child by virtue of transmitting societal norms and values. The schools also provide a context where social skills of living in harmony with wider society are taught, besides specific skills for diversity. In a similar vein, Parsons points out that schools prepare the young for a transition from the particularistic and ascribed context of the family to the universalistic and achievementoriented context of the society. For Parsons, the school is society in miniature. As part of their general theory of social stratification, Davis and Moore make a direct link between the education system and stratification. They consider the former as a context to prove ability and to select people for different statuses in accordance with their capabilities. All these scholars have been criticised chiefly on the grounds that they have not taken into consideration the role of the ruling class and the values transmitted by the education system which may well be those of the ruling elite and not of the society, as asserted by the functionalists. The concern of Marxist scholars has been, first, to explore the ways in which education is shaped by the economic infrastructure, and second, to see how education produces the type of workforce required by capitalism. They therefore focus on the links between power, ideology, education and the relations of production in capitalist society. Louis Althusser’s concept of the ideological state apparatus assumes that power cannot be held for long by physical force, and that ideological control is a more effective means to maintain class rule. Further, a technically efficient but submissive and obedient workforce is required for the ruling class to survive. Education, an integral part of the ideological state apparatus, inculcates these values in the students and reproduces a workforce suited to the requirements of capitalist society. The neo-Marxists Samuel Bowles and Herbert Gintis (1976), in their acclaimed work Schooling in Capitalist America, pointed out that it was futile to expect too much from the school. In reality, schools were the handmaidens of the capitalist system. Bowles and Gintis wrote at a time when the relationship between education and occupational mobility was being thoroughly scrutinised and questioned. In their view, schools produced workers for the capitalist economy. The labour requirement of the capitalist system was a hardworking and highly motivated but weak and fragmented labour force, which derived motivation from external rewards such as pay

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and status. Bowles and Gintis drew various parallels: between the authoritative and hierarchical structure of the school organisation and that of the workplace under the capitalist system, where the emphasis on control from the top meant that the worker lacks all control; between the lack of intrinsic satisfaction from school work (as it is based on the ‘jug and mug’ principle where the teacher is knowledgeable and the student merely an empty ‘mug’) and alienation in the workplace; and between the fragmentation of school-based knowledge (whereby the student merely moves from one subject to the other without seeing any connection between the various subjects) and the fragmented organisation of work. They therefore considered the education system as a gigantic myth-making machine which provides justification for the inequalities of capitalist society. The illusion of meritocracy in school creates a belief that the system of role-allocation is fair and just. The unequal and undemocratic aspects of the workplace thus come to be seen as natural. In their words, ‘education reproduces inequality by justifying privilege and attributing poverty to personal failure’ (1976). As for solutions, they do not pin much hope on educational reforms. They argue that a liberating school system can be created only by a radical transformation of society, from the capitalist to the socialist. These views have met with criticism. According to Karabel and Halsey (1977), several aspects of schooling in America which have been condemned by Bowles and Gintis are to be found in socialist societies too. They cite the case of Cuba, where great emphasis was laid on grades and exams to motivate students and where the mode of teaching was largely authoritarian. Similarly, it has been pointed out that in the former Soviet Union, the most successful students were the offspring of the privileged. Though not a Marxist, Ivan Illich’s radical critique of education in advanced industrial societies has parallels with the Marxist views. The notion of alienation is central to Deschooling Society (1973), his landmark work. In his view, schools have failed miserably as they merely made ‘futile promises of salvation to the poor of the technological age’ (ibid.: 8). They are in fact repressive institutions which indoctrinate pupils, crush their creativity and imagination, induce conformity, and stupefy them. Schools are based on a hidden curriculum which identify formal education with learning. An individual’s success in school is dependent on the amount of learning he consumes. It also emphasises that learning about the world

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is more valuable than learning from the world. Further, schools are the root of the problems of modern industrial society as they prepare the individual to become a mindless, conformist and easily manipulatable citizen. As the existing school system fails to match his educational ideals, Illich argues that schools should be abolished. They should be replaced by ‘skill exchanges’ and ‘learning webs’. In ‘skill exchanges’, instructors should be drawn from amongst those who use the skills in daily life. The ‘learning webs’ must be formed by individuals with common interests who meet around a problem and proceed through creative and exploratory learning. Deschooling would lead to a society where the individual is truly liberated, and his talents developed to the maximum. Contrary to this view, Bowles and Gintis have asserted that the root of the problem lies in the economic system rather than in schools, and ‘deschooling’ would only produce ‘occupational misfits’ and ‘job blues’. Mention must be made here of Paulo Freire and his classic work Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1977). Like Illich, Freire too rejects the formal school system. In his view conventional education, which he terms ‘the banking concept of education’, suffers from ‘narration sickness’. It stifles creative and critical thought. According to him: Education[…] becomes an act of depositing, in which the students are the depositories and the teacher is the depositor. Instead of communicating, the teacher issues communiques and makes deposits which the students patiently receive, memorise and repeat[…]. In the banking concept of education, knowledge is a gift bestowed by those who consider themselves knowledgeable upon those whom they consider to know nothing (1977: 58).

In contrast to this, Freire devised a unique method to educate the poor in Latin America. This method involved direct learning of everyday words and phrases. The teachers were to be chosen from among the people themselves. Freire stated that in comparison to conventional education, the ‘critical education’ that he proposes is active, involves questioning and is based on mutual intentions. It is therefore transformational, liberating, consistent, and empowering. Freire’s method has had wide implications for the education of illiterate adults in developing countries, including India. The ‘cultural deprivation’ theories and the concept of compensatory education that have been proposed as an ameliorative measure have argued that the sub-cultures and value systems of

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lower classes and certain ethnic groups affect their performance in the educational system and create a self-imposed barrier to improvement. The cultural deprivation theorists lay emphasis on the difference in the nature of manual and non-manual occupations. These account for differential educational attainment as the former offer few prospects for promotion, little income for investment and future planning, and a lower value on education and on achieving high occupational status. The latter, on the other hand, provide more opportunities to enhance income and status, scope to plan for the future and adequate income for investment. Perhaps the most influential cultural deprivation theorist is Basil Bernstein, who explored the links between class differences in speech patterns and educational attainment. His theory of the two codes has provided the theoretical basis for the ‘new sociology of education’. Bernstein analysed the speech patterns of both middle-class and working-class children, and concluded that social class speech codes have their origin in family relationships, socialisation practices and the nature of manual and non-manual occupations. In his view, middle-class children are at an advantage as they were familiar with the formal, explicit and universalistic ‘extended code’ as well as the shorthand and grammatically simple ‘restricted code’. On the other hand, working-class children could handle just the shorthand, implicit and context-specific ‘restricted code’ (Bernstein 1977, 1996). As a consequence for the middle-class child, who has control over both codes, it was easier to follow the middle-class teacher and the middle classoriented textbooks. The working-class child, suffering from linguistic handicaps, was more liable to drop out of the school system. Bernstein’s views have come in for sharp criticism by Labov (1973) and Rosen (1972). On the basis of extensive experiments among working-class and black children in Harlem, a ghetto in New York city, they concluded that the cultural deprivation theories are based on false premises. Rosen held that Bernstein created a myth in the absence of hard evidence, that the ‘elaborated code’ of the middle-class was superior. Labov, in an article entitled ‘The Logic of Non-standard English’, argued that black speech patterns were not inferior but simply different, with their own rules and conventions. Boudon (1974) went a step further in what he calls the ‘positional theory’. In his view, much more important than the subcultural differences is the individual’s actual position in the class structure. That people begin at different positions in the class system

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would inevitably lead to educational inequality. In terms of intergenerational mobility, the choice of a course in ‘catering’ may mean ‘social demotion’ for the middle-class adolescent, while the same may mean ‘social promotion’ for a boy from a working-class background. As a consequence, the middle-class parent is likely to choose a professional course for his son. The working-class parent is more likely to settle for a lower-level course. The solutions offered by Boudon are: a single compulsory curriculum, fewer branching points and abolition of social stratification. Contemporary trends being just the contrary, Boudon ends on a pessimistic note. Pierre Bourdieu, Bernstein’s contemporary in France, theorised the education system as the perpetrator of symbolic violence. For Bourdieu, education, in the guise of fairness and neutrality, not only reproduces the existing inequalities but also produces its own inequalities. The main contention of these reproduction theories is that education is not about equality but about inequality. Just at the time when the ‘cultural deprivation theories’ came under attack by Rosen and Labov, there was also a growing realisation that these theories failed to take into account ‘what is to be educated’. M. F. D. Young, an eminent sociologist of education, argued that there is no objective way of evaluating knowledge and if any knowledge is considered superior, it is simply because those with power have defined it as such and have imposed their definition on others. In this sense, all knowledge is ‘socially constructed’. In particular, this applies to middle-class teachers and educational administrators. The phenomenological perspective which is integral to the ‘interactionist approach’ thus tends to look at meanings that are constructed in the process of interaction. It stresses the need to go beyond school knowledge and to take into account the attitudes of teachers and those in the school administration. It is assumed that teachers and school administrators are biased against underprivileged children who fail to comprehend the language in which they are taught, as well as the content of what is taught. The linguistic handicap is mainly due to the dominance of one linguistic code over another. The failure to comprehend what is being taught is largely due to the irrelevance of the subject matter. These interpretative, phenomenological and interactionist approaches were the turning point in establishing the theoretical approach popularly known as the ‘new sociology of education’. The articles contained in Young’s Knowledge and Control:

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New Directions for the Sociology of Education (1971) is regarded as a vital contribution in this direction. It sets the epistemological and theoretical impetus for later research into the issues of power and dominance in schooling. Scholars like Nell Keddie also emphasised that sociologists must explore the ways in which teachers and students interpret and give meanings to educational situations. The old sociology of education had focused on the social background of the underprivileged child. It believed that education should be considered as an investment for better life chances, rather than as a commodity to be consumed. This came to be called ‘the human capital approach’ to education, and led to educational expansion the world over. However, when it failed to equalise educational opportunity, the emphasis shifted to compensatory education. The focus of this approach was on making up for the deficient home environment in order to make the working-class child more middle-class. This approach met with failure too, bringing in its wake the realisation that it was not the child or his deficient environment which was in need of change. Instead, as argued by Young and others, it was the education system and the attitude of the teachers which needed to change. Among other things, it was felt that teachers must accept the validity of different speech forms and moral codes. In more recent times, the resistance theories have gained popularity. Researchers in the US, Canada, Europe, and Australia have emphasised the importance of human agency and experience in analysing the complex relation between schools and dominant society. According to them, the domination of the school is never complete and total but is challenged by the students with their oppositional behaviour. The main protagonists of this theory, H. A. Giroux and Peter McLaren, argue that schools are contested terrains marked by student resistance. In place of the existing systems of schooling, both propose critical pedagogies which take into account the lived culture of the students. The work of McLaren and Giroux has been influenced by Freire’s ideas who, as mentioned earlier, argued for the creation of schools as public spaces that respect the lived differences between people. My study of schooling and society in Mizoram treats the school not only as an externally observable reality impinging on the individual, as emphasised by Durkheim, but also as a reality being constantly created and recreated in the process of mutual

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interaction between various actors. While it delves into the power and domination aspects of education underlined by Marxist analysis, scrutinising the values in educational knowledge and raising questions about ‘whose’ values they are, it also addresses the idea of resistance in education and pleads for assigning significance to critical pedagogies and making education an emancipatory activity. I have used not one theoretical orientation but a multiplicity of approaches to gauge the complex reality of the interface between critical lands and their pedagogies.

Education: The Indian Context In India, the phenomenon of education began to be examined in the 1950s. I. P. Desai’s study on high school students in Pune in 1953 can be considered a pioneering work in this field. In the 1960s and the 1970s, the merit-based approach to the analysis of education in India was popular. An exemplar of this trend is the review by N. V. Tirtha and M. Mukhopadhyaya (1974). Some of the research themes in the studies reviewed by them were: the educational organisation as a social system, education and social change and social problems of dropouts. In another review, Suma Chitnis (1974), classifies sociology of education in India into two areas: first, that which perceives the education system as a sub-system of the social system, and second, that which is concerned with the internal organisation of the education system. These studies were influenced by the structural–functionalist paradigm. In the 1970s, the dominant theme in the studies was to explore the links between education and social inequality. These studies were generally critiques of the education policy. The solutions they offered revolved around the triad of equality, quality and quantity, as enunciated by Naik (1975). The decade of the 1980s has witnessed the emergence of studies incorporating critical social theory. Notable among them are those by Acharya (1981), Kalia (1986), Kumar (1989) and Thapan (2006). Their studies provide a critical analysis of education as being closely linked to the wider social and cultural structures, where educational inequality is seen as a reflection of various forms of social inequality that are a product of history. In the 1990s, there were a few studies on the role of the State in education, such as that by Scrase (1993) on textbooks in West Bengal. More recent studies, notably Kumar (2000) and Bhagavan (2003), incorporate resistance theories. Tracing the educational history of

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Banaras in the period 1840–1940, Kumar examines British statecontrol over education and the challenge it posed to the accepted and indigenous educational systems of the three occupational groups of Pandits, merchants and weavers, and ‘creative resistance’ offered on the part of the latter. On the basis of her research findings, Kumar concludes that the Pandits lost their power over Sanskrit teaching to the formally structured Sanskrit college. Though the ‘mahajani’ system of education among the merchants, initially withstood the onslaught of English education, it later adopted certain modern pedagogic structures. On the other hand, the Muslim weavers, who traditionally had a system of vocational and ethical training, continued to be under the control of their Sardars, Mehtos and other community leaders. Bhagavan’s study analyses the education system in the princely states of Baroda and Mysore in British India. He unearths the ways in which colonial authority was challenged and negotiated through direct political action and also by indirect and subtle efforts towards social and cultural reform. Spaces in which the ideology and institution of colonialism could be challenged were produced due to the contradiction between good governance and western education on the one hand, and the denial of future parity on the other. Another theme in the contemporary studies of education has been the application of the symbolic–interactionist perspective to comprehend the process and experience of schooling. For instance, Sarangapani’s (2003) work, written from an interactionist perspective, examines the process of schooling in a government primary school for boys in rural Delhi. It reveals how padhai (learning) was perceived as an avenue for future employment, a way of becoming a bada aadmi (big man). In line with the ‘critical pedagogies’, scholars in India have also examined the prospects of emancipatory education, that which is free from the regimentation of the formal school system and treats both the teacher and the pupil as learners positioned at different levels. Krishna Kumar’s (1996) study, for instance, asserts that conflictual situations offer moments which can be seized for pedagogic purposes. In a similar vein, Avijit Pathak (2002) looks at a particular private school in Delhi to explore the possibiliy of critical and emancipatory education. Scholars have also devoted attention to the significant issue of a child’s right to education in South Asia. For instance, Kabeer, Nambissan and Subramanian (2003) seek to provide answers to the perplexing question of the

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possibility of conflict between the rights of the child to education and the economic needs of the family in the context of child labour in South Asia. The focus in the most recent researches has been on the role education can play in nation building and ushering peace. The work of Kumar and Oesterheld (2007) examines the role of education in forging understanding, peace and cooperation in the countries of South Asia, just as it did in war-torn Europe after 1945. To sum up, it is evident that the analysis of the concept of education in India has moved away significantly from the structural– functional paradigm of the 1960s and early 1970s to examining the mutual interlinkages between education and inequality. In the 1980s and 1990s, the focus shifted to critical studies of education, ‘resistance’ and critical pedagogies. This study takes these themes forward and also seeks to develop deeper insights, especially with regard to the hilly areas of North-East India. The region’s responses to the transitions in the wider society, economy and polity range from simmering discontent, to guerrilla warfare and open conflict. The study also examines the role of the state in education, as also resistance and the scope of critical pedagogies in promoting peace, understanding and harmony between the people of the northeastern region and those in the rest of India.

Society For the purpose of the present study, the term society refers to ‘tribal society’, since the majority of communities inhabiting Mizoram are tribes. The Anthropological Survey of India in the People of India project (1995), enumerates 15 tribes in Mizoram.1 It would be useful to examine the various meanings and ramifications of the category of ‘tribe’ and ‘tribal society’ in academic writings before we proceed further. The study of tribes has been an integral and distinctive aspect of anthropological studies although a consensus about the definition of the term ‘tribe’ is difficult to find. This is best exemplified in the work of F. Boas, R. H. Lowie and C. Wissler in the US and W. H. R. Rivers, A. R. Radcliffe-Brown and B. Malinowski in the UK in the first half of the twentieth century. Béteille (1992) argues that divergence of opinion on the subject can be attributed to the preoccupation of anthropologists with the study of a variety of topics and also a range of societies. They are no longer confined to the study of simple, pre-literate societies. Since the 1940s, there has been a shift of focus from ‘tribe’ to

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‘civilisation’, as evident in the study of peasantry by Robert Redfield (1956). The emphasis now is on the study of ‘wholes’ and tribes begin to be examined in their relation to civilisation. There are, broadly, two approaches to the study of tribes — the ‘evolutionary’ and the ‘historical’. The former stresses the ‘succession’ of social formations over time while the latter focuses on their ‘co-existence’ in a given framework of space and time (Béteille 1992). The evolutionary approach sees the tribe and civilisation as disjunct, as in the study of societies in Australia, the Pacific Islands and North America. The historical approach emphasises the co-existence of tribe and civilisation rather than their disjunction, and is employed in the study of older civilisations such as those of India, China and the Islamic world. In anthropological literature, L. H. Morgan’s concept of ‘tribe’ and Durkheim’s idea of the ‘poly-segmental’ society are among the first instances of the evolutionary approach. The work of later scholars, such as Marshall Sahlins’ (1961) conception of tribe as ‘a segmentary system’ and Maurice Godelier’s (1977) notion of the tribe as ‘a stage in the evolution of society’, also exemplify the evolutionary approach. However, Honigman (1966), views the tribe as ‘a whole society’ which is homogeneous with respect to government, language, culture and customs. For Morton H. Fried (1975), the tribe is ‘a kind of secondary phenomenon’ which acquires its form and identity from some external source. The crucial aspect of Sahlin’s definition of the tribe is the distinction between state and non-state societies. According to him: A tribe is a segmental organisation. It is composed of a number of equivalent, unspecialized multifamily groups, each the structural duplicate of the other: a tribe is a congeries of equal kin group blocs (1961: 325).

Although the notion of the segmentary system has been in use since the 1890s, especially in the work of Durkheim, it became popular among anthropologists only in the 1940s with the publication of Evans-Pritchard’s (1940) The Nuer, and M. Fortes and Evans-Pritchard (1940) African Political Systems. It has served to enrich our understanding of the tribes in the Islamic world including the Swat Pathans, presently in the north-west frontier of Pakistan. Yet, we do not gain much by its application in the understanding of tribes in other parts of the world. First, Sahlins himself cautions

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us to use the term ‘segmentary system’ in a restricted sense. Second, we cannot use the terms ‘tribe’ and ‘segmentary system’ interchangeably. Owing to the ambiguity, it is plausible that Sahlins later modified his four-fold scheme of state, band, tribe and chiefdom into a three-fold one of state, band and tribe, the category of the chiefdom being merged with that of the tribe. Regarding this modification, Godelier points out that if Sahlins could include chiefdoms in tribes, he could have moved further in the other direction too, so as to include the band in the same category. Set in the evolutionary framework, Godelier puts forth his Marxist conception of the tribe both as ‘a type of society’ and as ‘a stage of evolution’. These two notions are interlinked in that each stage of evolution is organised in a specific mode of social organisation. For Godelier, the tribe and the chiefdom are fundamentally different. A tribe has no inequalities of class, while a chiefdom does. The idea underlying this argument is that chiefdoms are inextricably linked to a division of classes. When we subject these notions of tribe and chiefdom to critical scrutiny, we find that this is not always so, as ‘distinctions of rank, status or occupation operate independently of differences of wealth’ (Fortes and Evans-Pritchard 1940). If this is true of African chiefdoms, it is equally true of the tribes in the present study. Further, there is not much evidence of the uniform co-variation of mode of livelihood, kinship structure and political system as posited by Godelier, due to the presence of various modes of livelihood among tribes. Fried (1975) not only rejects the evolutionary approach, but also finds the very notion of ‘tribe’ ambiguous and amorphous. Early scholars like Morgan, as well as later ones like Godelier, have viewed the tribe as a ‘completely organised society’. Implicit in this view is the assumption of clear-cut and easily demarcated boundaries between the tribes themselves, and between tribes and other types of society. This is owing primarily to the tribes being considered as ‘breeding populations’ and distinct ‘speech communities’ that limit their boundaries. However, this argument does not find favour with Fried. He asserts that first, there are not just sexual unions but also socially sanctioned marriages crossing the boundaries of tribes, and second, there are tribes which speak the same language, yet form several endogamous groups. At the same time, there are several endogamous groups that speak different languages. The boundaries between tribes are therefore amorphous. Besides, the role of language in defining the tribe is also dependent on the

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extent to which a tribe is influenced by the civilisation under whose shadow it exists. After demolishing the above arguments, Fried advances his own notion of the tribe. He argues that one can understand the true nature of tribe only if one considers it a secondary phenomenon that acquires its character from an external source. A critical examination of Fried’s conception of the tribe shows that it is applicable to certain tribes, such as the Makah Indians and the contemporary African tribes, as these groups are delineated as such by political definition for administrative purposes. However, this is not applicable to all tribes in the world. First, historically, not all tribes are of recent origin or secondary phenomena; second, it is not always true that state has always enjoyed pre-eminence over the tribe. For instance, among the Pakhtuns in the erstwhile North-West Frontier Province (NWFP) of pre-independence India, it was not the ‘tribe’ but the ‘State’ which occupied the periphery.

Tribe in the Indian Context The western notions of the tribe set in the evolutionary framework do not hold ground in the case of societies in India, China and the Islamic world. The historical approach is applicable here, as our experience of history provides us with strong evidence of the coexistence of tribe and civilisation for several centuries (Béteille 1992). Significantly, in India the concern has been not to define the tribe, but to identify tribes for political and administrative purposes. Therefore, here the administrative conception of the tribe holds sway over the anthropological conception (Béteille 1992; Xaxa 2003). Indeed, Sahlins’ notion of the tribe as a segmentary system is disproved by Indian history. Historical evidence, according to Niharranjan Ray (1972), suggests that the category of jana in Indian history, with its emphasis on egalitarian principles as against the jati or caste, is somewhat similar to the modern notion of tribe. However, jana is by no means homogeneous. On the one hand, while there were janas at lower levels of socio-economic organisation, there were others which were at a relatively higher level. We can neither treat the former as similar to a segmentary system, nor treat the latter as ‘tribal chiefdoms’ though there have been tribal dynasties such as the Ahoms in Assam. Godelier’s emphasis on the co-variation of mode of livelihood, kinship structure and political system, when applied to the Indian

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scene, does not yield much. N. K. Bose (1940) has classified the tribes on the basis of modes of livelihood into hunters and gatherers, animal herders, shifting cultivators and settled agriculturists. Bailey (1961) defines the tribe in terms of its segmentary features. For him, tribes are small in scale and limited in their social, legal and political relations. They also represent a definite structure. As already mentioned, Béteille (1992) rejects the evolutionary approach and prefers the historical approach to study tribes, especially in India and the Islamic world. He believes that we find the co-existence of tribe and civilisation in the crucible of the history of these societies. Xaxa (2003) concurs with Béteille that in India, the tribe is a ‘colonial construction’ and that in the pre-colonial period there was no general category of tribe, but local and regional nomenclatures such as Naga, Santhal and Lushai existed. He is of the view that the general notion of the tribe entered the modern consciousness through the efforts of the colonial state (as is also for caste though to a lesser extent) and was firmly established by the Indian government after independence. The crucial aspect is that tribes have existed outside the pale of State and civilisation, either out of choice or necessity. Despite the State’s designation of certain erstwhile hunting and gathering tribes as ‘ex-criminal’ and ‘criminal’ tribes, they do not represent a definite stage in the march of evolution from a simple to a more complex society. Indian tribes in general cannot be treated as a secondary phenomenon in the Friedian sense for our history goes entirely against this. It was through the decennial census, and the establishment of specialised institutions like the Asiatic Society of Bengal in 1874, that the notion of the ‘tribe’ entered our consciousness. In the censuses, several names have been used for tribes to distinguish them from castes. It is the usage of the term ‘animism’ and later ‘tribal religion’ which has served to make this distinction prominent. In the Census of India 1891 the term ‘forest tribe’ has been used, with ‘animism’ becoming their distinguishing feature in the 1901 Census of India. The term ‘hill and forest tribes’ has been in use in the Census of India 1921, while the term ‘primitive tribe’ acquires precedence in the Census of India 1931. In the Indian context therefore, the usage of the term ‘tribe’ is beset with problems as there is no one way of defining the tribe (Xaxa 2003; Chacko 2005). After independence, the Scheduled Tribes were designated

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as such by virtue of their inclusion in Article 342 of the Indian Constitution. As the enlisting of tribes is linked to the provision of administrative and political concessions, it is no surprise that this reflects political mobilisation to gain benefits rather than being based on any scientific or neutral criteria. This explains why, in the case of India, it is the administrative conception of the term ‘tribe’ that is significant compared to the anthropological definition (Béteille 1992; Xaxa 2003). The notion of tribes as ‘indigenous people’ has been quite popular in recent years, owing primarily to the declaration of the year 1993 as the International Year of the Indigenous People by the United Nations. However, in India, it has existed in spirit for a long time. One can find the use of the terms ‘aborigines’ which roughly corresponds to the idea of ‘indigenous people,’ ‘so-called aborigines,’ ‘backward Hindus’, ‘tribes in transition’, the ‘Fourth World,’ ‘ethnic minorities’ and adivasis, i.e., ‘original inhabitants’. But there is no easy consensus among scholars on this issue. Dube (1977) and Béteille (1998) hold that the term ‘indigenous people’ is an inappropriate description of tribes in India, because historically, there have been waves of migrations of tribal populations into the country. But B. K. Roy-Burman (2002) has argued that the term ‘indigenous people’ is not a conceptual definition in the Indian context but emerges from a concern for human rights and a quest for justice, and that notwithstanding the co-existence of tribes with nontribes, many tribes in India have always maintained their identity as indigenous by virtue of having their own self-regulating economic and political systems. Sengupta (1982) holds that the term ‘indigenous’ must be used to avert the increasing threat, posed by the process of globalisation, to the exploitation of natural resources in the ‘Fourth World’. It is no easy task to distinguish between original settlers and migrants. Moreover, tribes and non-tribes have always co-existed. Further, the oral traditions of the tribes themselves, such as those of the Mizos and the Maras, speak of spatial movement. The concept of tribe in India acquires much more clarity if examined in relation to the related concepts of civilisation, caste and peasant. In India, tribes have co-existed with state and civilisation. Surajit Sinha holds tribes to be an aspect of the ‘Little Tradition’, not amenable to understanding without reference to the ‘Great tradition’. Béteille (1992) perceives tribes as existing outside the state and civilisation.

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When the term ‘tribe’ is examined in relation to caste, the category of jana comes closer to the modern category of ‘tribe’, in contrast to jati which is akin to ‘caste’. It has been argued that the governing principle underlying jana is egalitarianism while that underlying jati is hierarchy. However, Béteille, Roy-Burman and Singh hold that the jana was amorphous and often overlapped with other categories that could be subsumed under the category of non-tribes. In the literature of the eighteenth century, ‘tribe’ and ‘caste’ were used almost interchangeably and, later, even as cognate terms. In the Census of India 1891, tribe was spoken of as ‘forest tribe’ under the broad category of agricultural and pastoral castes. The distinction between ‘tribe’ and ‘caste’ is much more marked in the later censuses, the ambiguous criteria notwithstanding. Tribes were conceived of as those practising animism, as against the Hinduism of caste society. The distinction was understood more in terms of ethnicity and expressed in the form of different administrative set-ups, such as ‘Non-regulation Tracts’, ‘Scheduled Areas’, ‘Excluded Areas’ and ‘Partially Excluded Areas’. This was done in order to focus on the difference between tribes and non-tribes. In academics, the dichotomy between ‘tribe’ and ‘caste’ found expression in the disciplines of sociology and anthropology, the former studying caste and peasant society, and the latter tribes (Xaxa 2003). In the post-independence era, there were serious attempts by sociologists and anthropologists to distinguish tribe from caste. Noteworthy among these is Mandelbaum (1970), who thought of ‘tribe’ and ‘caste’ as different types of societies. Caste society came to be associated with heredity, occupation, hierarchy, purity and pollution, and civic and religious disabilities, while the tribe did not have any of these features. Besides, the two have also been seen as governed by different principles. Tribal society being governed by the principle of kinship, its hallmark is egalitarianism. Caste society, on the other hand, is characterised by inequality, dependency and subordination. Again, they differ in psychological habits. Tribes have been conceived of as pleasure-seeking, while the perception of castes has been ambivalent on this count. Further, the village in caste society has been seen as heterogeneous, while it has been seen as homogeneous in the tribal society. When tribal society is examined with reference to peasant society, it becomes evident that besides being seen ‘in opposition to caste’,

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tribe has also been seen ‘in opposition to peasant’. Though ‘tribe’ and ‘peasant’ represent two different principles of social morphology, they coincide with each other. Occupationally, several Indian tribes have been practising settled agriculture. However, scholars have by and large overlooked this kind of overlap between tribe and peasant and have overemphasised their opposition. Béteille (1992) and Sinha (1965) are critical of this dichotomous view of tribe and peasant that compels us to turn a blind eye to the political, economic and social linkages between tribal and non-tribal groups. Therefore, they prefer to examine tribal society in the tribe–peasant continuum, rather than the tribe–peasant dichotomy. To sum up, this brief survey of the spectrum of scholarship shows that there is an enormous range of views as to what constitutes ‘tribe’. Can we look at it as a ‘segmentary system’, as ‘a stage in the evolution of society’ or as ‘a secondary phenomenon’? In the context of India, I believe that the evolutionary approach has little relevance. It is the historical approach which holds the key to a meaningful analysis. The tribe–caste and tribe–peasant continuum/dichotomy also needs to be taken into account.

Theoretical and Methodological Underpinnings This study uses multiple approaches to comprehend the complexities inherent in the relationship between the micro-reality of the school and the macro-reality of the society. As the aim is to analyse not only the processes of schooling but also the interface between the school and society, no single ‘exclusive’ approach can do justice to it. Different perspectives are required. This is in keeping with the eclectic approach advocated by Woods (1983: 182). Writing about the future prospects of the symbolic–interactionist perspective, Woods asserts that the second stage in the growth of this approach must ‘bring interactionism and other approaches closer together’. He also emphasises the need for ‘a greater flexibility’ and ‘a greater openness’ in order to reap the benefits of various approaches. This is not ‘a facile eclecticism’ but would in fact bring ‘greater vigour in the exercise of the sociological imagination’ (ibid.: 183). Foremost amongst the approaches is Durkheim’s which exhorts us to examine the school as an externally observable social reality that exercises constraint over its members. This is done through both explicit rules and implicit norms. However, the school is much more than a social fact to be treated as a ‘thing’. It is also

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constitutive of different motivations, goals, values, attitudes and ways of acting, which the actors bring to the situation. Here the significance of Max Weber’s Verstehen (interpretive understanding) cannot but be emphasised. For Weber, it is a necessary part of causal explanations in social science. Verstehen is not merely a method but also the way data of the social or human sciences present themselves to us. Since the 1970s, with the ‘new sociology of education’, the focus shifted from the external observation of the ‘social fact’ of education to the ‘social construction of knowledge’. This necessarily implied that the ‘meanings’ attributed by the individuals to their actions, in the process of interaction, be taken into account. The phenomenological perspective underlying symbolic interactionism was thus pressed into service by sociologists in general and the sociologists of education in particular. In a landmark study of working-class children in a Hammertown school, Willis (1977) made brilliant use of the symbolic–interactionist perspective. Writing in a radical framework, Willis showed how working-class identity is recreated through the counter-school culture of ‘lads’, i.e., working-class children. These children oppose the authority of the teachers, look down upon the obedient and conformist students as ‘ear oles’, and have a ‘laff’. In these and numerous other ways, these ‘lads’, in an act of ‘self-damnation’, prepare themselves for manual labour in their adult life. Woods (1983) has underlined six main concerns of the interactionist approach to the school. These are: contexts, perspectives, cultures, strategies, negotiation, and subjective careers. ‘Context’ refers to the way in which situations are constructed and interpreted by the participants. Here, the ‘front regions’ and ‘back regions’ acquire significance. The front regions of visible individual behaviour may accord with formal expectations, but the back regions may indicate the dilemmas and tensions inherent in the situations. Back regions also help to manage the role better, acting as a ‘safety valve’. ‘Perspectives’ refer to the framework of the teachers and the pupils, through which they construct the reality of the school. These perspectives may be both culture-specific and context-specific. By ‘cultures’, is meant the background against which perspectives are made and articulated. Perspectives do not exist in a vacuum; they are derived from culture transmitted through the process of socialisation. ‘Strategies’ refer to the links between perspectives

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and action, between the internal and the external. In the context of the school, teachers and pupils come up with blueprints for action, to deal with difficult situations and to achieve their goals. ‘Negotiation’, which is a key feature of the interactionist approach, refers to the act of choosing wherein each side seeks to maximise its own interests. Implicit in negotiation is also the element of power as not all parties to the interaction have equal power to define the parameters of acceptable social reality. Lastly, ‘subjective careers’ refer to the way in which an individual’s experience is linked to the formal careers and society at large. Commitment and development of identities are two important dimensions of careers. In the context of India, the symbolic–interactionist approach pertaining to school, as laid down by Woods (1983), has been put to use by Thapan (2006). Though Thapan draws on various approaches, she has predominantly applied the symbolic–interactionist perspective in her ethnographic study of Rishi Valley School which is modelled on J. Krishnamurti’s ideology. Similarly, Sarangapani (2003), building upon the symbolic–interactionist approach, has used Piaget’s model of a child’s construction of knowledge in her study of Kasimpur Boys Model Primary School, a government school on the outskirts of Delhi. The need to link the analysis of the micro-school processes with macro-societal context in which they occur has been strongly emphasised in recent scholarship (Woods 1983; Scrase 1993; Thapan 2006). This is primarily due to the issues of power, dominance and control in the school processes and several aspects of school culture. It is being increasingly realised that the symbolic– interactionist perspective in its first stage has made significant strides in ‘charting the school processes’, and analysing the contents of the ‘black box’ of education. In the second stage, the interactionist approach must go beyond ‘the first rough mappings of the hitherto dark unknown of the ‘black-box’ interior of the school ‘to the further mapping of uncharted areas of school life, formal theory and macro-links’ (Woods 1983: 180). It is believed that the roots of what goes on in the ‘black box’ of the classroom and the school lie in the broader societal context. The importance of such an effort can be well understood if we take cognisance of C. Wright Mills’s assertion in this context that the core of the sociological imagination is ‘to connect the specific milieux to conceptions of social structure’ (1959: 38).

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In order to understand the principles of the distribution of power and social control in the domain of education, the ‘structuralist sociologies of school’ (Bernstein, Foucault and Bourdieu) are significant too. For Bernstein (1977, 1996), the central focus of the theory of cultural reproduction is ‘the matrix of transmission’, i.e., the structures and processes by which the principles underlying the social order are transmitted and realised through various institutional forms such as the family, and education. This transmission process has both micro and macro dimensions. For instance, it is affected by the class structure, polity, division of labour and the dominant cultural principles or codes through which social order is regulated. It is also realised through linguistic and other social codes in specific social contexts and the mental structures of our consciousness. Bernstein has drawn upon multiple perspectives, such as the interpretative and the functional approaches and also the work of Marxist conflict theorists. He writes, ‘Essentially, I have used Durkheim and Marx at the macro level and Mead at the micro level’ (1973: 196). From Durkheim, Bernstein tries to grasp what the term ‘social’ entails. From Marx, he endeavours to gauge the social significance of society’s productive system and the power relationships to which the productive system gives rise. He notes, ‘It is not only capital in the strict economic sense which is subject to appropriation, manipulation and exploitation but also cultural capital in the form of symbolic systems through which man can extend and change the boundaries of his experience’ (1977: 196). His focus is on the underlying rules shaping social construction of pedagogic discourse and its practices. He also emphasises the role of language in the reproduction of class relationships. Bernstein’s method thus logically follows from the aims that he has set for himself. He moves from the micro to the macro level of analysis. By doing this, he has ‘tried to develop a way of thinking which integrates structural and interactional categories so that a theory of transmission might be possible’ (ibid.: 32). The relevance of Bourdieu’s work too is immense for India, as well as for the present study. In India, where the inequalities are not only of class but also of caste, gender, ethnicity and rural–urban residence, it is significant to analyse how existing societal structures are maintained and legitimated by ‘symbolic violence’ through the generative principles of the ‘habitus’, the two key concepts in Bourdieu’s work (with J. C. Passeron), especially in Reproduction in

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Education, Society and Culture (1990). According to Bourdieu, class structures are maintained and legitimated by ‘symbolic violence’. Symbolic systems are described as structuring phenomenal reality through their own internal structures. They are thus ‘structured’ and ‘structuring’ Further, these systems also perform a political function as ‘instruments of domination’ in the maintenance of class dominance. The effectiveness of this symbolic power lies in the recognition of its legitimacy. This is done by the concealing or meconnaisance (misrecognition) of the real, unequal power relations on which it rests. Bourdieu argues that dominant symbolic systems or ‘cultural capital’ is produced, distributed and consumed in a set of social relationships that are relatively autonomous, being independent of those which produce other forms of capital. This autonomy is due to the control of the owners of ‘cultural capital’ over the education system, the major instrument of cultural reproduction. Just as there is competition over the distribution of economic capital, there is struggle too over how reality should be symbolically defined. According to Bourdieu, education is a process of ‘symbolic violence’ as it involves the imposition of a ‘cultural arbitrary’ by an ‘arbitrary power’. Schooling is biased in favour of those who by virtue of their class habitus have acquired the appropriate dispositions, attitudes to language, and other preconditions for educational success. To quote Bourdieu and Passeron from their classic work, Reproduction in Education, Society and Culture: Indeed, among all the solutions put forward throughout history to the problem of the transmission of power and privileges, there surely does not exist one that is better concealed, and therefore better adapted to societies which tend to refuse the most patent forms of the transmission of power and privileges, than that solution which the educational system provides (1990: 88).

In a predominantly tribal society, hitherto egalitarian but presently emerging as a differentiated one, it would be interesting to see how symbolic violence works in a context where students are drawn not only from different socioeconomic backgrounds, but also from various linguistic and ethnic backgrounds. Another sociological perspective that contributes to our understanding of the school is that provided by McLaren. Drawing upon the work of Victor Turner and Clifford Geertz, McLaren has

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emphasised ‘understanding schooling from the perspective of culture and performance’. He aims to provide ‘liminal glimpses into everyday school life’ through the analysis of rituals, a neglected field so far. The term ‘ritual’ has so far been limited to activities in the religious context. Contemporary ritologists have argued for dissolving this mystical halo around the term ‘ritual’ as, according to them, rituals are constitutive of everyday human life. For instance, Skorupski asserts that we need to be set free from the straitjacket of ‘ritual-sacred-symbolic’ versus ‘practical-profane-instrumental’ (1986: 173). For McLaren, schools are rich repositories of ritual systems, which play a crucial role in school culture. He writes, ‘Rituals may be perceived as carriers of cultural codes (cognitive and gestural information) that shape students’ perceptions and ways of understanding, they inscribe both the “surface structure” and “deep grammar” of school culture’ (1986: 3). Central to McLaren’s notion of ritual are the concepts of power and domination. He takes the position that ‘the categories of ideology, culture, ritual and the symbolic must compete with those of economic sphere and class to understand present day domination and struggle’ (ibid.: 4) Therefore, schools are not mere ‘instructional sites’, reproducing common values, skills and knowledge, but also ‘cultural sites’ which selectively order and legitimate specific forms of languages, reasoning, sociality and daily experience. McLaren’s concern is therefore not just with the product of domination, but also with the process. According to him, domination is not simply reproduced but is being constantly ‘worked up’ through ongoing rituals and practices of school life. Such rituals discipline, administer and limit the activities that students bring with them to school. Although there are significant differences in their theoretical formulations, there is an underlying common thread in the approaches of McLaren and Giroux. This thread is ‘the discourse of possibility’ which argues for the development of critical pedagogies. McLaren holds that teachers must develop modes of curriculum and teaching that appropriate and utilise the cultural capital of the students whom they serve, i.e., those forms of lived and popular culture that provide raw material for student experiences. Giroux, on the other hand, is concerned with the way the curriculum functions as an internal discourse. He sees it as a principal language of the theory of education, which makes its ideology intelligible. There is an element of hope in Giroux’s approach for he views the school as

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a terrain of contestation rather than as a mere ideology machine like Apple (1982) and Willis (1977). He seeks to offer a ‘counter hegemonic’ programme which sees ‘school as a site where cultural capital may be wrested from those who hold it under lock and key’ (McLaren 1986). By doing so, he (like Dewey) aims to make pedagogy an emancipatory activity. However, unlike Dewey, he wants to empower students and teachers to enliven their cultural sensibilities and thus have options for change. Writing in 1979, Ahmad dwells on the role of education in social change in India. She observes that much was expected out of education, especially after independence. But education, on its part, failed to come up to these expectations. Following Mannheim and Young, Ahmad asserts that education is a social product, and argues that the sociology of knowledge can illuminate our understanding of the perplexing aspects of the relationship between education and social change. Therefore, we must go behind ‘the charades, the pageants and the masquerades of play-acting to see whether institutional education, as much as politics, or religion, is an attempt to initiate students into the rituals of a dominant culture (Davies in Ahmad 1979: 163). Given the enormity of such a task, this study draws upon varied sociological traditions and multiple approaches — from Durkheim’s ‘social fact’ and Weber’s Verstehen, to the symbolic– interactionist and phenomenological approaches. It endeavours to take interactionism to the second stage by linking the ‘micro’ to the ‘macro’. Whether we speak of Young’s (1971) conception of the ‘social construction of knowledge’, or Bernstein’s emphasis on ‘the inner logic of pedagogic discourse and its practices’ as a fundamental social context (1996: 3), or Bourdieu’s (1977) notion of ‘praxeological knowledge’, clearly an eclectic approach which attempts to ‘look through a microscope and a telescope at the same time’ (Woods 1983: 181) is most suitable. Though these approaches may appear to oppose each other at a manifest level, we need to establish communication between them to enable sociology to progress (Bourdieu 1993).

The Field Setting The data for this study was collected from two schools in Chhimtuipui district of Mizoram through intensive fieldwork method. The choice of the urban school in Saiha (hereafter School A) was guided by two

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factors. The first factor was that being the only state governmentrun higher secondary school in Saiha, it attracts students from different socioeconomic and ethnic backgrounds, ranging from the wards of agriculturists to those of government servants. Besides, the teachers in School A also form a heterogeneous group. Being a state-run school, teachers from different backgrounds are posted here. The heterogeneity in the student and teacher population was what I was looking for. The second factor was that School A being under the state-run Mizoram Board of School Education, it offered me an opportunity to see how state policies are put to action. The choice of School B — in the rural set up of Serkawr — was primarily due to my interest in studying a school in a village in order to gauge the similarities and differences between the two settings, the rural and the urban. School A was established in 1957 and had both middle and high school from the beginning. It was also the first high school in the erstwhile Pawi–Lakher Regional Council area (now Chhimtuipui district). In the beginning, it was run on public contributions. The people who played a pioneering role in setting it up were political leaders and public figures. School A war provincialised on 1 October 1964. It was given the status of a higher secondary school in 1990. The post of Headmaster was changed to that of Principal after the school acquired the status of a higher secondary school. The change in status was however nominal as the school does not run higher secondary classes. The same is the case with other higher secondary schools in Mizoram, as higher secondary (+2) classes are with the North-Eastern Hill University, Mizoram Campus (now Mizoram University). School A has classes from V to X. The middle section does not have a separate person who is in-charge of it, though a senior teacher looks after it. School B is a government-aided, coeducational institution. It has classes from V to X. The middle school (classes V–VIII) is overseen by B. Thako. But for all administrative purposes, this section falls under J. Chola, the high school Headmaster. Officially, the medium of instruction in the middle school section is Mizo, and English in the high school. Prior to 1991, when the Government of Mizoram introduced the Comprehensive School Scheme, School B was not one but two schools, viz., the middle school and the high school, and were at different locations.

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The middle school in Serkawr was established in April 1948. It was the first middle school to be established in the Mara area. At the time of fieldwork, there were four teachers in the middle school section. Besides the four teachers, there were two non-teaching staff members. The present high school section of School B was first started as Mara High School, Serkawr, on 1 February 1969.

A Note on the Fieldwork My fieldwork resulted from an attempt to decipher and understand school education in Mizoram. Though essentially a personal experience for every fieldworker, it must be made explicit and ‘public’, if its resultant product — i.e., the research — is to be presented to society at large. Rivers, one of the first major exponents of the intensive fieldwork method, distinguishing it from the ‘survey’ method, writes: ‘A typical piece of intensive work, is one in which the worker lives for a year or more among a community of perhaps four or five hundred people and studies every detail of their life and culture in which he comes to know every member of the community personally, in which he is not content with generalised information but studies every feature of life and custom in concrete detail and by means of the vernacular language’(1913: 6). Now to spell out my own ‘experiment’ with the fieldwork method. Landing at Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram, was like discovering a whole new world — a lush green cover over the mountainous landscapes, the hills resonating with the melody of guitars and the solemnity of church bells. Further, its equally vibrant people added colour to the whole ambience (see Figure Ic). I was full of enthusiasm about exploring this new world, but anxious at the same time. When I went to Mizoram, the only thing I was clear about was that I wanted to study the relation of school and society. However, I certainly did not proceed with any fixed research design because I did not have any hypothesis to be tested. During the first few weeks after my arrival, I frequented the various offices and met officials in the state government’s Department of Education and other government departments in Aizawl, as well as the academics. Whosoever I met in Aizawl advised me to study the Lai community of Mizoram and not the Maras. The informants thus tried to influence the choice of the community to be studied and whom to avoid, much like in Minocha’s (2002) Study of the hospital inmates in Delhi. M. N. Srinivas, the doyen of sociology in India, has aptly

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Figure Ic. A glimpse from fieldwork Source: Courtesy of the author.

pointed out in this context that ‘the fieldworker is himself under surveillance and that the members of “the local elite” advise him as to what he should do’ (Srinivas 2002: 5) After this initial acquaintance, I proceeded to Chhimtuipui district, where my study was to be conducted. For the first few days after arriving (at the district headquarter town of Saiha), I used to take casual rounds of the town, though it was a real ‘uphill task’ in the true sense of the word for a person from the plains! Soon, these walks enabled me to prepare a map of Saiha town and to form a rough idea of the things around me. Since all that I saw was new, I preferred to remain ‘a friendly and curious outsider’ (Srinivas 2002) with my ‘eyes and ears open’ (Béteille, 2002: 100) for the first few weeks. After obtaining basic information about education in general in Chhimtuipui district from the District Education Officer, Adult Education Officer, etc., and visiting the schools in Saiha, I decided to study School A. There were broadly three kinds of schools: private, deficit or government-aided and government schools. School A exemplified the third category. Simultaneously, I also decided to study a school in a village in order to see the rural/urban patterns and differences in education. I finally zeroed in on School B, which

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was the only high school in this village of historical importance for the Maras. My aim to study a school in this village was guided by two factors: first, the observation of the process of schooling in a remote interior village; and second, the opportunity it offered me, due to its relatively homogeneous clientele, to observe the similarities and contrasts between the two school settings. Having obtained the permission of the Principal to study the school, I started visiting School A on all working days. Getting an entry into the school was not very difficult, as the Principal kindly gave his consent. However, building rapport with the students and the teachers and gaining their acceptance took a considerable amount of time. It was a daunting task, for after all I was a vai-nu (an outsider woman), who wore salwar-kameez and had not even a smattering of the Mizo language. For the first few weeks, I just visited the school, and would often sit with the teachers, talk to them in a casual manner or observe them. In a staff meeting, the Principal introduced me to both the middle and high school teachers, and explained to them the purpose of my visits. Though this helped break the ice, the response of the teachers towards me was varied. Some were encouraging, and others became more friendly, while many still remained reticent and apprehensive of my presence in the school. Some time elapsed before the teachers were convinced of the genuineness of my intent and efforts, and accepted me. This, I must say, is an essential precondition for anyone studying tribal folk, though it also holds true for other fieldwork situations. As K. N. Sahay (1977) observes, once the people are convinced of the honesty of the researcher, a certain threshold is crossed in forging a relationship with the members of the tribal community. Soon, many teachers allowed me to accompany them to the class-rooms. They would introduce me to the pupils. I just sat quietly, so that the pupils and I could at least get used to each other’s presence. Later, I started taking some Hindi classes for the middle school students. This facilitated my understanding of the school processes, helped me a great deal to learn the Mizo tawng (the Mizo language), and went a long way in building rapport with the pupils. I would give a Hindi word for an object, and the students supplied me with a Mizo word for the same. However, some ambiguity remained about my position, primarily because of my taking up teaching, albeit occasionally. The ambiguity was more in the minds of the teachers than those of the students, for I was

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soon bombarded with requests from teachers of different disciplines to take their classes. Some of these teachers were shirkers and just wanted to delegate their responsibilities to me. My gentle but firm ‘No’ helped to clear some doubts in their minds, and eventually dissuaded them. The nature of my interaction with the teachers was more formal, while it was more informal with the pupils. Besides teaching, I was also involved in the everyday life of the school and attended what in Malinowski’s (1966) words are ‘the occasional ripples of excitement’ in the life of the school. Soon, due to my interaction with the pupils, listening carefully to Mizo being spoken around me in the market and elsewhere, and then practising it, I started getting a grasp of the language. In addition, I also switched to wearing puan (the local Mizo dress). These small steps greatly helped in building a rapport with the people. I conducted a number of classroom observations. I used to sit at the back of the classroom, and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible. However, I admit that it may have obstructed the normal flow of classroom activities. Whatever caution one may exercise, ‘the very presence of the fieldworker does have an influence upon the field’ (Srinivas 2002). Most of the pupils and teachers took to my presence sportingly. I did not use any of the conventional aids like the tape recorder. My main method of data collection was sustained and intensive observation of the actual behaviour of the participants in the school situation. In this technique, I followed Malinowski, who reiterates that ‘behaviour is a fact, a relevant fact and one that can be recorded’ (1966: 20). I also distributed questionnaires to all teachers and a significant number of students prior to undertaking the classroom observations. The purpose was to elicit information on their social, economic and ethnic backgrounds, and their perceptions of the different facets of school life. This helped me to develop a broad overview of the field. In addition, I conducted group discussions and intensive interviews with some teachers and pupils to capture the ‘spirit’ or ‘the views, opinions and utterances’. This, according to Malinowski, constitutes the ‘third commandment of fieldwork’. These ‘ideas, feelings and impulses’, he writes, are ‘conditioned by the culture in which we find them, and are, therefore, an ethnic peculiarity of the given society’ (1966: 22–23). Through the discussions and interviews, I could ascertain the views of the participants on several significant issues

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pertaining to the school, curriculum and self-identity. Besides, I visited the homes of about 50 students, as my aim was not only to study the school but the home situation too. On these visits, I interviewed the parents as well. Seeing the students both at school and in the home setting helped me to evolve a comprehensive view of their lives. These visits gave me enriching insights into the personal life of the students, and into several facets of the social life of the people in general. This I could never have aspired to have, had I limited myself only to observing student behaviour at school. I also attended the meetings of the Mara Student Organisation and other student organisations, including their annual conferences, and was even made a judge for a competition at one of them. Apart from the school, I observed teachers in the meetings of the Saiha Teacher’s Union. In addition, I carefully observed teachers and pupils at church services and in the Sunday Schools. Sustained and intensive observation led me to decipher the manifest as well as hidden dimensions of the participants’ lives, what Malinowski calls ‘the imponderabilia of actual life’ which do not lend themselves to comprehension unless observed in their full actuality. I examined several documents — relating to the two schools, the Mizoram Board of Secondary Education (MBSE), the student organisations, the church records, and the Assembly Debates — and also conducted textual analysis. Let me confess that the most challenging task was gaining access to the official documents which contained what Srinivas calls ‘the green room data’, i.e., the data ‘concealed behind the screen’ (2002: 13). The officials were generally suspicious of my research motives and it was not before several persuasive attempts that they would part with any piece of information. For instance, it was after more than half a dozen visits to the office of the MBSE and a visit to the Secretary, Education, Government of Mizoram, that I was allowed access to the minutes of the Textbook Committee meetings of the MBSE. The same was the case with the other official documents. Thus, I had to be ‘an active huntsman’ and trace this greenroom data to its ‘most inaccessible lairs’ (Malinowski 1966: 8). The fieldwork situation in the village was slightly different from that which prevailed in the town. I stayed at the Inspection Bungalow which was atop a steep hill, and offered a panoramic view of the village and River Chhimtuipui. The first few days were

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spent in conducting a village survey, collecting other vital details from the Primary Health Centre and other departments, and drawing a map. I took long walks round the village in the morning and saw various scenes, such as women and young girls cleaning rice for the day in large trays, boys cutting firewood, young boys cleaning the village paths, small girls and women on their way to the tikho (tuikhur in Mizo) or the local water point to collect water, and the mithuns (bison) roaming around the village and the pigs being slaughtered. It helped a great deal to understand the everyday life of the people. After a quick meal, I used to resume my school observations for the day. For instance, I observed the school processes in the classrooms, the staffroom, and the activities during the interval, besides walking down from the school with the teachers, the Headmaster and the students. Here too, I distributed questionnaires to obtain preliminary information on the socioeconomic and ethnic background of students and staff. Though my main method of data collection was participant observation, I also conducted interviews with a few teachers, students and their parents besides conducting discussions with the pupils on significant issues, such as the school, their aspirations and their sense of identity. Here too, I tried to be as unobtrusive as possible in my classroom observations and would occupy the backseat. It was only once that a teacher asked me to leave, as he was feeling nervous in my presence. Though my primary focus was the study of education and society, I never missed an opportunity to observe customs and rituals relating to birth, marriage and death, church services, Sunday Schools, special gospel camps such as the Beihrual and meetings of the student organisations, as observing just the school and the home would have implied ‘cutting an artificial field of enquiry’ (Malinowski 1966). It was also because of the cultural distinctiveness of the field that every aspect of the social fabric had a special fascination for me. Though ‘a plunge into the unknown’ (Béteille and Madan 2002) is a feature of all scientific endeavour, for me it was so in more ways than one. The respondents, especially in the village, expressed a desire to have a wall clock for the church in return for the information they provided me. However, other fieldworkers have encountered similar situations. Such experiences have been chronicled by Srinivas (2002) as well.

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There were some amusing aspects of the fieldwork too. Initially, the students in School A used to have a hearty laugh at my pronunciation of Mizo names which, needless to say, was a ticklish task for me. Many teachers and others even suggested that I should become a Christian if I wanted to study Mizo society and should change my name to Lalhmingliani if I required any information. One of the teachers often used to tease me saying, ‘You Hindus are fools, you worship animals, while we eat them,’ and would further ask me, ‘Kapi, Bawngsa ei em?’(Madam, would you eat beef?). All such remarks made in a lighter vein helped to forge close bonds with the respondents. In this, my experience was like those of many other fieldworkers who have learned that ‘the people who are being studied like feeling superior’ to the researcher, and like to treat the fieldworker as ‘an ignoramus, fool or child’ (Srinivas 2002: 6). The birth of my younger son during the course of fieldwork heralded a new relationship with the field. The students and the Headmaster of School B came with gifts of eggplants (brinjals) and artui (eggs) for the newborn. My Mara respondents bestowed on him a Mara name, Beikypacha (Blessed by God), and my Lai and Mizo respondents gave him the name Lalsiama (God’s Creature). This incident was to forge lasting bonds with my respondents and the field. To conclude, my enthusiasm combined with a keen sense of curiosity and compassion finally earned me the reputation of a cultural ambassador, though the journey from being a vai-nu to becoming a cultural ambassador was a long and arduous one.

Note 1. The figures show a total of 461 tribal communities in India. These constitute 8.01 per cent of the total population.


1


The Backdrop The Mara are the main tribal community inhabiting the Mara Autonomous District Council area in Chhimtuipui district where I carried out fieldwork.1 The other significant communities in the district include the Lai, Pang, Chakma and Mizo, all of whom along with the Mara constitute the ‘field’ of study (see Map 3, pp. xxx for distribution of tribal communities in Mizoram). However, since the Mara are the numerically most dominant, in this chapter, I give a descriptive outline of their origin, migration, language, general habits and folklore. I also describe the early relations with the British, the new socio-religious order and the administration of education in the pre-and post-independence periods. The Mara in India inhabit about 60 villages in Saiha district in the extreme south-eastern corner of Mizoram, surrounded by the Chin hills of Myanmar in the east, Arakan hills tracts (Myanmar) in the south and the Lai autonomous district council area (Mizoram, India) in the north and west.2 Most of the Mara villages are enclosed in the large bend of river Kolodyne (also called Chhimtuipui and Beino). The Chhimtuipui district derives its name from this river. The Kolodyne originates in the hills near Haka in Chin hills, flows southwards, takes a sharp turn and flows northwards and then once again turns southwards finally flowing into the Bay of Bengal at Akyab (now called Sittwe) in Myanmar. The Mara of Mizoram are known by several names. Enlisted as Lakher, a Scheduled Tribe under Article 342 in the Constitution of India, they also spell their name as Marah. They are known as Shamtu, Zo and Miram in the Chin hills and as Shendu in the Arakan hill tracts. R. T. Zachono (1994) is of the view that the word Shendoos or Tseindus is derived from ‘Samtu’, which is the name given to Maras by Khumis, an Arakan tribe. The word ‘Samtu’ means ‘wearing a bit of a rag round the top-knots’ which serves as Khutho or a turban. In the past, the British used the term Shendoos for all people in the south Lushai hills and the Chin hills, whether they belonged to the Mara or Lai tribe. However, in Zachono’s view, the name Shendoo applies to Maras alone. This is also substantiated

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by Ongkachai, a Khumi, in an interview to Zachono. Ongachai points out: ‘Only the Maras were known to the Khumis because of their constant raids on them. They wore a bit of rag on their top-knots, that we, the Khumis called them “Samtu” […]’ (Zachono 1994). The Mara do not consider these appellations as derogatory but they do find it humiliating when they are referred to as Lakher by the Mizos. In the duhlian dialect of the Mizos, la means cotton and the term kher implies ‘stick in’ or stick out. According to a legend, once on a visit to the Maraland, the Lushei saw Mara girls weaving cloth, using the spindle and thereafter named them ‘Lakher’.3 The exact meaning of the word Marah is difficult to find; in the Mara dialect, Ma connotes leaving or exodus and rah means land. Those who left their original homeland are thus referred to as Marah. Another version states that the word Mara stands for a group of people who have moved to low altitudes after exhausting the fertility of the jhum lands at higher altitudes. There are six principal Mara sub-groups: Tlosai, Hawthai, Zhyno, Saby, Lialai and Heima. The Mara are surrounded by Lais and the Bawms on the north; Lais, Bawms and Pangs towards their west; the Chins on the east and Khumis, Marus and Khyengs, i.e., the tribes of the Arakan hill tracts on the south (Parry 1976). Sir George Grierson, in the Linguistic Survey of India (1973), classified the Maras as a member of the central Chin sub-group of the Kuki-Chin group of the Assam–Burma branch of the Tibeto-Burman linguistic family. In the Census of India 1961, Mara population was estimated to be 8790, 11625 in the 1971 Census and 16704 in the 1981 Census. About one-fourth of the Mara live in India, while three-fourth of them inhabit the Chin hills of Myanmar (Hlychho n.d.) (see Map 4, pp. xxxi). Maras in India have five speech groups: Tlosai, Chapi, Hawthai, Vytu and Zhyno. All the sub-groups speak in their own dialect among themselves but the Tlosai-Saiha dialect serves as the lingua franca for all the Mara in Mara area. Only the educated Mara, in their conversations with people outside their own community, speak Duhlian dialect of the Mizo and English. Some of the Mara can comprehend Hindi, and a few are also able to speak it, albeit broken. They use the Roman script. The territory inhabited by the Mara is surrounded by hills of 3000 ft to 5000 ft elevation. The only exception is the Blue mountain, know as Phypi by the Mara which at 7100 ft is the highest peak in Mizoram and looks hazy blue when viewed from a distance. The ruggedness of this area of steep rocky hillsides and river valleys

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is beyond the imagination of anyone who has never visited or travelled along these mountain ranges. There are huge precipices of about 2000 ft at some places but at others they may be just 100 ft deep. There is practically no flat land. The mountainsides are densely forested with tropical vegetation, sustained by high rainfall. The tropical moist deciduous trees with the avyu (Gmelia arborea) and various ficus species, and the bamboo are the most widespread. Oaks and rhododendrons also grow here, and there are numerous varieties of bamboo in the jhum fallow or as an understorey in deciduous and evergreen forests. The dense undergrowth consists of creeping vines, small shrubs and ferns, which are intermingled with different species of stinging nettles, some poisonous. Wild animals are rarely spotted now. Rhinoceros which were common in the beginning of the twentieth century are not to be seen now, nor are the mithun (Bos frontalis). Nowadays, mithuns are brought from Myanmar. Almost every family has a a herd of pigs. Common birds include pheasants, doves and pigeons. Poisonous snakes like the cobra, king cobra and viper are sometimes found but non-poisonous and grass snakes are found in plenty. The climate is cool but humid because of the moderate to heavy rainfall (2752 mm in a normal year). High intensity rainfall is associated with landslides and disruption in communication, which are a common occurrence here. The people divide the year into four seasons: Chasipaw (Thlasik in Mizo), or winter from December to February, followed by Nopi (a brief summer) from March to May. The south-west monsoon season Sao continues till the first week of October, followed by a brief autumn till November. The young, sedimentary soil is loamy, well drained and acidic but rocky at certain places. It is nutritionally deficient and lacks phosphorus and nitrogen. The organic carbon content is high due to the high rainfall and dense vegetation (Government of Mizoram 1989; Singh 1996).

Origin, Migration, General Habits and Folklore Origin and Migration The origin of tribes is generally explained by legends and traditions. It is either attributed to some supernatural circumstances or traced to some supernatural or mythological characters (Sahay 1977). The oral tradition of the Mara speaks of their origin from Khaolaipa, a big hole, in a place named Leisai in the north before the world

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was enveloped by the great darkness, Khazanghra. According to this tradition, all human beings emerged from this hole. There is another account, which gives a slightly different version of the origin of Mara. It goes thus: Long ago, before the darkness called Khazanghra fell upon the world, all men came out of a hole below the earth. As the members of each Mara group came out of the earth (they) called out (their) name, Tlongsai called out I am Tlongsai: Zeuhnang called out, ‘I am Zeuhnang’. Hawthai called out, ‘I am Hawthai’. Sabeu called out ‘I am Sabeu; Heima called out ‘I am Heima’. Accordingly, God thought that a very large number of Maras had come out and stopped the way. When the Lusheis came out of the hole, however, only the first one to come out called out, ‘I am Lushei’, and all the rest came out silently. God only hearing one man announce his arrival, thought that only one Lushei had come out and gave them a much longer time, during which Lusheis were pouring out of the hole silently in great numbers. It is for this reason that Lusheis, to this day are more numerous than Maras (Parry 1976: 4; Dube 1977: 27). (Read Tlongsai as Tlosai, Zeuhnang as Zhyno and Sabeu as Saby as these are the correct spellings and pronunciation.)

The Mara, like the Lushei (or Mizo), are not indigenous or original inhabitants of the territory they now occupy. They entered their present habitat in successive waves of migration. N. E. Parry (1976) and S. K. Bhattacharya (1995) have provided accounts of the migration of the Maras, which are slightly at variance with each other. Parry’s account states that the Mara came from the north and migrated to their present home from different places in the Haka subdivision of the Chin hills (now in Myanmar). They were pushed towards the western side due to pressure from the east. The main factors for migration were the search for suitable land for cultivation and aggression of the Chins on the eastern side. The Lusheis too followed the same route and entered their present territory under the Thangur chiefs like the Rokhum, Zadeng, Thangluah, Palian, Rivung and Sailo. S. K. Bhattacharya (ibid.) provides a rather definite and clear picture of the home and the initial movements of the Mara before they migrated to Mizoram. According to him, the Mara first lived in the eastern region of Tibet. From there, they took two divergent routes. The first group traversed along the Brahmaputra valley and

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settled somewhere in the places which are now known as the states of Assam, Nagaland, Manipur and Arunachal Pradesh. The other group came down along the Irrawady river and entered the Myanmar plain. Later, driven by the search for fertile land, they migrated to the Lushai hills in groups. These groups established their own villages in a compact area, each village having its own chief. Among the different sub-groups of the Mara, the first to enter the present territory were the Tlosais of which the Saiko and the Siaha are the two branches. In the past, they lived at a place called Leisai located between Leitak and Zaphai in the Haka subdivision of the Chin hills from where they entered the Lushai hills after crossing river Kolodyne (Chhimtuipui in duhlian). Both sub-branches of the Tlosai group followed the same path till they reached Beukhi, from where they separated and settled at Saiko and Siaha respectively. Going by the number of villages occupied by the Tlosai, it is certain that hey have been in Mizoram since the eighteenth and the nineteenth century A.D. (Parry 1976; Bhattacharya 1995). The Zyhno sub-group of the Mara were the next to enter their present territory. The Zyhno are the people who inhabit the areas around Savo village (called Zawngling in the duhlian dialect). Long before their movement towards the Lushai hills, they had settled at Hnaro (Hnarang) in Haka, crossed the river Kolodyne and settled on Kahri-Tla, a high range. They have been in their present habitat since 1800. The Hawthai sub-group, who are settled around the Tisi village, are relatively recent immigrants and have been in the the Mizo Hills since 1900. They have migrated from a place called Chira in Haka. The Saby group, who inhabit the areas around Chapi village (called Chapui in duhlian) were settled at Thlatla in Haka and migrated to their present territory around 1910. The other two groups of the Mara — Heima and Lialai — occupied the places with names similar to their group names in the Arakan hills tract (presently in Myanmar) and were closely allied to the Chozah chiefs. Besides the above-mentioned Mara villages, there were a few villages whose inhabitants were an admixture of the Pawi (now called Lai) and Mara communities. Hnaro or Hnarang in Haka and Iana and Siata in the Lushai hills were instances of such villages. These villages practiced customs which were partly Mara and partly Pawi (Lai). The people in Iana and Siata were more Mara than Lai, while Hnarang was more of a Lai village. These borderline villages

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exemplify how the Mara constituted a separate tribe in a gradual process after they split off from Thlatla and their other abodes in the Chin hills.

Food, General Habits and Festivals The Mara take two major meals a day — in the morning and before sunset. At mid-day, they eat heavy snacks like poori, samosa, boiled eggs with thopi (tea). Their staple food is sapha (rice) which is eaten with ahiah (chillies), and vegetables besides Chhamai (maize) and sato (millet). They now also eat pulses like lentils or red gram and soybean. During the times when they were untouched by influences from the outer world, the Mara did not use oil for cooking. Now however, they use vesthaw (pig oil) and mustard oil for cooking purposes. They consume vegetables cultivated in the jhums, pumpkins, cucumbers, brinjals, potatoes, cabbage and various other indigenous roots, tubers and barks like bia (arum), thobia and thohy. These are supplemented by wild foods gathered from the jungle such as bamboo shoots, young spikes of palm and a variety of fungi. The Mara also eat fruits like banana, mango, orange, pineapple, etc. Being non-vegetarian, they relish all kinds of meat and are not particular about its freshness. The main non-vegetarian food items in their diet are viachaosa or beef (Mizo: bawngsa); awhsa or chicken (Mizo: arsa); vaosa or pork (Mizo: vawksa); Nga or fish (Mizo: sangha), crabs, snails, rats; miesa or mutton (Mizo: kelsa); dogs meat, birds and all kinds of insects (see Figures 1.1 and 1.2). Any creatures that walk, fly or swim are hardly spared. Phipahripa (flying white ants) are lightly roasted and relished. The rice, vegetables and meat are cooked in separate pots. In the past, as soon as the rice was cooked, the woman of the house used to spread it out on a big plate and all family members ate from this common plate with boiled vegetables and meat, with a little salt added to it. Now, the family members eat from individual aluminium or enamel plates. However, at marriage feasts, the custom of eating from a common big plate placed in the centre still persists. During a community feast, the unmarried boys and girls sit next to each other, and the girls put the food in the boy’s mouths and vice versa as it is considered improper for unmarried persons to take their food by themselves in public. The Mara have traditionally been great drinkers, the most preferred drink being sahma or rice beer (Mizo: Zu). Many Mara

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Figure 1.1. Women vendors at a vegetable stall Source: Courtesy of the author.

Figure 1.2. Women selling smoked pork Source: Courtesy of the author.

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also consume hard liquor. In some villages however, drinking of liquor has been stopped or reduced to a great extent due to the impact of the church (Singh et al. 1995). In the past, sahma was an integral part of the lives of people. It was taken on all important occasions such as marriages, wakes, Ia ceremony (performed after headhunting or after a wild animal had been shot) or at any time if a man wanted to entertain his friends. There were three kinds of rice-beer — sahmapi, in which rice was boiled, fermented and paddy husks were added; sahmahei which was made in the same way as sahmapi, but no husk was added, and it could be taken as fermented rice or water could be added to make beer; and lastly Zuri which was spirit that was distilled from sahmapi or sahmahei to which water had been added. A particular etiquette was followed in sahma drinking. A sahma feast could only be attended on a formal invitation. If the beer was handed round in cups, the chief and elders were served first, then the old men and women and the last to partake were the young boys and girls and the common people. Singing and story-telling continued till the sahma was finished. In Chin villages, such sahma feasts often resulted in serious fights ending in injuries or even murders but these were not so common in Mara villages. These days, drinking of sahma has been replaced to a great extent by drinking of thopi (tea). Though the tree plant is a native of this country, drinking of tea was introduced among the Mara by the missionaries who preached that in order to be a good Christian, one had to be a teetotaller. It is interesting to note the process of change at the time of its occurrence. An extract from an article by Reverend J. H. Lorrain, the pioneer missionary in Lushai Hills, is reproduced here. This extract was published in The Lakher Pioneer, the official newsletter of the Lakher Pioneer Mission: Today, among these once wild hill tribes, numbers have given up the use of strong drink because of the evils which follow in its train. For instance, in the Lushai Hills, the whole Christian community of some ten thousand souls has given up drinking beer and spirits altogether, and the much smaller, but ever growing Christian community in the Lakher Hills is following their example (Lakher Pioneer Mission 1917).

Slowly but surely, the place of rice beer was being taken by drinking of tea on all important occasions such as life-cycle rituals and the Christian festivals which were being introduced into

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the corpus of social life of the Maras. R. A. Lorrain, the pioneer missionary among the Mara, wrote thus in the Annual Report of the Lakher Pioneer Mission for the year 1916: We had a large Christmas Tree, when Santa Claus arrived to give the boys and girls of Lakher some nice presents of dolls, balls, pencils, pencil cases, knives, shirts, coats, bottles, tins, bead-necklaces, looking-glasses, and all sorts of nice things. Most of the things were from kind friends at Home[…]. The boys and girls, and those of the older folk that were invited, had a good time, and with plenty of tea, scones and sweets, with oranges out of the garden, they had a real good time (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1917).

The Maras have always been great smokers and are also fond of chewing pan and betel nuts. Tobacco is grown in the jhums, generally where the fire has been the fiercest, as tobacco prefers to grow on grounds that have been burnt well. Leaves are withered for a day on the jhum house verandah or in the village. The juice is extracted by trampling them with feet and the pulp is then placed on a huge tray and dried in the sun for two days. When it is sufficiently dry, it is placed in a basket and stored on a shelf above the hearth to keep it dry. This tobacco carries a strong smell. During the British rule, cigarettes were introduced among these hill people but as the Mara could not afford them, they started making indigenous cigarettes by rolling the home-grown tobacco in old pieces of newspaper or brown paper. Smoking of such indigenous cigarettes was common even among the younger people and continues till the present times. Both Mara men and women also sip karaoti (nicotine water), frequently. The women’s pipes are made differently from that of men and are called karo, consisting of three parts — karolu (clay bowl), karocho (nicotine water receptacle), and karolia (the stopper). A man’s pipe is called O-mabei. In the past, boys got habituated to sipping nicotine water at an early age of nine. When a young man was courting a girl, she was expected to provide him with nicotine water. Sips of nicotine water are generally taken at frequent intervals, retained in the mouth for 10 minutes and then spat out. Nicotine water flasks are made of gourd or mithun’s horn. Its strong smell notwithstanding, Maras have always been fond of karaoti. In the past, there were two kinds of attire for men — one for war times and the other for peaceful times. The upper garment

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for the men was known as Chynapo and the lower garment was called dua-a which was worn on ceremonial occasions. Another type of lower garment, the dua-kalapa was worn as casual wear. As the men sported long hair, they tied their top-knots in a piece of cloth, khutho. Men also wore earrings and necklaces made of pumtek, a highly valued black and white bead and carried a bag, sahria, which contained their nicotine water flasks, pipes and tobacoo. In the present times, this dress is worn only on ceremonial occasions, when traditional songs are sung and dances are performed. The Mara men now wear shirts, pants and shoes. On special occasions, suits and ties are worn too. The traditional dress of the Mara women was an upper garment, kaohrei, and the lower garment, hnora. The hnora was kept in place with metal belts, hrakhew and chaiphiapha. The number of belts was also an indicator of the wealth and status of wearer. The women tied their hair at the nape of the neck in a knot and it was kept in place by hrokei (brass hairpins). They also wore necklaces, bracelets and earrings made of wood and metal while young girls wore orchids in their ears. In the present times, Mara women wear the same dress, except that the kaohrei are styled in western designs. They generally sport long hair, tied in buns though short hair are an equally common sight, especially among young women and girls. In the past, the Mara performed sacrifices at all important occasions such as life-cycle rituals, at each stage of the jhum cycle, at sickness, and after hunting, etc. With the advent of Christianity, all these sacrifices have been abandoned. Their main festivals in the present times are Khrisma (Christmas); Thyuheino (Easter Saturday); Khazopano (Easter Sunday); and New Year’s Day. The Mara also observe Zisuthno (Good Friday) and Hazopano (Pentecostal Day). This day marks their entry into the Christian fold. In the agricultural cycle, they observe Sahriaku after paddy has been harvested in the month of December and Chithiku in the month of October, when they collect vegetables from the jhum fields.

Folk Lore An account of the socio-cultural background of a tribal community is incomplete without a description of its folklore. The folk tales besides giving a distinct image to the society also give flavour and substance to the life of people. They are a reflection of the worldview of the tribal folk as also of their imagination and express how closely

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the life of people is intertwined with ecology and environment. In this section, I describe some of the most popular folk tales and shall examine their relevance for education in Chapter 6.

The story of the wild cat, hen and the egg A wild cat once pretended to be friends with a hen. In reality, it intended to kill and eat her. It asked the hen as to where she would sleep that night? The hen replied, awhchari (in the hen’s basket). But at night, she actually slept in awhdua (the place where water tubes are kept). The wild cat came searching for the hen at night and not finding the hen in the awhchari, it returned. Next day, it again met the hen and asked her where she would sleep that night? The hen replied awhdua. But actually, the hen slept in the awhchari that night. At night, the wild cat became very angry on not being able to find the hen in the awhdua. Next morning, it met the hen again and asked her as to where she had slept the previous night. The hen replied awhchari. The third time proved unlucky for the hen, as the wild cat, that night, searched for the hen in both the awhchari and awhdua and finding the hen in the awhdua, it killed her. The hen had laid 10 eggs. They decided to avenge their mother’s death and left the awhdua but nine of them were broken, leaving just one egg to avenge the hen’s death. This egg met the spirit of the cold, who accompanied it in order to help. Later they met a rat-trap, a pestle, a red ant, chaff and a dao, all of whom accompanied the egg. The wild cat was in its jhum, weeding. The spirit of cold caused the wild cat to shiver, the rat-trap went under its home, the pestle above the door, the egg near the fire, the red ant and chaff on the floor and the dao climbed the wall. The wild cat returned home shivering. It sat down near the fire, but the egg burst. The wild cat was frightened and moved away to lie down on the chaff, but was bitten by the red ant. It moved and rubbed itself against the wall, but the dao cut it till it decided to go out of the house, but was grounded by the pestle. Finally, the rat-trap caught it, till it lay dead. Thus, the egg took revenge for its mother’s death.

The story of the dog and goat Once the dog had horns. One day, a woman was pounding meat in the mortar. When she finished, the dog came to lick it. As his horns obstructed his licking, he took them off and placed them

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beside him. A goat who was passing by took the horns and placed them on its head. Noticing this, the dog chased the goat to recover his horns but was unsuccessful. Therefore, the Mara believe that a dog always barks when he sees a goat as he is reminded of the removal of his horns.

The story of the tortoise and monkey Once a tortoise went to a village to buy salt. On his return, he saw some monkeys on a tree eating a fruit. He requested them for some, which they gave. After eating the fruit, he asked for more. This time the monkeys refused and asked him to climb the tree, if he wanted more fruit. They helped the tortoise climb up the tree; when they had finished eating the fruit, the monkeys came down, leaving the tortoise on the tree and took away his salt. Fearing death, the tortoise began to weep; soon, a small stream was formed near the foot of the tree. A barking deer, who was passing by, drank from the stream and appreciated the water; the tortoise, from the top of the tree reminded him that it was not water but his tears, explaining the reason for his weeping. The barking deer then requested him to jump on his back but the tortoise refused due to the narrow width of the barking deer’s back. This exercise was repeated with a sambar (a species of deer) and later with an elephant whose back was broad. The tortoise jumped sideways on the elephant’s spine which broke and led to the elephant’s death. The tortoise ate its meat and defecated near the monkeys’ village who ate it. They became very angry when they came to know that they had eaten the excreta; in revenge, they defecated near the tortoise’s house and hid in a basket. The tortoise then threw them over a hill, whereby all of them died except one. The Maras believe that all monkeys are the successors of the monkey who survived.

The widow’s son One day, the son of a widow went to a stream and caught a prawn; the mother was very happy. When the prawn boiled in the water, it appeared as though there were many prawns in the pot. The widow kept on repeating, ‘that one is for me, that one is for my son’. Thereafter, she ate the prawn. Having eaten it, she was sad to find nothing more in the pot. On his return, her son asked for food. He became very angry when he came to know that his mother had eaten the prawn; his mother was sad too. She took a red seed and

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fastening it with a piece of bees wax to her buttock, she bent over near the spring where the animals such as barking deers, wild boars, bears, tigers, monkeys, elephants and mithuns came to drink water and consulted each other as to what to do with the red seed which the widow had fixed to her buttock. They decided that the monkey should go and take the red seed away but as he attempted, his hand was stuck on the widow’s buttock. Crying out loudly, he frightened all the other beasts who were all killed in a stampede by the elephant’s foot which was, in turn, stuck in the root of a tree. Thereafter, the elephant’s leg broke and it died. The widow then invited all the neighbours to partake of the meat. It was agreed that the oldest animal present should have the elephant’s foot. Chhangbai, the tiniest mice, was asked to take it but as it was unable to move the foot, he called his nephew Zabi to help him. All his exertions caused Chhangbai to pass wind. At this, his nephew Zabi laughed. It is believed that the Zabi’s eyes are narrow due to too much laughing and that his head is larger than his buttocks because the mouse slapped him very hard from behind.

The story of Pala Tipa (Pala lake) In earlier times, the Pala lake was a village with 300 houses. In the middle of the village was a huge stone under which there was a cave where a large snake dwelt. Every night, the snake seized one of the village children and ate it. The villagers made a strong hook, tied it to a rope, impaled a dog on the hook and threw it to the snake. The snake swallowed the dog and the fish hook. The villagers then tried to pull out the snake; with all their efforts, they could just pull out enough of the snake to go five times round the rock. As they were unsuccessful in pulling out the rest, they cut off the pulled part; the rest of the snake’s body, along with its tail fell into the cave with a fearful noise. From that night, water began pouring out from the snake’s hole, covered the whole village and thus was formed the Pala Tipa. The people believe that there is still a village below the lake. According to them, once a sahib came with many soldiers and dropped his sword into the lake. A soldier was sent to get back the sword. He stayed under the lake for three days and feasted and drank with the villagers. The other soldiers believed his story, and fired into the lake. As a result, great hailstones fell and half the

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people were killed. Before dying, the soldiers had cut bamboo sticks and planted them on the Mauli tla. To this day, the bamboos on Mauli tla grow with their joints and leaf buds upside down. People, till the present times, believe that Pala Tipa is the abode of spirits and do not bathe in it, as they fear that they will be caught by the spirits. Jhums are also not cut anywhere on the banks of the lake for fear of spirits.

A girl who married a monkey Once upon a time, a girl went to draw water at a stream. As she wanted to bathe, she took off her clothes and coat and laid them on the bank and went into the river. In the meantime, a monkey came and took away the girl’s clothes. When she asked for her clothes, he refused to budge and said, ‘If you marry me, I will give them back.’ The girl finally agreed to marry the monkey but she wanted to escape. One day, when her monkey husband was away, the girl killed his mother, skinned her, put the old monkey’s skin and remained sitting in the house. On his return, the monkey thinking her to be his mother, asked her where his wife was. He became very angry to know that his wife had run away and his mother did not know about her whereabouts. He said, ‘If you do not know where my wife is, you better run away too.’ Saying thus, he beat her thrice with a stick. Thereafter, the girl left and ran to her brother’s house and narrated what had happened to her. After some time, a monkey was born to the girl. Her brothers disliked him and wanted to kill their sister’s monkey son, but the girl dissuaded them. When the monkey boy became a youth, his mother asked him to go to the jungle and live with his father. He went to the jungle, but hearing the noise of the gin, said, ‘my mother is ginning cotton’, and feeling sad, returned in the direction of his village and rejoined his mother. But afraid of her brothers, the mother again took him to the jungle, when the monkey son climbed up a tree. This time he did not hear the sound of his mother ginning and hence, he did not return to his village again and instead, joined his father in the jungle. To sum up, it would not be inappropriate to say that these stories are enough to silence the critics of tribal art. It is true that art for art’s sake does not exist in the tribal society but their art is closely linked to their life. There is so much pun and amusement in the folklore that comes as a rainbow in the otherwise dreary and arduous life of the tribal people especially in the hills.

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Early Relations with the British As part of the forward policy adopted by the British for the hill tribes, the hills inhabited by the Mara were annexed in 1924. However, they were notified as a part of the Lushai hills district only in 1931 and the boundaries of the district were declared in 1933. This was much later than the annexation of other hill areas of what are today Meghalaya, Nagaland, northern and southern part of Mizoram, Manipur, Assam and Arunachal Pradesh which had all been annexed by 1914. Nevertheless, we find references to the Mara as early as 1841. They were an obscure tribe, inhabiting the inaccessible areas and who continued to pose a challenge to the British authorities in Chittagong and Arakan by their innumerable raids and became known to the British by the name of Shendoos. The term Shendoos was used as a wide term denoting all the Haka Chin tribes like Thlatla and Hakas and not merely the Mara (Parry 1976). The first reference to the Mara is to be found in an ‘Account of Arakan’ by Lieutenant Phayre in the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal in 1841 (1841: 629–712). They are referred to as Tseindu. He identified 13 Tsiendu clans, some of which are Mara clans while others were Lai clans. Phayre also referred to the Lungkhe whom Parry (1976) believed to be a branch of the Lakhers or Mara, ruled by a chief of the Pawi or Lai tribe, named Lengkung. The chiefs of this family also ruled over Lawngtlai, Bungtlang and Sangau. T. H. Lewin, the architect of the British rule in the Lushai Hills and the first Englishman to develop close relations with the hill tribes, identified people who were called Lankhe by the Burmese, as the Lushais. However, it was more probable that the Lankhe were the same people whom Phayre called the Lungkhe, and were closely allied to the Lakhers (ibid.). In 1846, Lieutenant Latter (1846) in his ‘A Note on Some Hill Tribes in the Kuladyne River’, notes: The most powerful among them are the Shentoos, who being beyond our frontier, are known to us only by their devastations on those tribes which pay us tribute; the suddenness, secrecy and never failing nature of these attacks cause them to be held by the rest in a dread, of which it would be impossible to give an idea.

We get the first account of the Mara as a separate tribe in an article entitled ‘Notes on the Heuma or Shendoos’ by Captain S. R. Tickell in 1852. He points out:

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And amongst these, the Shendoos, though well known by name and repute in Arracan, have never yet been visited by the people of the plains, nor has a single specimen of this race been seen, I believe, by either Mugh or European in Arracan until 1850, when two emissaries or spies from them met me at a hill village some distance up the Kolodyne river.

A. Mackenzie, in what is considered to be one of the most authoritative accounts of the period, puts it thus: The Shindus are a formidable nation living to the north-east and east of the Blue Mountain. All the country south of the Karnafuli has, for many years been exposed to their ravages. Of their position and internal relations, we know much less than we do of the Lushais. The whole aim of our frontier policy has, of late years, been the protection of the other tribes, from the raids of the Chittagong Lushais and Shindus. The whole history of this frontier is, indeed, the story of their outrages and of the efforts to prevent, repel or avenge these (1981: 331).

As has already been pointed out, the term Shendoos as used by the British was a blanket term covering Chins, Lais, Mara and it is improbable that the Mara who have been projected as such a feared tribe were actually so. According to Parry, the awe and respect with which the Shendoos were regarded must have been due mainly to lack of knowledge. The chief difficulty with the Shendoos was the impossibility of getting into touch with them (Parry 1976). The first known Mara raid was on a Khumi village in Arakan in 1838 and another in 1847 when they raided the subjects of Kalindi Rani and of the Phru in the Chittagong. The Phru or Bohmong invited the Mara to be friends. However, when on this friendly mission, the Mara went with ivory and homespun clothes, five of them were treacherously killed on Bohmong’s order. Consequently, the Mara developed animosity towards the Phru and raided their territory (Lewin 1977; Shakespear 1988). From 1847 onwards, such raids on the Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) became a frequent occurrence. It was around 1866 that T. H. Lewin, the Deputy Commissioner of the CHT, about whom mention has been made earlier, appeared on the scene. His accounts of the CHT and the Lushai hills are contained in his books titled Wild Races of South-Eastern India (1870), The Hill Tracts of Chittagong and the Dwellers therein (1869)

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and The Fly on the Wheel (1977). During this time, the Shendoos continued to pose a challenge to both the Chittagong and Arakan authorities. Neither the Bengal nor the Burma government could deal effectively with the Shendoos, mainly due to their inaccessibility and obscurity. Though both desired to subdue them, they continued to shift the responsibility on each other (Mackenzie 1981). Two expeditions were sent in 1869 and 1871 respectively to deal with the errant Lushais. The 1871 expedition was a direct consequence of the infamous Alexandrapur incident in Cachar, in which a tea garden owner Mr Winchester was killed and his minor daughter Mary was made a captive. Two columns were sent, one from Cachar and the other from Chittagong. These expeditions dealt firmly with the Lushais but left the Mara untouched. For a decade after this, both Lushei and Mara remained peaceful. However, in 1888, a Shendoo chief Hausata killed Lt J. Stewart who was surveying the frontier on the south. Hausata, though referred to as Shendoo, was not a Mara but a Thlatla Chin. This was the immediate cause of the Chin–Lushai expedition of 1888–89 after which the British annexed the Chin and Lushai hills. Henceforth, the earlier Frontier policy of the British for the hill tribes of North-East India, popularly called the Containment policy, was abandoned for the Chin and Lushai hills. The Containment policy had focused on controlling the raids from without, with a carrot and stick approach — the ‘carrot’ consisted of encouraging trade and the introduction of cash crops; and the ‘stick’ of setting up of armed frontier outposts, the closing of plains hats (markets) to the hills men and punitive military expeditions in which the property of the offending villages was destroyed. The Containment policy was now replaced by the Forward policy. This was a policy of gradual annexation of the hill areas and control of the raids from within. Hitherto, the direct administration of these hill areas or the Forward policy had seemed to be an unviable alternative to the British as it was an expensive proposition with not much scope for revenue generation (Chakravarty 1964; Singh 1996). From May 1890, the Lushai hills were divided into two for administrative convenience — the north Lushai hills and the south Lushai hills. Captain Brown was posted as the Political Officer at Aijal (now Aizawl) for the north Lushai hills, while Captain J. Shakespear was posted as the Political Officer for south Lushai hills at Lungleh (now Lunglei).

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From this time, some of the Tlosai Mara villages, such as Saiha and Saiko became part of the British territory. However, the large part of the area occupied by the Mara was left unadministered. Captain Shakespear visited Saiko in 1891 to demand an explanation for a raid conducted by the brother of Thylai, the chief of Saiko. Later, he paid a visit to Saiha and was planning to visit Saiko. It was sometime earlier that the Saiko chief Thylai had raided a Mara village Lialai, and had killed its chief. As the Ia4 ceremony was in progress, the performers of the ceremony came to know of Shakespear’s impending visit and were compelled to suspend the ongoing proceedings. This Ia ceremony has been recorded as the last one to be performed in Saiko’s history. Reference has been made to the unadministered Mara tract. This tract was located between the Lushai hills, the Chin hills and the Arakan. It was inhabited by the Zhyno, Saby and Lialai subgroups of the Mara. They continued to pose problems for the British authorities for some time. G. P. Whaleys, SDO Lungleh, Lushai hills, in A Note on the Un-administered Lakher Tract, (Mizoram State Archives 1903) mentions that disputes arose from the fact that villages such as Savo (called Zawngling by Mizos), used to cultivate lands beyond their boundaries in the administered tract. To negotiate peace, he marched through this un-administered tract and made an unofficial agreement with Beihra, a chief. But for all practical purposes, status quo was maintained (ibid.). In 1906, the Zhyno people raided Paitha village, which was under British jurisdiction, and took syu (captives). A punitive expedition was planned but was postponed till 1907 as the captives were released. Finally, in December 1907, an expedition was carried out under Colonel Cole and Colonel Loch. They also met the Deputy Commissioner, north Arakan, at Laki village. After this incident, the area was not visited by any British official till 1918. At this time, the whole area was in a ferment due to the Haka rebellion which was itself a fall out of the first World War. In 1917, the Zhyno group raided a village in Arakan and another village, Kiasi, which was under British jurisdiction. Consequently, a punitive column under the Superintendent of the Lushai hills H. A. C. Colquhoun proceeded towards the independent villages and the offenders were punished. The Superintendent again toured the unadministered tract in 1920, 1922 and 1924. In 1922, a meeting was held between the Superintendent of Lushai hills and the

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Deputy Commissioner of Chin hills and the north Arakan hills. The boundaries were fixed and the unadministered tract was divided amongst them. In 1924, this tract was annexed to the British territory, the pattern of administration being the same as in other parts of the district. There was an ambivalent response to the introduction of the British rule. The Mara appreciated the sense of security and stability, which came about with Pax Britannica. At the same time, they could no longer conduct raids nor could they enjoy their erstwhile freedom. This finds expression in their folk songs, especially of the Zhyno sub-group, which go thus: ‘Government has taken over all our country, we shall always have to work for Government, it were better had we never been born’ and ‘Government has now hemmed us in, on the north or the south, on the east, on the west. Henceforth, none of our young warriors will drink of the waters of the Salu river where we always used to raid’. The British government adopted a cautious approach to administration. Nevertheless, the imposition of a completely new system of governance was inevitably bound to lead to changes in the delicate socio-cultural fabric of the tribal society (Parry 1976; McCall 1977). For instance, the liberation of the dependents of the chiefs led to a considerable reduction in the chiefs’ wealth and the pre-eminent status enjoyed by them. The dependents could now free themselves by paying 40 rupees; many of them migrated to other villages for fear of persecution by their previous chiefs. As the Mara had been traditionally averse to migration due to their love for the graves of their ancestors, this new phenomenon tended to dislocate people and remove them from their old surroundings. However, many returned to their old villages with the passage of time and settled down again. In the new system of administration, the Lushai hills were divided into 16 circles, each circle having a Circle Officer and an Interpreter. The function of the Circle Interpreter was to facilitate the functioning and maintain smooth relations between the chief and the Circle Officer. A new post of Khireipa (the village writer) was also created. The British government recognised the traditional rights of the chiefs and took care to govern through them. However, the chiefs who had hitherto enjoyed tremendous powers and autonomy now became a part of the huge government machinery. Now, the chiefs had to perform a dual role. On the one hand, they were

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the spokesmen of the villagers when faced by the government and on the other, they were the representative of the government when faced by the villagers. The chiefs retained the power to impose fines, adjudicate all disputes except those of a very serious nature like murder or rape, refuse a villager who had not abided by their orders, to cultivate the land and to expel him from the village. The Superintendent of the Lushai hills however, was the de facto administrator on behalf of the government of Assam. He could interfere in the functioning of the chiefs. Each chief had to take a ramrilehkha (boundary paper) from the government, vesting his lands in him. On his death, his name was removed from the boundary paper and his successor’s name was entered. Another significant change was the appointment of commoner or hnamchawm chiefs, who had been given certain villages in return for their having rendered certain services. According to Parry, these commoner chiefs never commanded the respect that a hereditary chief did, as the latter’s powers and privileges were derived from his birth. An important change brought about by the British rule was the introduction of monetised economy. People eagerly came forward to sell the surplus rice to the Tipa (Tuipang in Mizo) guard to earn a little money. Before these areas were taken over, they had no use for money. Now they were required to pay house tax and thus had to garner resources to pay the tax. Therefore, the most significant changes, as a consequence of the British rule in the initial period were, the diminution in the importance of chiefs; desire to acquire wealth; increase in litigation, which was more excessive in the areas which had previously been brought under British rule as compared to the new areas; and modification of customs due to the twin influence of the Lakher Pioneer Mission and the Lushai interpreters. Politically, the previously fragmented administrative units were brought under a single government and in the economic sphere, the people became exposed to a monetised economy. Thus the obscure, inaccessible and isolated Mara became a part of the bigger world.

The New Socio-religious Order In addition to a completely new system of governance, the Mara were introduced to a new socio-religious order too. This proved to be a much more active instrument of change in comparison to the

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government. The Mara, who earlier practiced animism and remained in constant awe of the thlapa or the spirits of lyu (jhum), O (house), chava (river), Loparo (rock), lyurah (forest), tholaipa (big tree), tipo (lake), tlah (mountain) and athipa (dead person), now turned to Jesus Christ as their Saviour and Master. The Mara had their own separate mission — the Lakher Pioneer Mission — which started working among them in 1907. Their missionary was Mr R. A. Lorrain, the brother of J. H. Lorrain, who had been working at Serkawn in the south Lushai hills since 1903. The Mara entered the Christian fold about 13 years later than the Lusheis. Among the Lushai, J. H. Lorrain and F. W. Savidge were the first to arrive in 1894 under the Arthington Mission. They were followed by the Welsh Presbyterian missionaries in 1897. Lorrain and Savidge then left the Lushai hills but later returned in 1903, under the Baptist Missionary Society of London, to serve the south Lushai hills. The Lakher Pioneer Mission laid great emphasis on education and medical work. The first school was started in March 1908, after barely six months of their stay in the Mara hills. After a staggering start, the school started getting Mara students by September 1909. At the beginning of that year, there were four students which later increased to 16 as the year drew to a close. The first convert to Christianity was a 12-year-old boy, Thytu. He converted in 1910, three years after the advent of the Lakher Pioneer Mission. A complete grammar of the Lakher language had been prepared by 1910. The first book in the Mara language was the Krizhypa hla Bu (the Hymn Book) which was ready by 1911. By 1929, the New Testament had been translated into the Mara reih (Mara language). Both the school and medical work were seen not as ends in themselves, rather as means to an end, i.e., the spread of the Gospel. About the medical work, R. A. Lorrain, the pioneer missionary to the Maras, had this to say: Surely this is the only way to win hearts of the people, first to heal their bodies and then tell them of Him who is willing and able to heal their souls (The Lakher Pioneer, January 1908).

The same principles applied to school work. The government was generally supportive of the Mission. While superintendents such as Loch and J. Shakespear appreciated the Mission, others like N. E. Parry and A. G. McCall were skeptical of the rapid and

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widespread changes being ushered in by the mission. This shall be discussed in much detail in Chapter 3. Suffice it to say that the government delegated education to the Christian Mission since its initial years.

Later Years: A Period of Political Awareness There were significant changes occurring in the ferment of Mara society due to the twin influence of the British rule and the Lakher Pioneer Mission. The new system of governance and the new socioreligious order transformed the entire face of the society. There was a shift from animism to Christianity in the religious sphere, from barter economy to a monetised economy in the economic sphere, the abolition of certain customs like headhunting, and the modification of others, for instance the life-cycle rituals. The Tlosai Mara dialect got a script where previously there was none. There was a change in attitudes and the worldview too. Along with this came political awareness. Within a short span of 14 years, after being taken over by the British in 1930, the Maras became politically conscious around 1943–44, at the time of the second World War. They were acutely aware of their educational backwardness and craved for a better status. However, the idea of a separate administration for the Mara hills was as yet amorphous and hazy (Hlychho n.d.; Zachono 1994). In 1945, SDO Lungleh A. I. Bowman visited Serkawr. He was surprised to find all court records maintained in the Lushai language. As Bowman had spent years at Tuipang as a military officer during World War II, he understood the feelings of the Maras for a separate administration. In 1946, after Bowman left the Lushai hills, he wrote to R. A. Lorrain, the pioneer missionary to the Maras, that he had met the Governor of Assam and apprised the latter about the Maras — that they were a distinct tribe, inhabiting a compact territory in the southern tip of Lushai hills and that they had been loyal to the British in World War II. This was the first time that the demand was raised for a separate administration. After the receipt of a letter by Chhohmo, Chief of Serkawr and Chhali, Circle Interpreter Bowman once again met the Governor of Assam but the latter gave a stern negative reply to Bowman discouraging him from advocating the cause of such a small tribe as Mara. Influenced by the movement for Indian independence, the Lushai hills saw a civil disobedience movement against the chiefs. In 1948,

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the Advisory Council was constituted under the leadership of L. L. Peters, Superintendent of the Lushai hills. This was the first time that commoners were included in the political affairs of the Lushai hills. Nari Rustomjee, Advisor to the Governor of Assam, Shillong, visited Aizawl in 1948 to meet the members of the Advisory Council. The members were asked to express what form of administration they desired. Chhohmo expressed the desire for a Regional Council under India. Rustomji initially did not accept the demand due to the small numbers of the Maras but later acceded due to the insistence of L. L. Peters. The Lais, under Hengmanga, representative of the Pawi commoners met the Chief of Saiko and suggested that as the Lai and Mara had many similarities, they should be placed under the same Regional Council. On July 5 1947, the United Mizo Freedom Organisation (UMFO), a political party, was formed. Its aim was to unite all Zo people. It also supported merger with Burma (Myanmar). The members of UMFO desired to be under Burma and held that Lushais in British India and Chins in Burma were of the same racial stock. The Mara were more favourably inclined to the UMFO than the Mizo Union. The Lais were scattered. They lived among the Lushai and spoke duhlian dialect of the Lushais. The Mara were recognised as a distinct tribe as they spoke their native language, inhabited a compact area and had a separate mission. The Lais did not have political aspiration for their own tribe earlier but seeing the Maras demanding autonomy, they began to have a desire to be amalgamated with the Maras in the Regional Council. The Maras at that time had no educated persons to provide leadership to the Regional council. Hence, in the politics of bargaining, it was decided that both the Mara and the Lai will alternatively take up the leadership of the Regional council. The Pawi–Lakher Regional Council (PLRC) thus came into being in 1954. The Lais however did not stick to the agreement of seat-sharing for two consecutive terms. Therefore, the Maras felt sidelined and concluded that the Lai and Mara could not be under the same umbrella. In 1962, the Mara Freedom Party, a political party of the Maras, was formed. Its objective was the creation of an Autonomous District Council for the Mara. The Maras boycotted the third general elections to PLRC in 1963 due to breach of agreement by the Lais. Subsequently, an interim Mara District Council ran parallel to the PLRC in 1966. It collected taxes and took up the functions of the village council and courts. L. Chinzah,

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the Chief Executive Officer, PLRC, tried to thwart the movement of the Mara but they stood united. The senior officials posted in Mizoram personally saw the differences between the Lai and Mara. By this time it was clear that an Autonomous District Council would be created for the Mara. In 1966, the Mizo National Front (MNF) movement broke out. Though the Lais were involved in the MNF movement, the Mara were not affected by it. In 1971, A. B. Roma and Chhohmo, leaders of the Maras, apprised the Home Secretary, Government of India, that the Mara were different from the Lai and Lushai. They expressed the opinion that if the Mara continued to be with the Lai under PLRC, the Mara tribe would become extinct sooner or later. In 1972, due to a sustained movement, the Maras finally achieved an Autonomous District Council for themselves. Along with them, the Lai and the Chakmas were also given separate District Councils of their own. The creation of the Autonomous District council was a great achievement for the Maras, the Lai and the Chakmas. These councils were retained even after Mizoram acquired statehood in 1987. In the mid-1990s, there was a resurgence of activities by the members of the Lai tribal community to preserve their newly-acquired autonomy. They made attempts to revive their language and formed a separate denomination by the name of Lairam Baptist Church. The Lais could not reconcile to the fact that they were in Chhimtuipui District, the headquarter of which was Saiha. Therefore, they began their demand for a separate district and finally succeeded in 1998.

Administration of Education In Mizoram, the British government soon after its inception delegated the work of education to the Christian mission. Education continued to be in the hands of the mission till India achieved independence. After independence, the administration of the schools was handed over to the Government of Assam in 1948. By 1952, it took over the direct responsibility of supervision of primary and middle schools in the Mizo hills district. A post of Deputy Inspector of Schools for Mizo hills was created. Later, in 1961, the administration of primary schools was transferred to the Mizo District Council. The post-independence period saw educational expansion on an unprecedented scale. Just before Mizoram became a Union Territory, there were 80 high schools, 190 middle schools and 390 primary schools in Mizoram.

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A teacher training centre was established at Aizawl in 1970. Subsequently, the Directorate of Education was established in 1972. As the standard of science and technical education was low in Mizoram, a science promotion wing was set up too. The Mizoram Board of School Education (MBSE) was established in 1976 by an Act of the Mizoram Legislative Assembly. The Board frames and prepares curricula, syllabus and textbooks. It also conducts examinations for the primary, middle and high school levels. As per Census of India 2001, the population of Mizoram is 8,88,573. The total rural population is 4,47,567 and the total urban population is 4,41,006. The literacy rate in Mizoram as per this Census is 89 per cent. Religionwise, according to the Census of India 2001, Christians constitute 87 per cent of the population, followed by Buddhists (8 per cent), Hindus (3.5 per cent) and Muslims (1.1. per cent). Summing up, this chapter presented an overview of the historical and socio-cultural background of the people, traced developments from the early armed encounters with the British, through the introduction of British rule along with the impact of Christianity to the evolution of the new socio-religious order. The later politicoadministrative development among the Mara culminating in the formation of the Pawi–Lakher Regional Council and later the Autonomous District Council is of significance to understand the process and the administration of education in the pre- and post-independence period.

Notes 1. Presently, Saiha District. 2. Presently Lawngtlai District. 3. The Lushai, Lushei and Mizo have been used in a flexible manner throughout the book and must be read contextually. Mizo is both the name of a tribal community and a generic term. 4. Ia was the ceremony performed when warriors returned from a successful raid or those lucky to have taken enemy’s heads. There were two aims of this ceremony — to render the saw or spirit of the slain harmless to the slayer and to ensure that the spirit of the slayed remained the slave of the slayer in the next world.


2


Mara Social Structure: Past and Present The Maras like their senior cousins, the Luseis (Mizos) and Lais, entered the twentieth century as obscure but feared tribes, known only for their plunderous attacks on their neighbours; as animists, having a fearful attitude towards nature, and saddled with problems such as illiteracy and slavery. Today, a century later, they are devout Christians with a high literacy rate and a general level of advancement. In order to understand the interrelationship between education and social change, it is necessary to analyse the changes in Mara society consequent upon the introduction of British rule. This chapter therefore continues from the profile outlined in Chapter 1 and focuses more specifically on the social structure of the Maras, both past and present. I describe the broad contours of village life and administration; social stratification; marriage, family and kinship; economy and religion, which in Malinowski’s (1966) words form ‘the firm skeleton of the tribal life’. As the Maras have co-existed with the Luseis (or Mizos) and other Kuki–Chin tribes such as the Lais and continue to inhabit the same state, viz., Mizoram, this chapter also sketches known parallels and variations with these tribes. I have drawn upon authoritative accounts of scholar administrators of the early twentieth century, N. E. Parry’s The Lakhers (1976) and J. Shakespear’s The Lushai-Kuki Clans (1988) to supplement the personal testimonies of the respondents in the study, gathered through participant observation and my interviews with them. Village Life The Mara villages were built on easily defensible high slopes unlike the Lushei villages that are perched on hilltops. High sites were preferred because of the unsuitability of low-lying locations for reasons of health and defence with the fear of raids looming large on the minds of the people. The Lusheis were semi-nomadic and shifted

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their village to a new site soon after they had exhausted the surrounding land for jhumming (shifting cultivation). They also moved to a new site if the mortality rate rose unduly high owing to the custom of the burial of dead in the village, that in turn lead to drainage infecting the low-lying water supply. In comparison, the Maras preferred to have relatively permanent villages as they were deeply attached to their village sites and disliked abandoning the graves of their ancestors. The cultivating season was spent in chapu (jhumhouses) built in the fields and all able-bodied men shifted there, leaving the old and the infirm behind. The villages derived their names from some natural feature and not from the chiefs, as was the practice in Lushai villages. For instance, the meaning of Saiko is ‘pommelos’ as there were a number of pommelo trees on the site when the village was founded. Lophia means a large flat stone or rock and the village was so called as there was such a stone on the site. The Vahia village got its name from the small hornbill as it was a favourite spot of these birds. As the path to Laki village was winding, it got its name accordingly. The meaning of Saiha is ‘elephants teeth’ due to elephant’s teeth being found on the site. The Thiahra village derived its name from ‘fan palm’ (Borassus flabellifer) that covered the site. Such examples abound. The defence of the villages was a serious matter and each village was fortified with ku (fort) made of tree trunks and saplings. This stockade was surrounded by a trench fixed with syu (bamboo stakes). At the time of a raid, women and children were kept in the centre of the village for extra protection. At some distance from the village, the jungle was cut and sentry posts were established. The lo-pa (stone traps) were also laid. The Lushei villages were similarly defended with stockades of timber. Whenever a new village had to be established, the site was selected with utmost care and caution, and the final decision depended on the omens being taken. The machas (elders) were sent to the proposed site with two cocks, one placed above the site and the other below. At daybreak, if the cock above crowed first and the lower replied, it was considered to be a good omen and the site was selected; the site was abandoned if the crows crowed in the reverse order. It was imperative to kindle a fresh fire in the new village from which each household started its own fire. This was so as the fire

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from the old village was considered unclean as it had been used to prepare funeral meat and the flesh of animals killed by tigers and also because of the belief that it would carry the diseases from the previous village. All other movable property was permitted to be taken from the old to the new village. Unlike the Lushei villages which were arranged in orderly streets, the Mara villages were asymmetrically arranged depending on individual discretion. No rules governed the location of houses and the village was merely a disorderly cluster of habitations covering a considerable area and at unequal distance from each other. The tlylia was the only spot, set apart as it were, in the centre of the village to carry out the community sacrifices and ceremonies and a small sapling of the sacred bochhi (Ficus geniculata), a species of Indian fig tree, was planted at the further end of the tlylia ground. The chief’s house was located in the centre of the village, close to the tlylia. This was expressly for defence purposes as it was believed that any harm to the abei (chief) would render the villagers headless like a ship without a shaft, while any harm to the bochhi meant that sickness would befall and crops would fail. The zawlbuk (the youth dormitory), which was a prominent spot in the Lushei villages, was conspicuous by its absence in the Mara villages. A large village was divided into several quarters or vaih (Mizo: veng) which were generally inhabited by the people of the same clan. The houses of the machas (chief’s advisors) and wealthy men were generally grouped near his house. The houses were roomy and comfortable but the housing pattern was different for commoners and chiefs, the latter having bigger houses. The house of a commoner was generally divided into four parts. First was the aika (front verandah). Similar to Lushei sumhmun, it was approachable through kahmi, (a wooden ladder). The Sokhao, (the paddy mortar), the sokhai, (the pestle) and the thaira, (firewood) were placed there. The verandah was decorated with skulls of bison, bears, sambhur, barking deer, serow, gural, and wild boars killed in hunting. Next was the main hearth for cooking. This portion of the house also housed the rakho (main bed) used by the householder, his wife and children. The rakho was the Mara equivalent of Lushei khumpui. Near the hearth was the thlakai (shelf for pots, pans and plates). The lesser hearth in the back room was used for heating purposes only. This was the sleeping place of the young girls, and young men who visited them. Above the hearth

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was the pacho (a rack of bamboo matting), on which meat and fish were smoked and the paddy to be husked next morning was thoroughly dried before pounding. Lastly, there was a closet for answering the calls of nature at the back of the third room. The outer posts of the house were constructed from chestnut wood, asi (castanopsis tribuloides). Special care was taken to build strong houses due to frequent hurricanes from mid-April to July. The cross-beams, khapia, were made of pazo wood (Hibiscus macrophyllus). Long bamboos, either ra-so (Bambusa tulda) or rahma (Dendrocalamus Hookeri) were laid on the cross-beams and tied with care. This tying was called chahry. Ramaw bamboo (Melocanna bambusoides) was used for both floor matting and the walls. A ceremonial entry was made in the new house, led by the oldest family members. In an instance of sympathetic magic, each member had to hold an atu (iron hoe) as a symbol of strength in the hope that the members of the family shall be strong and healthy in the new house like the atu. The chiefs had much bigger houses than the commoners, about 25 feet wide and 100 feet long. The villagers had to build and repair the chief’s house along with aitla (a long platform), and the piali (a yard fence). The floors were of bamboo matting but the walls were made of wooden planks. The chiefs also had special doors to their houses which were known as pako and the commoners were not entitled to use these doors. Though the house of the chief was constructed on the same lines as a commoner’s house, there were three rooms in place of two. Besides, the chiefs had a much finer and varied collection of trophies in the shape of all animals slain by their dependents on the aika, which they claimed as their right. The house was also adorned with gongs of all sizes procured from Burma (now Myanmar).

Village Administration and Key Functionaries As in other parts of Mizoram, village administration among the Maras centred around the abei (the chief). Each village was an independent entity, of which the chief was the head. He enjoyed absolute powers and was the supreme commander in raids conducted to capture slaves and loot property. He was the protector and guardian of his people, owned all land in his village, set up new habitation (which was not as frequent as among the Lusheis), selected and distributed plots for jhumming, and adjudicated all civil and criminal disputes

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with power to penalise. The chief derived his power and privileges ascriptively from birth. As the owner of all resources in the village, he was entitled to certain dues and services. Thus, the villagers paid him sabai, the paddy tax (this was the equivalent of Lushei fathang); sahaw, the meat tax (Lushei: sachhiah); rapaw, another paddy tax in some villages for cultivating his land; kheibu (bee’s nest) and kheihlo (bee’s wax) and vopia (court fees). Sahaw was payable to the chief in whose village the hunter resided, irrespective of the land in which the animal was killed. The chief was also entitled to free labour from his subjects to build his house and keep it in good repair, to dig graves and erect gravestones for the deceased chiefs or their relatives and to provide porterage when travelling. In addition, each able bodied villager was expected to provide labour for tlaraihrina or community work (Lushei: hnatlang) such as clearing of path to the water point, cutting jungle around the village, fencing of water supply, building and repair of village forge and clearing of village paths. Any violation of the call for tlaraihrina invited ly (a fine). It lay within the chief’s powers to order for a pig to be killed for sathi (village feast) in order to entertain a visiting chief. He was also entitled to confiscate the entire paddy of a villager who migrated to another village though this was infrequent as Maras considered migration disgraceful. The vohle, (subscription of one piglet from the litter) and sakhei (rice subscription for public purposes) were the other community dues. The relation between the chief and the village folk was similar to that between the Lushei chief and his villagers. However, the principle of mutual help was less obvious among the former. The inter-village cooperation was limited too, which was a distinguishing feature of Lushai villages. This was due to the fact that unlike the Lushais, who were ruled by one single clan of the Sailos, the Maras were ruled by different clans as each group of the Maras had its own royal clan. Mara chiefs distinguished themselves, in that, they cultivated their own jhums, thus setting an example of good leadership unlike the Lushai chiefs who did not cultivate their land themselves. The abei was assisted by machas, (Mizo: upas) in the governance of the village. The machas were appointed by him and were entitled to vopia in kind like Lushai salam payable by the losing party in a dispute. The manner of settling disputes was cumbersome. A day for trial was fixed by the chief, with each party to the case

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bringing sahma (rice beer). One party was heard by the chief directly but for the other party, he appointed lyu-chapa (a representative) who reported to the chief. The latter then took a provisional decision. The final order was promulgated only after the machas had assessed the case and had given their opinion. Another method for the trial of cases was asia (trial by ordeal) which was unknown to the Lushais. The chief appointed a lyuchapa who conducted the trial by putting the head of each party under the water in a stream; the man who took out his head first lost the case. Another way of conducting trial was by asking each to pull out a pebble from a pot of boiling water and the person with scalded hands was declared guilty. The spot used for the trial by ordeal was considered to be defiled, thus necessitating purification by animal sacrifice. Besides the machas, there were other village functionaries too with specific responsibilities for public service appointed by the chief. These included the tla-awpa (the village crier), the Mara equivalent of Lushai tlangau, who was assigned the task of announcing the chief’s orders after dusk; the syudaipa (blacksmith) who made new tools and kept the old ones in good order, like the Lushai thirdeng; the theithaipa (the village priest), and the tlyliabopa to perform the community sacrifice of tlylia (his post was hereditary and he was paid zidei, a yearly due, of basketful of paddy); and finally the chysapathaipa (a saintly man), generally from a noble clan, who acted as a cook during the chief’s khazohpina sacrifice. Another position of khireipa (village writer), equivalent to Lushai khawchhiar, was added during British rule. However, the posts of khireipa and syudiapa were not much venerated, unlike among the Lushais, and people had to be induced to fill these posts by the payment of sabai by the villagers. The Maras did not have any personnel like the Lushai ramhuals and zalens, the agricultural experts. The zawlbuk too, which played a significant role in the governance of Lushai villages by providing reserve manpower for village defence and assistance in case of disasters such as fire, was not to be found among them. The abei was, in a sense, a generous pater-familias. Though a despot in theory, his powers were limited by custom and customary law. In the adjudication of disputes, he had to abide by the customary law and there was little scope for arbitrary decision making. The Lushai chiefs desisted from taking unpopular decisions for fear that their subjects would migrate to another village.

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However, among the Maras, since migration was not an accepted practice, the limits put by customs were sufficient to desist the chief from taking unpopular decisions. In present times, villages continue to be located on the high slopes and derive their names from some natural phenomena. In fact, the history of a village can be gleaned from its name. The defence of the village ceased to be an issue with the establishment of Pax Britannica as it brought with it the rewards of security and stability. The traditional hereditary chiefship was abolished and the rights of 259 Lushai chiefs and 50 Mara and Lai chiefs were acquired by the government on 1 April 1955 and 15 April 1956 respectively under the provisions of the Lushai Hills (Acquisition of Chiefs Rights Act, 1955). The process of divesting the chiefs of their traditional powers began during the British rule, when they were reduced to mere government functionaries under the overall authority of the Superintendent of the Lushai hills who was the real administrator on behalf of the Government of Assam. After the abolition of chiefship, villages have been under the control and administration of the duly elected village councils; these councils work under the overall jurisdiction of the Mara Autonomous District Council (MADC) established under the provision of the Sixth Schedule to the Constitution of India. The village councils are constituted of President, Vice President, Secretary and members, generally four to six in number, elected through adult franchise after every three years. The President and Vice President are elected by the members of the village council from among themselves. In return for the services rendered, the members and secretary receive small allowances. The allowances of President, Vice President and Secretary vary according to the strength of the respective village councils. The ordinary members receive a fixed remuneration, irrespective of the strength of their respective village councils. The functions of the village council are to control social affairs, to maintain inter-village paths, execute social and development works and collect taxes. A village council also functions as a village court; this court forms part of the judiciary. It is empowered to handle petty cases relating to social offences and impose a fine upto to Rs 50 but all major cases of social offence are referred to the MADC.

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The village council is also entrusted with legislative powers within its jurisdiction on certain subjects like maintenance of safety and supply of forest reserve, and maintenance of village paths and other village matters. The legislations are however subject to the approval of the District Council. The village council grants site passes for cultivation too. The council is the main agency of the government for collection of important information like vital statistics and condition of crops. It also executes development schemes in the district, and construction of school buildings. All these schemes are implemented through community participation or tlaraihrina. Thus heavy responsibility has to be shouldered by the village council. Primary schools in the area are also under the council.

Social Stratification Tradition speaks of Mara society as a stratified one. This was true for the Lushai society too. Broadly, 80 Mara pho (clans) have been identified. The society was divided hierarchically into abeipho (the chiefly clans); phophapa or phosiapa (the patrician or the noble clans); machhipho (the plebians or commoner clans); and sei (the slaves) who were at the lowest rung of the social ladder. The people were collectively known as tlapi. This category was inclusive of the chiefs, the patricians, the plebians, the machas and other village officials. Within the phophapa was another sub-stratum of upper aristocracy, the kuei. They were the descendants of people who had been exempted from the payment of sabai and sahaw in the past by previous chiefs in consideration for their having paid an indemnity for a defeat in a raid or having assisted the chief in entertaining a visiting chief. They were prominent citizens whose privilege was hereditary and descended on the eldest son. It was obligatory for each generation of the kuei to render assistance to the chief in some way or the other, even if it be a symbolic gift of a pig. The Bohia, Chhachhai, Choza, Hlychho Mara, Hlychho Khichha, Nohro and Zawtha were the seven abeipho clans, The Khaimichho, Khuhly, Mathipi, Notlia, Sacho and Thlyutha were the six phophapa clans. The machhi were further sub-divided into machhi phopha viapa (middle clans) which were 17 in number, and the machhipho (the lower clans) which were 50 in number. The Hnaihly, Khailochho, Sawthly, Solo, Tlapyu, Zahly are some instances of the middle clans.

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The Azyu, Beiho, Khithi, Lyno, Loby, Satho, Syuhly and Zawhly are some instances of the lower clans. Though for all public purposes the tribal unit was the village, clan acquired significance in the private spheres such as birth, marriage, death and certain other purposes. For instance, a person belonging to a different clan was strictly prohibited to participate in khazohpina, zangda and parihrisang sacrifices. Clan solidarity was also visible in times of distress when a person was morally bound to help his fellow clansmen and also at the time of an unnatural death when only the clan members were permitted to handle the corpse. Members of the same clan also contributed towards the payment of marriage price. Again the gains from hunting were to be distributed as presents to members of the clan. Though clan endogamy was permitted, clan exogamy was generally the norm. The Maras also had totemistic clans. For instance, the Bohia and Thlyutha traced their origin from paripi (the snake) and regarded it as a protector of their clan and abstained from killing a snake. The Hnaihly clan was a tiger clan and the members of the clan never injured a tiger as they regarded the tiger at par with Khazohpa, God. Similarly, the Mihlo clan traced its origin from the great Indian hornbill. The stratification between the patrician and plebian clans was sharp and noble birth was highly valued. The inequality between different clans was sought to be justified by a story which goes thus: When men first came out of the hole in the earth, all were equal, but in a short time the cleverer men became chiefs and nobles and ruled over the less intelligent and energetic, who became the lower orders, and are now known as machhi (Parry 1976).

The marriage price for girls of noble birth was higher than that for girls of lower birth. The marriage price of a girl could be higher than her usual clan rate if her maternal ancestors of three successive generations were from a higher clan. Social mobility was possible through marriage alliances. The social gulf between the higher and lower clans being deep and sharp, each Mara man wanted to raise his status by marrying a girl from a clan higher than his own. All socially significant positions were occupied by members of abeipho and phophapa clans. Powers of the chiefs, the machas, and other key officials in the governance of the village have already been described in the previous section on village administration.

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The stratification manifested itself in a number of ways such as the settlement pattern of the village, housing pattern, forms of address, different penalties, in customs related to death and burial, and also in beliefs. A commoner, younger to the chief, had to address him as Papu, the highest and most revered form of address, and never by his short name (as was generally the custom) even though they might be intimate. In the case of a murder, the penalty varied in accordance with whether the murdered man was of a high or a low clan, the punishment being more stringent in case of the former. Thus equality before law was neither preached nor practiced in the traditional Mara society. The chiefs’ ladies were greeted in consonance with well laid out norms of etiquette. These ladies, as a rule, never attended a feast hosted by the common villagers unless the hosts took care to invite four or five other ladies from chiefly or noble clans. Even death was not a leveller and the rakhatla dance was performed only if a wealthy or an important man died. Besides, the chiefs and other prominent people were buried in thlapi (family vaults) near their houses with elaborate rituals and not in graves like the commoners. The Maras believed that after the spirit of a dead man had been in athikhi (the dead man’s village) for a long time, it died again. A chief’s spirit metamorphosed into heat mist going up to heaven and vanished, while a commoner’s spirit met a disgraceful fate as it was turned into a worm and eaten by a chicken. Parry notes: ‘Even in Athikhi men are not equal; a chief in this world remains a chief in Athikhi and a slave remains a slave. The rich remain rich and the poor remain poor.’ (1976: 396).

Slavery among Maras The history of Maras, like that of other tribes in the Mizo hills, is characterised by raids on the neighbouring areas in order to secure syu (captives) for slavery and to take heads. These slaves occupied the lowest rung of the societal ladder. Syuchhai (the first captive of any warrior) had to be surrendered to the chief and the village. The chief presented the syuchhai as gifts to other chiefs. The remaining captives belonged to the warrior himself and became his slaves. A person could even seize a captive from the captor himself before the latter had been able to secure him, and such a captive was known as chahlai. Once a captive arrived in the village, his legs were tied to keihrai (a log of wood). The captives were believed to have asaw (also called hrasaw) or the power to cause sickness and ill-luck.

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The Ia ceremony therefore had to be performed to render the asaw harmless and ineffective and also to proclaim one’s achievement. In the Lushai society, only the lal (chiefs) could keep bawis (dependents or paupers). However in Mara society, even the machhi (commoners) were allowed to keep sei (slaves). Nevertheless, the commoners could acquire slaves only by taking syu, after surrendering the syuchhai to the chief and village. The other ways of acquiring slaves were open only to the persons from chiefs’ and nobles’ clans who could capture them in raids, acquire them as marriage price or purchase them. Debtors, thieves and murderers who feared punishment at the hands of their pursuers traded their freedom for sanctuary in the chief’s house. The chief then paid the debt or the lutyu (the price of murdering), as the case may be, and in turn made them his slaves. This category was similar to the Lushai chemsen bawi.1 If a chief raised an orphan from another clan from childhood or helped a person at the time of a famine by giving him paddy, such a person became his sei. This category was akin to Lushai inpuichhung bawi.2 Female slaves were more valued than the male ones for more work could be taken from them due to their docility, their ability to fetch a higher price when sold and also for breeding slaves. This was especially relevant in a society where the norm was — the more the number of slaves, the higher a person’s status in society. The slaves were of two kinds — sei, who lived in the chiefs house like the Lushai inpuichhung bawi and saiza, who lived in a separate house like Lushai in-hrang bawi. The latter were the favourite slaves of the chief as they had earned their relative freedom by faithfully working for the chief. Although both were at the disposal of the chief, the latter had a better position and more freedom in the sense that they could retain their entire paddy, but were expected to contribute to the chief, if need be. The slaves had certain privileges. Regarded as a part of the chief’s family, the chief often sided with his slave as against the other person. The slave could own property to a limited extent. His crop was divided between him and the chief. He could own pigs, goats and fowls but was prohibited from the ownership of mithuns (the domesticated bison) which was the most valued livestock. It was used as currency and as an indicator of wealth, was the chief constituent of bride price, and was slaughtered on important occasions. However, the chief was permitted to take any of his

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animals that he wished to. The slave, if he was the chief’s favourite, was entitled to seipawchyu (a share in the marriage price of the chief’s sister or daughter), and a pig had to be killed to claim this price. A male slave was also entitled to a wife whose price had to be paid by the chief or he could marry one of the chief’s female slaves, in which no marriage price exchanged hands. Though there was a marked preference for female slaves, their privileges did not commensurate with their position and were few as compared to the sei. They were not permitted to marry a free man but only a male slave, lest the chief loses slaves in the form of their offspring. They were nevertheless encouraged to have unlimited love affairs with the village boys, as the illegitimate offspring of such unions became the chief’s slaves and added to his importance. The privileges, especially to the male sei, were however much less as they suffered from various disabilities too. They could be bought and sold like cattle, a female sei fetching almost the double price than a male one. They did all the work in the owner’s household and also worked on his fields. The slaves were sacrificed as riha (customary animal sacrifice) on the death of their master to accompany his spirit to the world beyond. Though the murder of slaves was rare, they were often subjected to severe beating. In comparison to the Lushai bawi system, the Mara slavery closely approximated to the actual connotation of the word slavery. The Lushai bawi was not a slave but a dependent. He was neither sold nor bought, and his relation with the chief was one of mutual help. It can be said that the Mara sei was the counterpart of Lushai sal (a captive made in war) who was the personal property of the captor. In the present times, social stratification among the Maras has undergone change. Though the society is still divided into abeipho, phosiapa and machhipho, there is not much difference in the social and economic status between the members of the abeipho and machhipho. However, the members of the machhipho recognise the socioeconomic superiority of the members of the abeipho clans. They at times develop a dislike for the latter, as they feel that their forefathers had once been exploited by the members of the abeipho clans. Marriage within the same clan is popular. People use the clan name as a surname, which is a recent trend, and the children get the clan name from the father. Earlier, it was a maophao (obligation) of the clan members to help other members in times of need but the practice is getting weaker by the day.

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Another significant feature of the society is the emergence of the middle class. The process of the rise of middle class began as a result of the British rule and the efforts of the Christian mission to provide education. In order to spread Christianity, the services of those who attended the mission school were utilised. They were considered to be ‘unconscious missionaries’ and were called kraws phesai (the soldiers of the Cross). Apart from being lay preachers, these boys were also appointed as teachers in the schools run by the mission. Meanwhile, additional hands were required to fill the lower posts in the government. The lay preachers, school teachers, those in government jobs and those who took part in the second World war were the first products of the emerging middle class. This class has expanded considerably in the post-independence period with rapid expansion of education and availability of government jobs. However, this process has also had its negative consequences; while on the one hand there has been a saturation in government jobs, on the other it has led to alienation from agriculture. Besides, the willingness to strive and struggle has weakened. This has been replaced by the expectation of swift and easy advancement and the most favoured routes to reach the top are government contracts, government jobs and politics. With such recent trends, educated unemployment and other social problems have increased.

Marriage, Family, Kinship and the Position of Women Marriage among the Mara, as among the Lushais and other related tribes, was a civil contract. Though monogamy was the norm, the chiefs, nobles and other wealthy people kept concubines too. The age of marriage was generally high — the age for males being between 20–25 years, while for females the average age of marriage was 20 years. The factors for high marriage age were first, that the Maras always desired to marry a girl from a higher clan to raise their status and as the demand for girls from a higher clan was high, it was not easy to find a suitable bride; and second, due to the prevalence of high marriage price, a man’s relatives had to save for years before he could finally settle down in matrimony. Not many restrictions were imposed on the choice of spouse. People of the same clan were permitted to marry, though Parry (1976) is of the view that earlier, clan exogamy was in vogue. The chiefs and

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nobles practiced village exogamy too for reasons of status enhancement, as marriage outside their own village led to the increase in their power and influence beyond their own village. The preference was for a girl from a higher clan than one’s own as this was the only avenue of social mobility for a Mara. Incestuous unions between a full brother and sister were forbidden due to the belief that the children of such matrimonial unions would not survive. However, unlike Lushais who believed that such marriages had evil effects for the entire village, manifesting itself in the failure of crops, the Maras believed that such unions had evil effects only for the parties concerned. In marriage, the preference was for the mother’s brother’s daughter; marriage with father’s sister’s daughter was not preferred. Though marriage between a man and his father’s widow was not prohibited, it was considered disgraceful. The marriage between a man and his deceased son’s widow was permitted and was not regarded as a breach of custom. The Mara also had leviratic marriages. Spouses could be acquired either through laisacharei (courtship) or through ahneiphapa (negotiation). The indigenous custom provided for courting and pre-marital relations. A bachelor was called satlia and the maiden, laisa. A boy became a satlia when his hair was long enough to be tied in a knot over the forehead. Henceforth, he was prohibited from sleeping in his parents’ house. As there was no zawlbuk in Mara society, a boy generally slept in the house of a young girl who attracted him at the moment, with two or three young men generally sleeping in a girl’s house. The process of laisacharei was natural and with much simple charm. It involved that the suitor spent his day with the girl, the two helping each other in work, and at the same time exchanging tobacco and nicotine water provided by the girl to the suitor and at night sleeping in the girl’s house. If the girl was favourably inclined towards him, she placed her bed nearer to his and he quickly took the hint. It was during singing and dancing sessions that the interaction between the members of opposite sex was heightened. The suitor made sexual advances, and if the girl did not resist, they left the party and went to her house. It did not constitute an offence, nor did it entail any fine if the youth and the girl were caught on the junior bed. However, if the boy trespassed the parents’ bed, rakho (Lushai: khumpui), he was supposed to have defiled it and was fined. He had to pay a pig and a fowl to the girl’s parents (to purify rakho), besides sahma and vopia to the chief and elders. The parents were

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not much concerned about the sexual significance of the association, rather about the defilement of the rakho. If a young man eloped, arakhei, with a girl, he had to pay her father hmiatla, the atonement price. After this, usual marriage ceremonies were performed and customary price was paid. Similar customs prevailed among the Lushais. The Maras were comparatively more secretive, discrete and dignified about their love affairs than the Lushais, who proclaimed their affairs from the rooftops paying scant respect to the feelings of the girl. A Mara suitor on the other hand never uttered a word and did his best to keep the affair under the carpet. With little variation across villages, scandal was on the whole sternly discouraged. In the Siaha (Mizo: Saiha) and Saiko (Mizo: Serkawr) villages, anyone defaming the lovers, irrespective of its veracity, was fined a racha (beer pot) and vopia. It was this sense of discreteness which accounted for the absence of the Lushai puarak or the go between, generally a friend who acted both as a pimp and as a witness in the case of civil suits. This accounted for much more litigation among the Maras. However, other than the discretion in love, there was no bar on free interaction between young people of opposite sex. In marriage by ahneiphapa, the initiative was taken by the parents of the boy. Once they had found a suitable girl for their son, a female relative was sent to the girl’s house to assess if the proposal was acceptable to them: if it was, they appointed a lyuchapa (an intermediary) who was sent to the girl’s house with a thuasa which was like the Lushai dao. This was supposed to induce lucky dreams. The proposal was accepted only if the girl’s parents had lucky dreams of fish, clean water, necklaces, guns or daos that night. If, however, they had bad dreams of wild animals killed by a tiger, dead snake or a theft of pigs and fowls, the proposal was immediately rejected. After the proposal was accepted, the girl’s parents invited the lyuchapa and the suitor to their house, after preparing sahma, to discuss the marriage price and the wedding day was fixed thereafter. On this day, the bridegroom sent the lyuchapa to the bride’s house to say that the marriage would take place. On the marriage day, after much sahma had been consumed, pigs were killed to claim the marriage price. The sisazi, a constituent of okia (the main marriage price) had to be paid on the wedding day itself. When the preliminaries were settled, the lyuchapa invited

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the bride and her father’s sister to the amakia (the bride’s marriage procession) to the bridegroom’s house in the evening. The paternal aunt had to go with the bride as it was essential to claim tini (the share of the aunt in the marriage price) on the wedding day itself. When they reached the bridegroom’s house, they did not enter it till certain dues like kahmikiana for climbing up the ladder and chakeichakana for crossing the threshold were paid. Tini was paid after they had entered the house. After this, tipani (the actual marriage ceremony) took place. The ceremony consisted of the lyuchapa giving both the bride and bridegroom some sahma to drink with his hrokei (brass hairpin), and wishing them many children, health and prosperity. The ceremony had to be performed in the morning before the crowing of the first crow. The bride and bridegroom then drank sahma together and spent the remaining part of the night in much festivity with the others who had assembled, with the bride finally returning to her parent’s house. The second and the third day after marriage were spent claiming payments like ahlas, adeuna, etc., with the bride finally shifting to the husband’s house on the fourth day. The miapali sacrifice was then performed to ensure good crops, proper burning of jhum and germination of paddy for the newly-weds. Marriages could be held at any time of the year but the months of Thlazo (August) and Chhipa (June) were considered inauspicious. The former was not preferred due to the weather being dark and misty owing to the rains and was supposed to have a bad effect on the couple’s future and the latter was avoided due to the evil connotation of the word chhi. All the other months were considered good, the best being Thlara (September), a bright month after the rains.

Marriage Payments The Maras practiced the bride-price system as is prevalent in other tribal societies. The bride-price constituted of the following: Okia was the principal price and provided the basis for all other prices and it was the Mara equivalent of Lushai manpui. Where the okia was high, all other prices were correspondingly high too. Once the okia was fixed, rates of other prices followed automatically. It was generally paid in lump sum. Since noble birth was highly valued by the Maras, the rate of okia was much higher for the higher clans. For a man to claim a higher okia for his daughter, it was imperative that his grandfather, father and he himself must have

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taken wives from the higher clans and if less than three generations had married into higher clans, the okia for that person’s daughter could not be raised. Okia was generally claimed by the bride’s father. If he was dead, it was claimed by her elder brother. It consisted of okia proper; sohra, in lieu of a slave and this could be claimed only by persons whose okia was Rs 60 or above; seipihra, in lieu of cow mithun; seicheihra, in lieu of bull mithun; sisazia, (three pumtek beads payable on marriage day); and chawchyu (the brother’s share). In order to claim okia, pigs had to be killed. If the father divided the price, except okia and sisazia, among his sons, such a division was called matlei. The okia also consisted of certain subsidiary prices for which no pig was required to be killed. These were raipihra, dawhra, keima and awruabawna. In case of matlei, two additional dues, chanola and sawhla, were also payable. Puma was payable to the pupa (the bride’s mother’s brother). It was akin to Lushai lushum. The puma was based on okia. If the okia was Rs 60, the rate of pumamapi was Rs 60 too. It was generally not claimed on the marriage day but only when the newly married couple had settled down. The puma consisted of pumamapi, phavaw, awruabawna, chanola, sawhla, lokhyu for pupa’s pupa, pukeima for pupa’s friend; and ahlas. The man who had to pay the price was called tupapa. The pupa refused to eat the feast till lokhyu and awruabuana had been paid. No-chyu, the literal meaning of which is mother’s price, was paid to the bride’s mother if her parents were divorced. If not, it was payable to the bride’s mother’s sister. It could be claimed on the wedding day or later. It consisted of awruabawna, nochymapi, chanola, sawhla, ahlas and adyuna if bride and bridegroom belonged to separate villages. Nochyu literally means the aunt’s price (called niman by the Lushai). It was payable to the bride’s eldest paternal aunt. It consisted of nachyumapi, awruabawna, chanola and sawhla. The aunt was also entitled to tini. It is noteworthy that it was not imperative for the aunt to kill a pig to enable her to claim the tini as was the custom for other marriage dues. It had to be claimed on the wedding day itself and was supposed to be paid without delay. Ahlas were minor dues payable to the chief, the macha who accompanied the marriage party, friends, cooks, beer makers and the water carriers.

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Divorce and Widow Remarriage Divorce among the Maras was easy. A man could divorce his wife and the wife could likewise divorce her husband at any time after completing certain formalities. Divorce was, however, less common in Mara society than among the Lushais owing primarily to the high marriage prices in vogue and also due to a relative sense of permanence attributed to the marital relationship. It was more common for the husband to divorce his wife rather than the other way round as the woman’s relatives generally put pressure on her to remain in matrimony, lest they were made to forfeit the marriage price received. The high marriage prices thus tended to make the marriage more permanent and the position of wife more secure. The main forms of divorce were: Lapino-ma was the form of divorce when the man divorced the wife and was similar to Lushai mak. A woman’s relatives were entitled to retain all prices that had already been paid and also to demand the balance. It made no difference whether the women had children or not. Sawn pakua was the form of divorce when the woman divorced her husband. This was the Mara equivalent of Lushai sumchhuah. If the woman was without children, her whole price had to be refunded to the husband and if the woman had children, her whole price had to be returned except the okia. This was in consideration of her having produced children, though the children went with the father. If okia was also refunded, the children then belonged to their mother’s relations and would go to their pupa. Divorce could be obtained on grounds of khuthi (impotence) and hrupathlei hasala (madness). But before a final decision was taken, a grace period of one year was given to provide the afflicted person a chance to recover. Divorce could also be obtained on charges of aphei (adultery), which was considered very disgraceful and it was not very common among the Maras, as they subscribed to strict sexual codes after marriage. The husband of an adulterous woman was considered to have been injured and insulted. This insult followed him even after his death. For the woman’s paramour, it was a source of great pride that he had been successful in overcoming the virtues of another man’s wife and it was believed that when he died, his spirit wore white plumes in its hair. Widow remarriage was permitted; a widow could remarry soon after her husband’s death but she generally remained in the dead

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husband’s house till the memorial stone had been erected. Among the Maras, there was no equivalent of the Lushai thlahual ceremony before the performance of which the widow was considered to be still bound to her deceased husband. A widow with children could live in her late husband’s house until she remarried in which case the children went to the father’s family. Marriage price of a widow was considerably less compared to an unmarried girl but varied according to her age and beauty. A woman who had been married thrice and had outlived all the three husbands was called maluso and was greatly feared. Levirate was practised as it was economical and helped to keep the family united. The younger brother or the elder brother of the deceased husband could propose and had to pay just a small token price.

Family and Kinship Family among the Maras was patrilineal and patriarchal. They generally had the joint family system though nuclear families were also found. The eldest male member was the head of the household and the size of the family was between 5–10 members. As for the rules of residence, patrilocality was the norm though neolocality was also practised. The youngest married son lived in the parental house till his father’s death, though the eldest son continued to live there even afterwards. The system of relationship was classificatory. Strict etiquette was observed in the mode of address. Persons unrelated but of the same generation as the speaker’s grandparents were addressed as Eima paw (my grandfather) and Eima no (my grandmother). Persons unrelated but of the same generation as speaker’s parents were addressed in a roundabout way, such as Eima Satha paw (my father, the father of Satha) and Eima Satha no. All male clansmen of the father’s generation were addressed as Eipa and the female ones as Eina. The mother’s sisters and their husbands were also addressed in the same way. It was considered disrespectful to address persons of older generation by name. Young boys called each other by name, or if quite close as eiunaw (my brother) and viasa and kadua (my friend). Young girls addressed each other by name, or if quite close, as eituno (my sister) and viasa or kadua (my friend). Teknonymy was practised by the Maras, Lushais and other kindred tribes as well. Thus, for instance, a person was called Sody paw (the father of Sody) and Sody no (the mother of Sody). Unmarried

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or persons without children were addressed by abbreviated names by people who were close to them. If a person’s name was Vakhy, he could be addressed as Iva, Ikhy or Khykhy. These abbreviated names could be used by persons of the same age, or those younger or older to the speaker. The only exception to this was that a commoner younger to the chief had to address him as Papu and never by his short name, even though they may be intimate. Formal friends, both keimacha and kei hawti, called each other kadua, or einaw. Papu was the most honourable form of address in the Mara language. A stranger was addressed as khichhaipa. While hunting or near a khiso (mountains) which were believed to be the abode of evil spirits, persons were never called by their personal names lest these spirits seize that man’s spirit. A person’s name could not be asked directly, and the name had to be ascertained indirectly. People desisted from calling the name of any dead person as it was believed that it causes pain to the latter’s near and dear ones. Among the kins, grandfather and grandmother, both paternal and maternal were treated with the highest respect. Next to them came a person’s parents, followed by the papu (maternal uncle), and papi (his wife); the wife’s parents; and the nano (father’s sister) and parapa (her husband) respectively. Any violation of proper behaviour towards papu and papi involved the payment of hmiatla. The relationship between the pupa and his tunoni (nieces) and tupapa (nephews) was very close. The relationship was characterised by deference and respect and with definite rights and privileges. A girl’s pupa got a share of her puma which was often higher than her father’s share. A person’s ru (death due) was also payable to the pupa. In return, the pupa was expected to help his nephews and nieces in distress. A nephew was prohibited to marry his pupa’s widow. In matters of inheritance, the rule of primogeniture was observed. This is one major difference with the Lushai who were governed by the rule of ultimogeniture, the youngest son being called fathlun. The right to inherit was linked to payment of debts and ru of the father. The youngest son, however, could live in the main house as long as the father was alive and even after the father’s death, if the eldest son did not insist on his vacating the house. After the father’s death, the eldest son became the head of the household. However, if a person did not have a son, his brother inherited the property. Women could not inherit, save if a woman was the last of

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the clan and no other clansmen survived. Among the chiefs however, a woman (the sister of the deceased or her son) was entitled to thupahama (the price of touching the evil smelling remains), i.e., the valuables buried with the last corpse when family vaults were opened. If the deceased had minor children, his wife had custodial rights over the property on behalf of her eldest son until she remarried. Metal belts, ornaments and such other articles were considered woman’s property and were passed on to her daughters on her death. If the deceased man was without children, his father inherited. A deceased person’s brothers and nephew came prior to his sons by concubines in inheritance matters. No one in the Mara society could make a will and all property descended on the customary heirs. If a man wanted, he could divide his property among his sons in his lifetime, and they were bound by the decision. Traditionally, therefore, the Maras had strong family relationships. Commenting on their inheritance rules, N. E. Parry, the Superintendent of the Lushai Hills (1924–28), aptly puts it thus: The Lakher inheritance rules are very fair: The heir inherits everything debts and obligations as well as assets. It is practically impossible for a man to die and leave an orphan family unprovided for, as his heirs are bound to support the orphans. This they are quite ready to do, as family feeling is strong (1976 288–89).

Among the chiefly families, ryu (heirlooms) passed on from one generation to the next. Ryu were the treasured possessions consisting of pumtek beads, gongs, guns, etc. The Mara were very possessive about their ryu and parted with them only as a last resort. Sawta alapa (adoption) among the Maras was rare, as an adopted son’s claim in inheritence matters was of no significance when compared to the claims of the deceased’s family or clan. It was virtually impossible to adopt anyone who was not a clan member and the orphans could expect protection from their own clansmen.

Position of Women In the Mara society, women had a relatively higher status compared to the Lushai society where the balance was tilted in favour of men. As with other hill tribes, women were on the whole busier than men though work as such was not inequitably divided between them. A typical Mara woman’s day started at dawn when she was woken up by the din created by the domestic livestock under the house.

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She began her day by pounding and winnowing rice followed by cooking meals and drawing water. During the course of the day, she collected firewood and weaved. Evening time was to draw water, feed pigs and spin. During the cultivating season, both men and women were extremely busy, with women helping especially in weeding and harvesting. Menfolk cut jhums, constructed and repaired houses, did basket work and laid traps for birds and beasts. Relations between men and women were characterised by easy camaraderie. The women were not mere household drudges but had a high status within the house. High marriage prices strengthened a wife’s position and divorce was far less common among the Mara compared to the Lushais. The wife’s opinion was sought in important matters. Though the indigenous Mara customs entitled the husband to beat his wife in moderation, people who battered their wives frequently were the object of scorn. The wife in such circumstances ran away to her parents and her husband had to pay a hmiatla to bring her back. Widow remarriage was permitted. A widow could remarry any time after her husband’s death. However, the Maras did not have any custom like the Lushai thlahual until the performance of which a woman was considered to be still bound to the deceased husband. Women were however not entitled to inherit property. Fertility was greatly valued in Mara society. This found expression in the most important traditional sacrifices of the Maras like the khazohpina, tlylia and also the zanda which were directed at the individual tutelary deity. One of the prime objectives of these was to secure blessings for large and healthy families. In addition, offerings were also made to Sakia, a female tutelary deity like Zan but of less benevolent nature. Sakia was considered responsible for women’s health and fertility. Sometimes, a woman’s sawleipa (barrenness), was attributed to ill-feelings between her and her brother. Thus, to enable the woman to bear children, friendliness had to be restored between them. This was done by the brother placing some sahmahei (fermented rice) in her mouth at the time of the waning moon. At other times, a woman’s barrenness was ascribed to the displeasure of the spirits of her deceased parents or parents-in-law. These spirits had to be propitiated by the thlawrua ceremony. Among the Saby group of the Maras, a sacrifice called avapalopatla was offered to the sky.which was regarded as a woman and its blessings were invoked for her sisters below.

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Consequent upon the British rule, several new institutions were introduced, some old ones were abolished while others were considerably modified. As far as the institution of marriage is concerned, we find a co-existence of the past and the present. Marriage among the Mara as amongst the Mizos and other akin tribes continues to be a civil contract. Monogamy is the prevalent norm and this has been enforced by the church. The age of marriage for girls is 16 years and above, and for the boys 18 years and above. Regarding the choice of spouse, clan endogamy is followed, though in recent years, it is not being practiced in a rigid form. Cross-cousin marriage is prevalent. Both sororate and levirate marriages are permitted as these are considered economical. Mates are acquired either through laisacharei or ahneiphapa. In marriage by negotiation, the mother’s brother’s daughter is preferred. In case of arakhei, hmiatla, of Rs 60 is to be paid to the girl. Pre-marital pregnancy is socially rationalised, normally by performing a marriage with the involved man. Such a marriage is considered as Grade II and is performed in the vestry and not in the main church building. The other kind of marriage — Grade I — is performed in the main church building. In marriage by negotiation, a day is decided for the engagement ceremony after the marriage proposal is confirmed. On this day, ariena thusoh (the engagement price) is paid in kind (like thihro, brass; rahra, aluminium; beih, pot; and chaizo, a big knife). This can also be paid in kind by the father of the boy to the girl’s father. The amount payable as bride price is also fixed on this day. The bride price is constitutive of the okia, the puma, nochyu, and ahlas. After the engagement ceremony, the church elders are informed and requested to fix a date for marriage. On the marriage day, the groom’s party comes to the house of the bride to attend a feast. After this, both parties go to the church, the marriage is solemnised and rings are exchanged. Thereafter, both parties go to the grooms’ house to attend a feast. After this, everybody disperses leaving the bride in the groom’s house. After a month, the couple has to visit the bride’s parents. The use of sahma has fallen into disuse now and its place has been taken by tea and snacks. Divorce is permitted as has been mentioned in a previous section but is being touched upon, briefly here, in the context of the status of women. There are two kinds of divorce: first, lapino-ma (similar to Mizo mak), when the man divorces the wife.

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A woman’s relatives can retain all the prices that have been paid and those that are as yet payable; and second, sawnpakua (similar to Mizo sumchhuah, when the woman divorces the husband). Grounds of divorce are khuthi, hrupathlei hasala, and aphei. The father is responsible for bringing up the children after divorce. Divorce cases are initiated in the village or the District Council court. Widow remarriage is permitted. A widow can remarry anytime after her husband’s death but she generally remarries after the construction of the memorial stone of her deceased husband. The marriage price of a widow is less compared to an unmarried girl. A woman who outlives three husbands is still greatly feared and is called maluso. The family among Mara is patrilineal, patriarchal and patrilocal, but more commonly neolocal. Majority of the families are nuclear but joint families are also found. The eldest male member is the head of the household. The average size of the family is 5 to 10 members. System of relationship is classificatory. Strict etiquette is followed in the mode of address. Forms of address are the same as in the pre-British days. Parents and all other elderly relations in the family get zana (respect from the youngsters). Elders show kypacha (love to youngsters). Saiso (joking relationship) is found among sisters-in-law and brothers-in-law. Close relations on father’s side are expected to help the children if they have lost their father. Among the Mara, the group takes precedence over the individual. This is expressed in the sharing of meat among all family friends after a successful hunt, involvement of all villagers in house construction and cultivation of jhum land. These traditional linkages co-exist with new linkages such as visiting family and friends and participation in each other’s family events. Evening time is spent in feeding pigs and other livestock. During the cultivating season, men, women and children help in weeding and harvesting. Menfolk cut jhums, construct and repair houses, make chapu (jhum house), do basketwork and lay traps for birds and beasts. Mara women generally are active members of the church. They however are not much active in politics. Permission to attend social events is sought from the father or the husband as the case may be. However, they do not take permission to attend the church service. Men usually consult women with regard to the management of the household. Women are responsible for cooking and bringing up

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the children; they also supplement the family income by weaving, stitching, knitting, and selling firewood. Many women are in government jobs too.

Economy The pre-British Mara economy revolved around agriculture using simple implements like atu (hoe), tako (dao) and ahrei (axe). The agriculture was not of the settled type but jhumming (shifting agriculture) as is practised in the hilly areas of northeastern India. Terraced cultivation was not practised here due to the difficult mountainous terrain and scarcity of water. The fields were cultivated for a year and the land was left fallow (ideally for 8–10 years). However, due to scarcity of cultivable land, it could not be kept fallow for long. In addition to shifting cultivation, there was the village blacksmith who made and kept the tools in order. Other than that, there were no craftsmen or shopkeepers. Barter trade existed between hillsmen and the neighbouring areas of Lungleh, Haka in Burma and Arakan. They bartered their cotton, ivory and rubber for salt, cloth, and iron to make implements, gongs, guns, beer pots, and ornaments. The Maras were great hunters too and prowess in hunting fetched high social rewards. They also domesticated animals and the most valued livestock was the mithun. Besides, pigs, goats and dogs were reared too for consumption and also for sacrificial purposes. Since the Mara economy was largely based on jhumming, the agricultural cycle was marked by ceremonies at every stage. The process of shifting cultivation consisted of the following steps. a) Lyumo (selection of site for cultivation): The agricultural year began in the month of Di (December). The chief and the machas decided the slopes to be used for jhumming in the ensuing year. The villagers were informed and each householder went to select his plot. Those villagers who had jhums on a particular slope the previous year, took their old jhums. The remaining land was left to be chosen by the villagers who were jhumming on these slopes for the first time. On the day of the selection of jhum, each person cut a small patch to inform the spirits of the place, which, it was believed, in turn informed the householder through good or bad dreams whether the site was favourable or not. Dreams of fish, clear water, paddy or human corpse were considered good whereas dreams of an animal killed by a tiger, broken tako or ahrei, axe, dirty water or a dead domestic animal were considered bad and the

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site was rejected. Selection of jhum plot was followed by laying the lyuri (boundary) between the jhums by cutting bamboo and timber on the boundary to about five feet height. These were left standing when the jungle was cut and burnt and served as the boundary. b) Lyu va khutla, (the cutting of jhums) took place in the month of Naw (January) and Hmy pi (February). People slept in the jungle itself during the cutting, going to the village only if it was close enough to cut the jhum from there. Once the jhums were half-cut, cultivators returned to the village. Those who had jhums on the same slope performed the ria-lochhi ceremony, dedicating their implements. After a day’s aoh (rest), they returned and finished cutting the jhums. A two-day feast called khutla was held by those having their field on the same slope, when all jhums were cut. There was much festivity with sahma, food and pakhupila dance by young men and girls. The cultivators had nothing much to do till mid-March or beginning of April. c) Lyumei (burning of jhum) took place in the month of Pami (March) or Pa-chaw (April). Meisapana, a day’s pana, was observed after the burning of jhums. A day later, the lyu-rana ceremony was performed by those having fields on the same slope. After a day’s aoh, the chapu was built in each jhum for the cultivators to live in during the cultivating season. d) Satu (sowing) started soon after the construction of jhum houses, when maize, millet, cucumber, pumpkins and other vegetables were sown. Towards the end of Pachaw, paddy was sown. This was considered as the most favourable time for sowing paddy compared to Pato (May) as at that time seeds were not damaged by birds and rats. The actual sowing was a simple exercise — the ground was scratched with an atu and about 10 seeds were dropped in each scratch. The seeds were left uncovered as heavy rains would wash the soil over them. A ceremony, Sachipachhua, was performed by the owner of each jhum near his jhum house. e) Weeding: The crops had to be weeded twice or thrice in the entire agricultural cycle. The number of weedings required was dependent upon whether the jhums had burnt well or not. If the jhums had burnt well, there was a poor crop of weeds, the fierce fire having destroyed the seeds of the weeds. However, if the jhums had burnt badly, weeding was a strenuous and tedious exercise due to the dense jungle growth caused by heavy rains. During weeding, all young and able-bodied people shifted to the jhum house, leaving

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only the old and infirm behind. The first weeding, mawkeipa, was done soon after the paddy had germinated. This was followed by a sacrifice, chithla. The second weeding, lyuchapa, was performed towards the end of Khihpa (July) or the beginning of Thlazoh (August). This was the busiest time of the year as the maize and millet had to be harvested while the second weeding was in progress. The third weeding, hrohrapa, was done in Thlarah (September) and the sahrisa ceremony was performed to mark the third weeding. f) Saraihrea (harvesting): Tobacco and spices were gathered and left in the sun to dry in the month of Phiata (October). Paddy was harvested from the end of this month. The Maras traditionally had a unique way of harvesting paddy unknown to the other hill tribes. This was called saphia and consisted of pulling of the paddy by the roots, after which it was tied in bundles and left to dry for two to three days. Saphia was carried on day and night and this was completed by the middle of Phiapi (November). The other hill tribes, including the Lushais, harvested by cutting the crop with a sickle. After the completion of saphia, a threshing floor was made near the jhum house. A ceremony, lyu mathawna, was held by the owner of the field. The cultivator went around the field with a small basket collecting each kind of paddy grown and also maize. This ceremony was to invoke the spirits of paddy and maize. The harvesting began in right earnest the next day. This was called sachakyu (bearing the paddy). After all the paddy was gathered, the ears of paddy were trampled on till the empty husks and straw had been separated from the grain. The grain was cleaned once again on the bamboo trays after which it was stored in the granary. g) Storing: A sawva (granary), was built halfway between the jhum and the village after the paddy had been collected. Paddy was carried up and stored in sawva after which the sikisa ceremony was performed. The harvest was finally gathered in till between the end of Di and the middle of Nawh. Thus, the Maras remained busy with agriculture the whole year round. The Maras were industrious cultivators, made large fields and had excellent crops. The chiefs, in the true spirit of leadership, set an example for their people by working on the jhums themselves. This was in contrast to the Lushai chiefs who did not work on their jhums. The main crops were sapha (paddy) of many varieties — white and red — though the preference was for the former. Cotton was also grown for domestic use along with rice and in between rice,

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the Mara also grew millet, pumpkins, cucumber, maize, tobacco, and indigo (for dyeing purposes). To scare away marauders like bears and wild pigs from their fields, they used contrivances like Rainyu and Tekalyu. In the present times too, the Mara economy revolves around shifting cultivation. The land is controlled by the village council under the control of the MADC and is distributed to each family every year by the village council. Simple instruments such as atu, tako and ahrei are used for agriculture. The stages followed in the agricultural cycle are the same as mentioned earlier. However, no ceremonies or sacrifices are performed. Though rice is the main crop, the Mara also grow cucumber, pumpkins, maize, tobacco, and millets in between. Terrace cultivation was introduced after independence and wet-rice cultivation is also practised in the plains. Agriculture is supplemented by occupations like spinning cotton, horticulture, weaving, carpentry, basketry, blacksmithy, fishing, hunting, and food gathering. People have also taken up knitting, tailoring and automobile repairing. Many Mara also work as daily labourers for projects like road construction while others run small tea shops. Educated people are in government and private service.

Religion The Maras traditionally believed in one supreme God, whom they called Khazohpa (father of all). This word is derived from khapa zydua, meaning everything. The supreme God was also known by an alternative name, Pachhapa, meaning the old man or the source of life. He was considered as exercising full power over people and controlling their destinies. The Khazohpa of the Maras was similar to the Lushai Pathian. However, though the Lushais were more in awe of ramhuai and tuihuai, the spirit of mountains, pools and woods (Mara: leurahripas), the Maras considered the Khazohpa more powerful than the leurahripas and dedicated their most important sacrifice, khazohpina, to the Khazohpa. He was considered as possessing human attributes, as just and benevolent, and as dealing with human beings according to their deeds. In addition to Khazohpa, each individual was considered as possessing a tutelary deity, Zan who, it was believed, lived in close proximity to the person it was in-charge of. A well pleased Zan blessed a person with happiness, health, prosperity and children.

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The Maras, like other tribal folk, practiced animism. High mountains called khiso, steep cliffs, pools and precipices and ponds were considered as the abodes of leurahripas (evil spirits). These were the Mara equivalent of Lushai ramhuai and tuihuai. By nature, these spirits were considered as jealous and bad with capacity to cause sickness and death, but were kind if propitiated. As a consequence, people were constantly in awe and fear of them. A khiso was referred to as a bei no (the chieftainess). The lives of Maras were thus dominated by the countless supernatural beings who were to be propitiated at life cycle rituals of birth, death, marriage and also during illness and agricultural operations to avert their jealousy and wrath. The human soul was considered as resembling a man’s body but was invisible. At daytime, the soul was believed to be residing in the body, at night to be wandering and returning to the body once a person woke up. It was linked to the human body in the form of hu (an invisible cord of breath). Dreams were thought of as a consequence of these wandering souls which foresee future events. The Maras believed in two kinds of souls — thlapha (the ordinary soul) and thlachhi (the mischievous soul) that was believed to afflict some people. Three terms were central in the traditional Mara religion — ana, pana and aoh. Ana literally meant that which is forbidden. Thus, it was ana to do certain things; see, say or touch certain things; or to go to certain places. Anas were like the Ten Commandments. It was also believed that one who defied the prohibition would die or be unlucky. The literal meaning of pana was isolation or seclusion and it was generally held for a day after ordinary sacrifices. Aoh meant rest and was imposed only for more important sacrifices and village events. The significant sacrifices among Maras were the khazohpina, zakhapa, zanda, khisobo and tlylia. Khazohpina was the most important Mara sacrifice. It was not a regular sacrifice but was performed only during ill health or on the death of domestic animals. Zakhapa was a modified form of khazohpina. Zanda was offered to the tutelary deity of each human being. It was intended to ensure good health, fertility and happiness of a couple and their children. Khisobo was to propitiate the khiso (mountains) considered to be the abode of powerful spirit. It was performed jointly by villagers to improve land, crops, animals and good health. Tlylia was a village ceremony aimed at the hill slope on which the village is situated.

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The Maras did not have great feasts of merit like the Lushai khuangchaei, except the Khichha Hlychho clan of Saiha who had been influenced by the Lais. According to the Maras, death was caused due to the anger and displeasure of Khazohpa and the Lyurahripas, who seized a person’s spirit. They believed that a dying person’s soul often entered a pig or a tree and made a distinct noise in its new abode. As soon as death was imminent, it left its temporary abode and returned to its owner’s body. At death, the soul finally left the body for athikhi. However, not all souls but only the thlachhi (mischievous souls) entered the pigs and trees. The Maras did not believe in life after death. According to them, there were three abodes for the dead: peira (the paradise), athikhi (abode of all ordinary spirits) and sawvawkhi for sawvaw (those who died an unnatural death or due to some loathsome disease). All spirits had to pass through a path, haw ly paka, near Longchei village in Haka. Living people never used this path. The Maras believed that near the village of Longchei was a stream called the dead man’s water supply from which the spirits of the dead drew water. Later, the road branched where the spirits encountered Chhonchonpipa, the Mara equivalent of Lushai Pu Pawla, who sent towards right those bound for athikhi and towards left those bound for sawvawkhi. An ailing person whose death was imminent was taken off the bed and placed on the floor and as he approached death, he was made to sit. A gunshot was fired to proclaim death and the body was bathed with warm water and dressed. Cooked food was placed on the shelf over the dead man’s head for its spirit to consume. The body was kept for two or three days and riha ceremony was performed. The pupa of the deceased had to kill a pig in order to claim the ru. Graves were dug by young men. The mother’s brother played an important role in burial and he was the first to enter the grave and helped to lower the body into it. The relatives returned after putting some eatables on the grave. Before entering the house, they passed through a sieve with rice placed on the verandah only after which they were considered to be clean. Unnatural deaths were regarded as extremely unlucky. Graves were of three kinds: thlapi (family vaults for the chiefs), thlata (commoners graves) and thlachhi (the graves for thichhi and sawvaw). The period of mourning was longer for a chief as compared to a commoner. Perhaps one sphere that has undergone widespread changes in the present times is religion. Belief in animism and all the associated

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sacrifices have been forsaken. These have been replaced by Christianity, the new socio-religious order. In contemporary times, the entire life of the people is governed by Christianity. Although the belief in the spirits has been given up completely, the old name for God, Khazohpa, now refers to Christ. The church is the sacred centre and the pastor and church elders are their sacred specialists. The pastor conducts the baptism, solemnises marriages, preaches and looks after the church administration. The hlytupa (the head leader) assists the pastor and conducts funeral services. The awnono macha (the elders) are members of the church administration committee up to the circle level and assist the pastor. They celebrate Khrisma (Christmas), Thyuheino (Easter Saturday), Khazopano (Easter Sunday and New Years Day), besides Good Friday. There are separate burial grounds. The dead body is not kept in the house for a number of days as in the past. Animals are not sacrificed nor is athila (the mourning dance) performed. Nowadays, after a death, a friend or relative goes to the church and rings the bell in slow, rhythmic movement. Thereafter a pastor goes to the house of the deceased, recites hymns and offers prayers. The visitors also participate in the singing of religious songs. The dead body is taken to the graveyard in a procession and prayers are offered once again when the corpse is lowered into the grave. After a few months, the family of the deceased erects a thlalo (a memorial stone) on the grave and arranges tea. The visitors offer money to the bereaved family as a gesture of help. To sum up, this chapter compares the social structure, both past and present, of the Maras with that of the Luseis. Such an exercise is necessary for two reasons: first, as Lusheis, Mara and Lai are all Kuki–Chin tribes, they have many socio-cultural features in common; second, ‘the field’ for the purposes of the present study is formed not by Maras alone but by the Luseis, Lai and other tribal communities too. However, no such account exists for the Lai, another major community inhabiting the area.

Notes 1. Chemsen bawi were criminals, who fearing punishment, took refuge in the chiefs’ house. 2. Inpuichhung bawi were slaves who driven by poverty and destitution, took refuge in the house of the chief. In return, they performed household chores and worked in his jhum.


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Education: A Historical Journey This chapter traces the emergence and development of education. It draws largely upon The Lakher Pioneer, the official newsletter of the Christian Mission. Relevant to the historical development of education in pre-British Mara society is the society’s approach to children and what constitutes childhood. However, any such account is constrained by lack of documentary evidence such as written records. Nevertheless, this chapter presents a picture of Mara childhood and the socialisation of children, before tracing the history of educational developments in Mara society. The system of formal education, as we know it today, was entirely unknown in pre-British Mara society. Yet, as Margaret Mead asserts apart from formal education, there are certain other processes too by which tribal societies ‘transmit their standardised habit patterns’ to their children (1973: iii). In this sense, the children received informal training in those tasks that were to become their adult roles in later life. Young girls were inducted into the fold of household chores from the age of seven or eight, helping their mothers to fetch water in bamboo tubes from the tikho, water spring, to winnow cotton and to cook. They also carried their younger siblings on their backs. The boys were expected to assist their fathers in cutting the jhums. A brief account of childhood in Mara society as noted by the pioneer missionary goes thus: There is almost no childlife for these primitive people. As soon as they are able to toddle, they learn to carry a basket, the weight of which is added to as time goes on, by the addition of a cucumber and so forth, until the child reaches the age of five or six years, when he or she has to start life in real earnest by fetching water and wood or in helping to carry vegetables from the cultivations according to their strength; and the result is, that all the children bear what is known as ‘The old man look’ (Lorrain 1988: 139).

The special care and concern for children, especially in the event of raids notwithstanding, not much social control was exercised

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over them. Those who have chronicled this phase of the Mara society have widely commented on the weak discipline among children (Shakespear 1988; Lorrain 1988; Parry 1976). These authors point out that children could be invariably spotted around the village entirely uncontrolled. If a child was injured in a fight with another child, no punishment was inflicted on the errant child and parental interference and beating of the child other than one’s own was considered disgraceful. Such an interference was even punishable by the villagers. The Mara custom, in this regard, was to leave the children to fight it out on their own. R. A. Lorrain, the pioneer missionary among the Maras, in the eleventh occasional letter of the Lakher Pioneer Mission, emphasises: One of the most difficult things to teach is obedience, for from their very earliest infancy, the Lakher children are allowed their own free will in everything and, above all, they are never made to obey (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1910).

Among the Lusheis, the lack of familial control was compensated by the presence of zawlbuk (the youth dormitory). The zawlbuk occupied centrality not only with regard to the village affairs but also with regard to the disciplining of young minds in consonance with tlawmngaihna (the moral code of conduct). Tlawmngaihna prescribed courtesy, consideration, selflessness, courage, and industry. It encompassed all aspects of life and manifested itself in various ways such as the care of the crop of the sick and infirm by those who were strong and able bodied; weeding of the chief’s jhums as a mark of respect; rebuilding of houses accidently burnt; and providing a sense of security to the village folk. In short, a good citizen was one who was foremost in attending to calls essential for the good of the entire village. Tlawmngaihna was thus a codification of the spirit of goodwill and cooperation. Each Lushei village had a zawlbuk which was centrally and prominently located near the chief’s house and it performed numerous functions. For instance, it served as an entertainment hub for young boys who sang songs, narrated stories and cracked jokes. It was also a rest house for weary travellers and a sleeping place for its inmates. The zawlbuk was also a vital agency for village security in the face of an attack by an enemy or wild animals and finally

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and most importantly, it disciplined the youth according to the tlawmngaihna. No woman, young or old, could visit the zawlbuk. The zawlbuk had its own organisational set up and there were two kinds of members — the thingfawm naupang (the junior members) and tlangval (the senior members). The thingfawm naupang were those who had not yet attained puberty, while the tlangval were those who had attained puberty. The zawlbuk was headed by the valupa under whom were the tlangvalupas (the head of the senior group) and thingfawm hotu (the head of the junior group). The thingfawm naupang supplied firewood to the zawlbuk. They ceased to sleep in their parents’ house and joined the seniors in the zawlbuk after they attained puberty provided they passed a test in which the valupa of the zawlbuk or the tlangvalupas would pull out the longest hair from the pubic region of the candidate and examine whether it could be circled round a bamboo pipe of established dimension. If it did, the candidate was admitted to the zawlbuk. A. G. McCall, the Superintendent of the Lushai Hills (1931–1943) writes: The zawlbuk was run on a system not unlike that in vogue in public schools, in that Monitors were appointed who disciplined the young from the time they first joined. The Monitors had the right of punishment in the case of failure to perform the common daily tasks of collecting firewood, storing water or meeting calls for assistance to the public (1977: 97).

To sum up, it would not be an exaggeration to say that it was in the zawlbuk. that young inmates learnt their practical lessons in tlawmngaihna, community living and good citizenship. The Mara, however, had neither the zawlbuk nor the tlawmngaihna. They were similar to the Thadou Kukis among whom young boys slept in the homes of young girls. The absence of any institutional arrangement for the training and disciplining of children and youth had implications for socialisation. In this context, Parry notes: The Lakhers have no bachelors’ house. Bachelors do not sleep in their parents’ houses, nor even, as among the Paites, in the verandah of the chiefs house, but in the house of the girl, they happen to prefer at the moment[…]. This arrangement is not conducive to morality, and has the further disadvantage that the boys lose the disciplinary training of the bachelor’s house (1976: 247).

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Nevertheless, even in such circumstances, the Mara subscribed to their customs. As they were less amenable to any external influences, vices and immorality were kept at a safe distance. The optimism of R. A. Lorrain about the Mara is evident when he remarks: ‘Their morals run high, and there is great hope that with the advent of Christianity amongst them, they may speedily become a highly moral race of men and women which will be an honour to Christendom at large.’ (1988: 155).

Games and Amusements Any discussion about childhood would be incomplete without the mention of the games and amusements prevalent among children. Apart from providing insights into childhood, these games and amusements also give us a glimpse of the society and culture of the people. Most of these games are played in the contemporary times too (see Figure 3.1). A brief account of these is presented here. Sialycha, popularly called the bean game, was one of the most popular games played by both boys and girls. It was played with the seeds of a large creeper bean (Entada scandens) about one and a half inch in diameter. There could be unlimited number of players. First of all, tossing was done by rubbing one side of the two beans with dirt, holding them together and dropping them on the ground. The player whose bean fell with the clean side up would win the toss and start playing. A base and goal line were drawn on the ground. On the goal line, a bean was placed and the aim of the players was to hit this bean with their own bean, the first move being called tita. The bean was bowled along as near as possible to the goal bean. When it came to rest, the player could advance one span towards the goal line. From here, he flicked his bean at the goal bean. If the goal bean was knocked, he continued to play. If he failed, then one of the other players got a turn. The bean had to be flicked successively with each finger of the hand and then with the thumb, the moves being called kadam, liapyu, pazon, and kupi. After the completion of this, the player had to hop on his right leg and kick the bean along with his big toe, aiming at the goal bean when he was near it. This move was called charo. The third move was laki, when the bean was placed between the big and first toes and the player hopped towards the goal. This being over, the bean was placed on various parts of the body and dropped off from them towards the goal, pursued and caught before it crossed the

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Figure 3.1. Life is all about improvisation: On the ‘motor’ (Mizotawlailir) Source: Courtesy of the author.

boundary, and thrown at the goal bean from the point at which it was caught. The first drop was from the right shoulder and was known as nyatla. The next drop was from between the chin and the neck, and was called roha. The next move was called phuhlu when the bean was spat from between the lips. In the next drop, hnabu, the bean was dropped from the bridge of the nose. In the subsequent moves — mankho, baibai, khipa, hnaula and pakhei — the bean

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was dropped from the right eye, the right ear, from the top of the forehead and finally twice from the nape of the neck respectively. A full game was called dokha. Zizapuapa, the swings, were very popular among children of both sexes. The swing used to be made of a long coil of ari cane (Calamus erectus) with a loop at the end in which to sit, and this was slung from a bough of some tall tree. Maitano (dolls) were the favourite of small girls, as they are in the rest of the world. They played with indigenous dolls made of clay, hair made of black thread, dressed as men and women. Marriages of the maitano were arranged with marriage price of gongs and pots made of clay. The small girls, treating the dolls as real people, tended to them in illness, just as real parents would. Like their other counterparts in the world, Mara boys never played with dolls. They built model houses, animal traps, went to shoot small birds with the cheisia (pellet bow), stalked flies with their buchahmo (blow pipes), and attacked strangers with their Phailapa (pop guns). The round fruit of a creeper called sabipa was used as bullets. The cheisia was one of the very common and popular possessions of boys. Every boy and also grown up men invariably had a cheisia. Pheasants and jungle fowls were knocked with pellet bow. The bow consisted of a stave, cheisiabaw, of either rasang bamboo (Bambusa tulda) or of rahniapa bamboo (Dendrocalamus hookeri). It was about three feet long. The string was made of ari cane or of the bamboos mentioned above and was known as cheisiari and attached at each end by a special knot called cheisiaripasi. The pellets were made of red clay thrown up by termites, which was pounded, mixed with water, rolled into shape with hands and laid out in the sun to dry. Masia-a-cha (elephant hunting) was another game played by boys where five boys dressed up like elephants and five others dressed up as hunters. Bachnawpa was like an imitation of war which required five to 15 players. A human chain was formed by the players holding hands. A child stood in the middle and broke the ring with a blow of his hand. As soon as this was done, all children ran off and were pursued by the child in the middle. Whoever reached a tree was considered as safe, and the rest were supposed to have been killed as in war and were out of the game. The game continued till the pursuer child had caught them all. Apiapa (wrestling) and chholothyupa putting the weight were the favourite games for young men, though the enthusiasm for them

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was much less among the Maras than the Lushais. Wrestling was a routine event in the Lushai zawlbuk. As the things stood, there was less sense of competition and a lesser interest in games and sports among the Maras. The rules of the game were different too as a Mara wrestler aimed to throw his opponent, rather than merely lifting him off the ground as was the case with Lushai wrestling. Wrestling was not a routine game for the Maras but competitions were held on occasions like wedding, and visits of young men of other villages. Chholothyupa was like the discus throw in which a large round stone was used and the one who threw furthest won. It was a popular game and inter-village competitions were also held.

Emergence and Development of Formal Education The process of socialisation through games gives us an idea of childhood in pre-British Mara society. An assessment of what existed earlier is significant to understand the changes brought about by the introduction of formal education. In this section, I shall dwell upon the emergence and development of formal education in Mara society consequent upon the introduction of British rule. As mentioned in Chapter 2, the Mara hills were annexed by the British in 1930, about 40 years later than the Lushai hills. Till then, they were an unadministered tract giving the British authorities a difficult time. Although the British government entered the scene later, the Lakher Pioneer Mission had already been functioning since 1907 in the Mara hills. Before I come to a detailed discussion of the development of education in the Mara hills which grew simultaneously with Christianity, it is useful to first examine the beginning of missionary activities in India and also in North-East India in general. This would enable us to have a bird’s eye view of the entire situation and to put things in their logical perspective. The missionaries had started entering India as early as the last quarter of the sixteenth century during the reign of Akbar. These were Portuguese Jesuits who were granted a firman in 1579, permitting them to preach in Mughal territory. The next phase of missionary activity was in Bengal in mid-eighteenth century by the Protestant missions in Calcutta (now Kolkata) and the Moravians at Serampore. It was due to the efforts of missionaries that English education made headway in India. The East India Company, being

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a commercial enterprise, was reluctant to spend any more on the natives than was necessary, while the British government made only sporadic interventions in education. Anticipating a hostile reaction from the Indians, both were also apprehensive of the proselytisation efforts of the missionaries. As a result, permission for missionary work in the British controlled territories was consistently denied by the British Parliament. The missionaries persisted in their efforts and later, British authorities not only permitted but also encouraged their activities as long as they refrained from direct proselytisation. By the last decade of the eighteenth century, missionaries invoked a strong belief in Britain’s role to carry the fruits of European progress and civilization to its colonies. Although there were intermittent efforts by the missionaries in this direction, the real dent was made only after the arrival of William Carey, a Baptist missionary, in Calcutta in 1793. Subsequently, it was with the passing of the Charter Act of 1813 that the British government assumed direct responsibility for the welfare of its subjects. This Act also legalised missionary activity in India, subject to certain checks to be exercised by the government, and spurred the efforts of the missionaries to educate the natives. The entry of the British in northeastern India was a consequence of the Treaty of Yandabo with the Burmese in 1826. The significance of this Treaty for northeastern India cannot but be over emphasised, for it was for the first time that this region was linked politically to the major Indian power, i.e., the British. However, it was in 1842 that the East India Company assumed the responsibility of directly administering the whole of Brahmaputra valley. The real interest behind this move was to enter China both for trade and evangelism. The Chinese emperors were apprehensive of the designs of the Company due to the pernicious opium export and the consequent drain of silver from China. They also suspected the missionaries to be the collaborators of foreign merchants. The Chinese emperors therefore strongly opposed the missionaries. It was only in 1834, after the publication of a book entitled Journal of Two Voyages Along the Coast of China by Charles Gutzlaff, a missionary, that the enthusiasm about the prospects of establishing a mission in China gained momentum. The American Baptists, through their Shan mission in upper Burma, aimed to achieve this target.

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In the meantime, the tea plant was discovered (1823–1832) in areas around Sadiya from the possession of Khamptis and Singphos who were regarded as kins of Shans in upper Burma. C. A. Bruce, a trader who had discovered the tea plant, was made the officer-incharge of the experimental tea garden set up at Sadiya. He invited the Serampore missionaries in Calcutta through the Commissioner and the Company officials to work among the Shans in India. The Serampore mission, in turn, suggested that the American Baptists in Burma be requested as the latter already had a close knowledge of the Shans in Burma. As a consequence, N. Brown was sent from Burma to start mission work at Sadiya in 1836. For Bruce, the concern was to pacify the turbulent people who possessed tea plants. Thereafter, the Ahom ruler was deposed and the territory was taken over in 1842. Bronson, another missionary, was sent to work among Singphos in 1837. As he found the Singphos difficult to deal with, Bronson moved to Nowgong in Assam in 1841. The name Shan mission was abandoned and the project was renamed as Assam mission. This was first, due to the realisation that the plant could be profitably grown in the bordering Assam plains; second, due to tension in America, resulting in the Civil War in 1861; and third, due the first Opium War in China between 1839–1842, the impetus for the China mission was lost. The war was fought to compel the Chinese to buy Indian opium against their will. With regard to the North-East, the British had no immediate political interests as there was not much scope for revenue generation due to the hilly terrain. The immediate aim of the British was to ensure security and stability in the region. The Naga hills were annexed in 1866; the Garo hills in 1869 and formed into a separate district; the Mizo hills in 1890; and Manipur came under direct British administration in 1891. Thereafter, missionary activities were started to pacify and ‘civilise’ the war-like tribes and to extend the ‘Kingdom of God’. The missionaries found a fertile ground for evangelistic activities as the tribes, with the exception of Manipuris, were as yet untouched by Hinduism. For the purpose of convenience, I delineate three phases in the development of education in the Mara society. This delineation, albeit arbitrary, takes into account the growth and consolidation of the church and education for they grew almost hand in hand. This was so, as in Mizoram, the British Government from the beginning, delegated the task of imparting education to the missions.

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The missions therefore became the official educationists in addition to their primary commitment of evangelisation. a) The fledgling start (1908–1914). b) The middle phase (1915–1930). c) The phase of consolidation (1931–1948).

The Fledgling Start (1908–1914) Before I describe the introduction of formal education, it is worthwhile to understand the conditions under which the Lakher Pioneer Mission was born. The Lakher Pioneer Mission was founded on February 1905 in England in response to a divine call to R. A. Lorrain, the younger brother of Reverend J. H. Lorrain, pioneer missionary to the Lushai hills. When R. A. Lorrain was on the lookout for a suitable mission field, he came to know about the need of the Abors in India for a missionary. His elder brother had already been working among them till the Baptist Missionary Society (BMS) asked him to return to the Lushai area in 1903. J. H. Lorrain accordingly shifted, but this time to the south Lushai hills and set up a mission station at Serkawn, Lungleh. However, the American Baptist Missionary Society (ABMS) had, in the meantime, taken over the Abor area. The option of the Abor area being closed, R. A. Lorrain was informed of the Lakher (Mara) by his brother. After his request was turned down by several missionary societies, including the Arthington Mission, R. A. Lorrain started for the Mara hills on his own on 18 January 1907 along with his wife. He reached the Saikao (Mizo: Serkawr) village on 27 September 1907. It was here that the mission station for the Maras was established. Within six months of their stay in Maraland, the missionaries started a school in March 1908 with four Lushai boys as no Mara was prepared to enter the portals of the school at the time. These four later increased to 11. They were either Lushai, Chin or Lai. The students were taught to read and write in the Lushai language. They were ostensibly taken in so that they could ‘act as a lever in drawing some Lakher children’ (Lorrain 1988: 223). After two and a half months of training, all the students left for their native places. By the time they left, all were able to read and write in the Lushai language and could also read their gospel at a slow speed. Barely two days after the departure of the students, the missionaries were approached by Mawkha and Laihno, two Mara boys

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from Siaha village. Both, in their 20s, expressed a desire to read and write in the Mara language. The missionaries eagerly took them in, as ‘that was exactly what (they) had been praying for’ (Lorrain 1988: 223). Mawkha and Laihno were provided with food and they learnt to read and write in the Mara language within a week. However, in the absence of a school building (necessitating classes to be held in the verandah) and due to the impending rainy season and a sense of loneliness, the boys expressed their desire to return to their village. After few weeks, they came to the mission station again with a friend. In the meantime, government officials at Lungleh (now Lunglei) and Aijal (now Aizawl) offered native porters to build a new school building. As a result of these efforts, the first school building was constructed between the mission station and the village, which was to be used both as a school and a church. Two huts were also constructed to provide lodging to the students. Once the construction of the school building was over, the school was restarted with six boys, later increasing to 11. After giving them some training in the singing of hymns and prayers for three months, the school was closed down for 10 and a half months due to paucity of funds. As the Lakher Pioneer Mission was financially dependent on the contributions of friends and relatives back in England, repeated appeals were made to them through the official letter of the Lakher Pioneer Mission titled Notes from Lakherland (later called The Lakher Pioneer). All these appeals however did not yield any result. Another important factor for the closure of the school was that its routine clashed with the agricultural cycle. R. A. Lorrain had problems in retaining the students in the school as is evident from his following statement: It is impossible at the present time to get any Lakher boy to promise to stay a year at a time at school. Circumstances, we find, will not allow them to do so for they have their farms to cut, put in rice, harvest the same, and it will not be until they realize the benefit of being able to read and write, that we shall be able to get them for the whole year continuously. It must be remembered that we are among an uncivilized people who much prefer to sit and do nothing, as soon as their necessary work is finished rather than trouble about reading and writing. At the present, however, we are glad to be able to get them for three months at a time (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1909: 80).

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During the period that the school was closed, the missionaries learnt the Mara language and also translated the Bible in that language. They viewed the closure of the school as a ‘benefit’ for their aim was not only to ‘teach the boys to read and write’ and impart ‘Christian teaching’, but also to translate the ‘word of God’ in Lakher tongue at the earliest. The school once again opened in September 1909 with four Mara boys, out of whom three were former students. Their number later increased to 16 towards the end of the year. The medium of instruction was Mara language. The school was later closed for Christmas break. In February 1910, the school reopened with 13 boys, whose number by the end of the year increased to 22. After a staggering start in March 1908, the school started gaining some firm footing and stability with more and more students expressing their desire for inclusion. For its finances however, the school was still dependent on contributions of friends back in England with ‘support a school boy’ plan. One of the former students of the mission school, Riato, wrote a letter to R. A. Lorrain (addressed as Tlosai paw i.e., the father of Tlosai, according to the practice of teknonymy in Mara society). This letter is expressive of the eagerness of Maras for education and the Gospel. Riato was the son of an influential chief of Tisopi village. Reproduced here is the English translation of the letter. Sherkor Village, Lakherland Dec. 20, 1909 Sir, I sincerely hope that you are keeping in good health at this time. For all the help your friends are giving us boys, in order that we may be able to read and write in our own language, we are truly thankful. When I first came to school, I knew nothing at all, now I can read and write, and I must thank my friends in England for giving me support month by month while at school. When there is a book in the Lakher language for us to read we shall be glad and when by God’s grace and your word we have God’s word in our own language, so that we can understand it, we shall be very pleased.

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This letter is very bad, but I have only been at school a short time, so please excuse it. Ever your scholar, RIA-TO Ti-so-pi-Village Lakherland To, Tlosai Paw Sai-KaoKhi The content of education imparted by the mission was ‘to know God and his ‘wonderful love’ and to ‘daily come under the influence of Christian teaching’ (10th Occasional letter, the Lakher Pioneer Mission). The children received instruction in the three Rs. About the daily routine of the school boys, R. A. Lorrain writes: The boys are taught to do an hour’s work in the early morning, and this consists of cutting down weeds etc. around the buildings and in keeping the compound in good order. At 9.00 am, they enter school until 12.00 noon, then they have until 1.00 pm. to play about, and from 1.00 pm to 4.00 pm, they are in school again. After 4.00 pm, they fetch their water and wood to cook their food, which consists of rice and salt, and then for about an hour after sunset, they sit around their fire singing the hymns in Lakher which they have learnt in school (10th Occasional letter, The Lakher Pioneer).

The mission work could be said to be gaining ground in other respects too. Christianity got its first convert, 12-year-old Thytu in September 1910, three years after the mission station was established. Chiahu, another school boy, followed soon after in March 1911. In 1911, the first book in the Mara language, the Krizhypa Hla bu (the hymn book) was also published. The Maras now started looking upon the missionaries as friends. In the initial years, the missionaries were the objects of suspicion as they were considered to be connected with the government. The birth of Tlosai, daughter of the missionaries and the first white child to be born in Maraland, was the real turning point. This was ‘to seal the friendship’ (Lorrain 1988: 243) of the Maras with the missionaries forever.

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People from all villages came over with little gifts of bananas, cucumbers and eggplant for ‘the child to play with’ (Lorrain 1988: 245). They conferred on her the name Tlosai Zua No (The Lakher Princess) which she was to bear throughout her life. Henceforth, R. A. Lorrain and his wife were to be known as Tlosai paw (father of Tlosai) and Tlosai No (mother of Tlosai) respectively. R. A. Lorrain, expressing his views on this event, noted that prior to Tlosai’s birth the Mara people saw the missionaries as ‘differing from themselves’ due to the aura of white skin but now, started perceiving them as ‘human’ (ibid.). The missionaries assigned a lot of importance to school work. This is evident in the following remark of R. A. Lorrain. The work of the school is the backbone of the Mission. In it, we have our hope of reaching every tribe throughout the Lakher country. Through it we have the hope of winning numbers of souls for Christ (1988: 235)

The missionary work was on the whole considered as strengthening the British rule and as a civilizing agent. This is made clear by the following assertion of J. W. Macdonald, Honorary Treasurer of the Lakher Pioneer Mission: Mr. Lorrain’s work has not only a religious side, but also a distinctively Imperial and civilizing aspect. It is a great thing to have a substantial Mission Station built in wild hill country, where it can be a centre of gospel light and a civilizing agent, wielding a great power for righteousness, order and decency of life, upon a people who are sunk in degradation and darkness (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1914).

Sometime later, evaluating the work of the mission in 1918, R. A. Lorrain wrote in a comparatively specific expression: The school work has been one of the great factors in the work for it has not only taught the savage to read and write, but it has taught him to wash and use soap and water — an art that was very foreign to him ten years ago. The daily bath down at the stream and the weekly washing of his wardrobe has helped him to lift himself up, and it is quite easy to pick out those that have been influenced by the Mission against those who hold themselves aloof (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1918a).

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The approach to schooling was that of the asylum whereby the students stayed in the boarding house, separated both physically and socially from their native community. These schools were in Goffman’s words, ‘total institutions’.1 To show a sharp contrast, the missionaries termed the ways of the Mara tribe as ‘strongholds of devil’, ‘fortresses of darkness’, ‘strongholds of Satan’ and the people as ‘savages’, ‘headhunters’, ‘copper coloured natives’ and ‘brown heads’. These notions were juxtaposed against the contrasting notions of ‘the power of the gospel of Jesus Christ’, the Bible as ‘the wonderful story of Salvation’ and Christ as the ‘Saviour’ and ‘Master’ who would redeem them of their ‘sins of head hunting’ and ‘devil appeasing worship’. The school boys were required to chop off their long hair on entering the school. They were also supposed to ‘daily come under the influence of Christian teaching’. A combined service-cum-singing class was held on every Wednesday evening and Sunday School was organised followed by an afternoon meeting. Another open-air meeting was conducted in the village where the school boys sang hymns and prayers in which the audience were the villagers who gathered to listen to the Gospel message. The entire school effort was designed to dissociate the inmates from their own native community. It was in this sense that the school was ‘an alien institution’, to use Kelly and Altbach’s (1978) term. Though this applied to all colonial schools, it was in the case of schools run for the tribes that the word school ‘took’ a highly accentuated form of ‘an alien institution’ as the world of the ‘enlightened outsider’ was in complete contrast to the ‘morally deficient world of the native’ (Krishna Kumar 1991). It was but natural that this ‘morally deficient world of the native’ could not form the basis for education. It was therefore considered appropriate for the ‘enlightened outsider’ to shape the ‘colonial citizen’ in his own mould (ibid.). In this context, let me familiarise the reader about the views of N. E. Parry, the Superintendent of the Lushai hills (1924–28), regarding the work of the mission among Lushei, with a simultaneous desire to guide the mission among the Maras. Though largely supportive of the Mission, he was critical of the rapid changes being brought about on a mass scale in the native society and the shaping of the ‘colonial citizen’ which these changes purported to do: The Lakher Mission, has an object lesson at its doors showing the need for discrimination. It is unfortunately easier to destroy customs

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wholesale than to preserve and improve them, and among the Lusheis destruction, admittedly with the best intentions, has wreaked havoc. When mission work was first started among the Lusheis, it was carried on largely by the light of nature, without training and without knowledge of the customs of the people. This led to the condemnation as heathen and useless of some most excellent customs, which no one who had studied them could have failed to wish to preserve… Through lack of knowledge, therefore, excellent customs which would have greatly strengthened the Church, while at the same time keeping it Lushei and averting denationalization, were left unused, and actually discouraged. Mission influence therefore has been largely destructive, good customs having been destroyed and not replaced; at the same time, it is curious to see attempts on the part of the Lushei Church elders to arrogate to themselves temporal power at the expense of the chiefs. Such encroachments deserve short shrift. They are only made possible through ignorance and failure on the part of the heads of the Church to realise the importance of respecting Lushei customs. Is it too much to ask, therefore, that all missionaries should receive some training atleast in anthropology, before being sent out to try their prentice hands on a primitive people? There are signs now that better training is being given by some missions, but no one in future should be allowed to become a missionary, by the light of nature; missionary work requires training like any other work (Parry 1976: 22–23).

With these words, Parry aimed to caution the Lakher Pioneer Mission to proceed on sensible lines as missionaries deal with the ‘minds and thoughts’ of the converts. What he termed ‘denationalisation’ was all-encompassive and dealt a severe blow to the indigenous society and culture — be it dress, hair style, life cycle rituals, feasts and sacrifices, festivals, songs, dances, ornaments, and general habits. From 1911, the Mission started on a new plan of sending four school boys on a two-month holiday at a time, while simultaneously continuing with the school. This served many purposes: First, the funds at the command of the missionaries being low, the needs of the other students could be better taken care of; second, the school, which hitherto faced intermittent closure due to paucity of funds, could now work on a sustained basis; third, and most significantly, when on a holiday, the school boys could go ‘as fore-runners of the Gospel of Jesus Christ’ and be ‘unconscious missionaries’ narrating the story of Jesus to the people of their villages (Lorrain 1988: 251).

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The government also started giving a grant-in-aid for four boys in a year. The remaining finances had to be managed by the mission itself but it was perennially short of funds. With the basic purpose of evangelisation and beset with financial constraints, these ‘schools in the bush’ were run as charity schools much like their counterparts in Europe, getting contributions in the form of ‘empty bottles, tins, pencil boxes and the cast off rags of Europe’ (Parry 1976; Kelly and Altbach 1978). On the whole, the Mara took to ‘education’ quite keenly. They started considering Jesus as their new chief and displayed eagerness to see his pictures.

The Middle Phase (1915î1930) In this phase, the church evolved into its own and missionary education started taking shape. It was marked by the spread of Christianity, the opening of branch schools and initial efforts towards female education. At Saiha village, a branch school was opened with 15 students at the request of the villagers in 1915. Another such school was opened in the same year at Tisi village. All students in the mission school and the branch schools were male including a boy from Heima from across the border. From the perspective of the missionaries these branch schools, like the main school, were effective agents to spread Christianity, which is clear in the following statement made by R. A. Lorrain: ‘I have come to the conclusion that to start these Branch Schools, wherever they need them, is the very thing to lodge the Gospel in that village’ (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1914). By the end of 1916, the number of school boys increased to 62. Out of these, 38 were in the station school and 24 in the branch schools. These schools were instrumental in winning a number of Christians. The figures displayed a four-fold increase from 12 Christians in 1915 to 45 in 1916. However, even after a decade of missionary work in the Mara hills, no woman had converted to Christianity. The women were the forebearers of tradition and were considered as formidable barriers in the spread of Christianity. In order to break the ice, the mission started sewing classes with 12 students at the end of 1916. R. A. Lorrain’s views on the matter found expression in The Lakher Pioneer: ‘The Lakher women are far more antagonistic than the men; they are the hardest to reach

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and to touch. Mrs. Lorrain’s work among the women is, therefore, of supreme importance’ (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1918b). In 1917, the number of girls in the sewing classes increased to 22. Along with school work, evangelical work also received momentum. The first Mara child was dedicated in the church in 1917, after a year of the first Christian marriage. This boy was named Ramo (the seeker of the new country) by the missionaries. The spread of education however received some mild setback due to the First World War. There was a rumour that the government was to send all who could read and write as porters to France. As a consequence, a few school boys absconded and started a little mutiny. This notwithstanding, school work received some encouragement by the compilation of three books — the first attempt of the mission in the direction of curriculum formation. Two of these books were on arithmetic, containing sums on addition, substraction, multiplication and division of money, profit and loss, simple interest and accounting. The third was a book on geography containing information on general geography, continents, oceans and countries. In the following year, the conduct of the school boys became a little steady but they continued to pose problems of indiscipline and defiance for the missionaries. R. A. Lorrain points out: The boys however have been rather trying from time to time, as we have had one or two amongst them who are not of the best character and when this happens, they generally spoil the rest. In the English schools, such boys would get the worst of it and get it knocked out of them, but not so amongst these people, one boy will carry all the others with him, even though this boy be one of the youngest, and at such times, they almost get out of control (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1926: 3).

Besides indiscipline, poor attendance was another problem at the school, at Sunday Services and also the Sunday Schools. To tackle this for instance, the missionaries made it mandatory for girls to attend the Sunday School as a precondition for attending the sewing classes. This clearly shows that though the ‘stubborn’ Mara women wished to attend the sewing classes, they had to be induced to attend the Sunday School. Before the girls’ school could be opened in 1929, some headway had already been made by virtue of the sewing class. The pioneer missionary therefore noted:

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The fact that ‘the female persuasion’ are now trying to learn the art of reading and writing, bids fair to show that the work for Christ will penetrate their hearts in the near future. The women have always held aloof probably due to men not allowing them too much freedom — but those days are passing, and we believe that the result of the sewing class that Mrs. Lorrain has carried on for years is now starting to bear fruit, in a substantial way which is very encouraging (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1922: 14).

The girls school was finally started in 1929, with 10 students. It was a day school, and was open for four days in a week. It was proposed to make it a boarding school too, much like the boys school. The rationale provided for this future blueprint of action was that ‘then one gets a better chance of dealing more definitely with the life of the girls, cutting them off from many snares that lie in their way, which are a hindrance to their spiritual growth’ (The Lakher Mission 1929). The content of teaching in the girls school was ‘reading, writing and a […] little arithmetic’ to make them wise in money matters and everyday life. They were also taught hymns to enable them to join in the church services. Each girl who could read was rewarded with a New Testament in Mara language. In the meantime, it was planned to hold classes for boys in carpentry and book binding ‘to lift up the people’ and to ‘give them something better to think about than beer pot’ (ibid.). Despite the fact that the government continued to provide grantsin-aid for six boys and extended help to the mission in numerous other ways, there was friction too between them occasionally. This posed problems for the work pertaining to school. In the Annual Report for 1930, it was noted that ‘the school work has continued throughout in spite of the determined attempt to overthrow it’. The reference here was to some government officials who were hostile to the way the mission worked. The number of boarders decreased from 70 in the beginning of the year to 19 at the end of the year. But the number of girls continued to show an increase from 10 to 25 at the year end. The sewing classes were the main catalyst behind the increase.

The Phase of Consolidation (1931î1948) This phase was marked by the strengthening of church and the girls school in the initial years. However, it ended with the final shifting of education from the control of church to the government control.

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Christianity and education progressed hand in hand. There was a dramatic increase in the numbers at the girls school from 2,319 in 1930 to 15,557 in 1933. But the number of boys decreased from a high of 4,505 in 1930 to 2,935 in 1933. The popularity of the sewing class soared with large number of women waiting to replace those who may be leaving, as the number got too big for all to be taken in at once. In 1930, 535 attended the sewing classes while in 1933, the number of women attending these increased to 989. The Louisa Lorrain Memorial Press, which was the mission printing press, was used not only to print material for the church but also to print the school primer and other school textbooks. There was a simultaneous growth of Christianity. The evangelists, known as the Kraws Pheisai (soldiers of the cross) noted the following in a rather enthusiastic vein in one of their monthly diaries: Day by day, we see Old Lakherland passing away and giving place to the New Lakherland. From North to South from East to West, they are coming in, and the most precious and sacred things that a Lakher has are now being brought out and burned before the face of all to show that the family has finished with Devil worship... These most precious and sacred things are called Khothlahba, and consist of all household goods and sacrificial implements (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1933).

This was however one side of the coin. Along with the progress of Christianity, there was opposition to it too and the missionaries had to adopt several measures to allure people towards Christianity and the school. They exhibited strong persistence, using audio and visual aids like the Magic Lantern, showing pictures of Jesus ‘to bring home the truth of the Gospel through the eye gate’, conducting Sunday Schools, holding the Monthly Socials and undertaking regular and intensive tours to attract people. These efforts notwithstanding, some resisted the Gospel and school till their life’s end. R. A. Lorrain therefore noted, ‘Some have remained very obdurate and as far as we know have refused to accept the Gospel to their dying day’ (ibid.). Simultaneously with attracting people towards the Gospel, the missionaries also taught the tribal folk to be subservient to the British Raj. Through the celebration of events such as the Coronation Day, the idea of the supremacy of the British was imprinted firmly on the minds of people including school children. This led to the

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formation of the ‘colonial citizen’, not only with respect to overt habits and behaviour but also covert mentality. It does not take much to imagine the gulf created by the transplantation of a completely alien culture and its ethos on a predominantly tribal society. The Lakher Pioneer points out: The Coronation Day was a notable one for all the children and grown ups. The children had flags and formed processions, singing hymns and marching to the Church, where we held a service with the flags of our beloved country arranged in front. After the service, the flags were given to each in order, and with singing, the procession was pressed forward through the compound to the site of the new Bungalow[…]. Children sang suitable hymns holding a Union Jack (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1938).

After 1940, the medical work, school work and evangelising efforts of the missionaries were affected by the vagaries of the war, fear of the enemy, or demand for higher wages. Some even left due to scarcity of food. The schools were closed too owing to the shortage of labour and food. After the World War was over and as the Indian national movement drew to a close in 1947, it became imminent that soon India was to become a free country. With this came changes in the field of education with the Indian Government set to take over all schools, which it finally did in 1948. Major shifts marked this takeover, especially as far as the medium of instruction was concerned because Mara language was not to be used in them. A. Bruce Lorrain Foxall, the missionary among the Mara after the death of R. A. Lorrain, expressed hope thus: Perhaps when the printing of the Lakher Dictionary is finally completed, the Government will change its view of the matter. We feel it is a great pity that the Lakhers should have to learn in a language that is not their own and which is only used in the Lushai Hills. (The Lakher Pioneer Mission 1949).

Though Lushai (now Mizo) was the medium of instruction in the schools, yet there was a demand for Lakher (Mara) primers in the villages. Besides, Mara was the medium of instruction in the adult literacy and non-formal education classes started by the government. To conclude, it can be said that the relationship between colonialism and education was a complex one. The educational

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endeavours of the missionaries were geared to produce the ‘colonial citizen’ (Kelly and Altbach 1978; Krishna Kumar 1989, 1991). The role of the Christian missions in education can be best understood in the context of the Orientalist–Anglicist debate. The aim of the Orientalists was the intellectual regeneration of India and the reconstruction of the glorious Indian past. The Orientalists described the then current state of the Indians as a fall from glory. Orientalism essentially adopted a policy of ‘reconciling the people of England to the nature of Hindoostan’. Anglicists on the contrary equated India with Hindu and saw the Hindus as innately depraved and corrupt by nature. The Anglicists among the administrators and most of the missionaries had nothing but contempt for the knowledge and way of life of the Indians. Writers like Charles Grant were amongst the first to argue for British intervention in Indian education. Through his pamphlet Observations on the State of Society Among our Asiatic Subjects Grant (1792) attempted to awaken Britain to its moral responsibility towards the Indians. According to him, what was needed was the introduction of the ‘superior lights’ of the West and also its religion. Grant in fact summed up the political and moral imperatives of the educational enterprise, i.e., the need to shape an Indian subject who would appreciate the benefits of British rule. By the last decade of the eighteenth century, missionaries invoked a strong belief in Britain’s role to carry the fruits of European progress and civilization to its colonies. For them, it was reminiscent of the old war between enlightened Christianity and the ‘dark’ Middle Ages. Now, it was the turn of the barbaric East. For the missionaries, Christianisation was synonymous with progress and education was a precondition for conversion. It must be noted here that though the Orientalist and Anglicist narratives were conflicting, both fed into the colonial project of ‘domesticating the Orient’. This helped to articulate Britain’s mission to assume responsibility for civilising the natives. The emergence of the colonial citizen, especially in the tribal society of which Mara are an example, shows the cleavages that arose in the indigenous society by virtue of the impact of the ‘alien’ institution of the school. The wholesale condemnation of the indigenous tribal customs by the missionaries and ‘denationalisation’, on the one hand, and the superimposition of an ostensibly superior culture of the ‘enlightened outsider’, on the other, led in due course to the formation of the

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colonial citizen. This citizen, cut off from his/her own society, was contemptuous of native ways and customs, similar to what Judith E. Walsh (2003) has found in her recent study.2 Such a citizen was a quaint mix, no longer a part of native society nor an integral part of the new society. He was a peripheral and marginal citizen who, though modelled in the image of the white sahib, was nowhere near him as far as status was concerned. At the most, he remained a porter, an evangelist or a school teacher. But for tribes living outside the pale of civilization, the evangelising and educational efforts of the missionaries couched in humanism came to be seen as the gateways to civilisation and as paving the way for progress. This was especially true of the tribes in northeastern India.

Notes 1. Goffman in Asylums (1961) defines a total institution as ‘a place of residence and work where a large number of like-situated individuals, cut off from the wider society for an appreciable period of time, together lead an enclosed; formally administered round of life’. 2. Judith E. Walsh (2003) has examined the impact of English education on indigenous childhood in India during the period 1850–1947. Drawing upon childhood histories, she observes that the new education system and its ideology changed the childhood structures, experiences and family relations immensely. Walsh situates her study in the modern scholarly endeavour of writing childhood histories. Such studies have been inspired by Erik Erikson’s concerns of drawing interconnections between child rearing patterns and social psychological structures of adult society, on the one hand, and by the post-modern concerns with the influence of Enlightenment ideology and a Foucaldian concern with power/knowledge, on the other.


4


Schooling: Process and Experience People’s attitudes and worldviews are shaped both by the specific ethos of a tribal society and by the general ethos. The processes by which people organise the activities of everyday life (what Thapan [2006] calls ‘the local order’ in her study of the Rishi Valley School in Andhra Pradesh), helps us to deepen our understanding of the school and classroom. My intention here is to go further, linking the essence of schooling, the micro-context, with the context of schooling in the home, community and state, the macro-context (which is covered in Chapter 5). Sociological studies have often pointed out that the major weakness of many ethnographic accounts is that they tend to focus only on one level (Robinson 1974). Several scholars such as Bernstein (1977, 1996), Woods (1983), Scrase (1993) and others have time and again reminded us of the need to link the micro to the macro-situation. Though Bernstein’s chief concern is with the underlying principles of the map and the ‘matrix of transmission’, he asserts: I am well aware of the importance of and need for descriptive research which maps the vicissitudes of a problem[…]. However, I have always found it difficult to move towards a more general macro-analysis until I had some grip upon the local relationships at the micro-aspect (1977: 2).

Under the broad rubric of the symbolic–interactionist perspective to school, I begin the chapter with a brief description of the school, followed by teacher–pupil interaction both in the context of the classroom and outside, rituals in school, teacher interaction and teacher culture followed by pupil culture. I then examine the curriculum in order to gauge the kind of values it transmits. The chapter concludes with a brief perusal of science and mathematics education in Mizoram, as these have been considered as problem

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areas in school education. As noted earlier, this chapter and the next are linked in meaningful ways: together they further the argument that what is taught in the classroom is not isolated and insular but has its roots in the broader socio-cultural and political milieu.

The School Milieu The working day at School A begins at 9 AM. and continues till 3.15 PM. There is a one-hour break from 12 noon to 1 PM. The rest of the time is divided into seven periods of 45 minutes each, what in Bernstein’s terms are the ‘units’. In all, there are 35 units in a week. Regarding the ‘contents’, i.e., the way in which the time period or the unit is filled (Bernstein 1977), we find that in the middle school section, six units in a week are allotted for mathematics, five to English, and four units each to science, Mizo and social studies. Hindi, health education and work education get three units each and finally drawing, music and physical education are allotted one unit each per week. In the high school section, a total of eight units per week are allotted to mathematics, seven to English, six units each to social studies and science, four units to Mizo, three to work education and one unit to guidance. School B also follows the same routine. The ‘temporal rule-frame’ (Woods 1983) indicates the relative status and significance of ‘content’ in terms of the number of units given to it. Clearly the school assigns maximum importance to mathematics followed closely by English, both at the middle school and the high school level. While the total number of units allocated for mathematics and English at the middle school level is 11, this increases to 15 at the high school level, which is a little less than half the number of total classes of 35 per week. The units allotted to social studies, science and Mizo are almost the same. The total staff strength for the middle school section is 17. Out of these, three staff members are women while 14 are men. The ethnic composition of the staff indicates that 10 belong to the Lai tribal community, four are Mizo and three belong to the Mara tribal community. In the high school section, the total staff strength is 16 — two of these are women while 14 are men. Ethnic compositionwise, seven belong to the Lai community, three each to the Mara and Mizo communities, while the remaining three are vai (outsiders). The total staff strength in School B is six each in the middle school and the high school sections. Out of these, two are women while

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10 are men. Ethnic composition-wise, 10 staff members are Mara, out of whom two are from Myanmar. The remaining two are nonMizo teachers.

TeacherîPupil Interaction Bernstein (1977) has argued that formal educational knowledge is realised through three message systems: curriculum, pedagogy and evaluation. Curriculum is that which counts as valid knowledge, pedagogy is that which counts as the valid transmission of knowledge and evaluation refers to the valid realisation of this knowledge by the taught. In this section, I devote my attention to pedagogy and evaluation. The part of educational knowledge that deals with the first component, the curriculum, shall be dealt with in the next section. I plan to undertake the exercise of examining pedagogy and evaluation by means of the analysis of classroom interactions. This would enable us to understand the ways in which knowledge is transmitted and received. Let us first examine the key features of teacher–pupil interaction in general. The main feature is the relative permanence and predictability of interaction which takes place within certain settings such as the classroom, staffroom, corridors, etc. Temporality is another important dimension as there is always a timeframe for the interaction and it is these which lend the teacher–pupil interaction its predictability. Nevertheless, the interaction is variable too and some of the factors lending it variability, as Thapan (2006) notes, are the physical environment in which teaching and learning takes place, the personality of the teacher, the subject being taught, the perception that the teacher has of her pupils, etc. Negotiation is the main strategy adopted by the teacher and the taught. There are mainly three assumptions underlying negotiation: first, though teachers have more power, pupils tend to curb it too, by their manoeuvres; second, the teacher– pupil interaction is variable; and third, use of negotiative strategies is common. Having underlined the key features of the teacher–pupil interaction, let me now turn to the classroom observations.

Classroom Observation I I begin with a rather lengthy quote from my field notes: Today, I observed the classroom interaction. The classroom setting is IX-B; The teacher is Pu Saihnuna.1 The subject being taught is social studies. The physical setting of the classroom is as follows:

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Towards the entrance, is an elevated platform with a blackboard on the wall facing that side of the classroom where pupils are supposed to sit. There is a desk and a wooden bench for the teacher to sit on. An indigenous duster (made of cloth which has been stuffed) and chalk are placed on the table. The elevated platform serves as a useful tool for effective control of the classroom, enabling the teacher to observe each and every student in the classroom. For the students, the benches are arranged in three rows. Two students can sit on each bench in the side rows, while the benches in the middle row are meant for three students each. On the two side rows are seated the girls while the boys sit in the middle row. There are a total of forty six students attending the class, thirty two of them are girls and fourteen are boys. The general tendency of the students is to sit with the students of their own sex, of their own ethnic background and of their own rural or urban background as the case may be. There is an unwritten rule that girls and boys would sit separately; Mara students prefer to sit with Mara and those from villages prefer to sit with others from the villages. The backbenches are occupied either by the pupils hailing from the villages or those who consider themselves weak in studies. The prescribed medium of instruction is English but the preferred medium is Mizo, as both the pupils and the teacher find it ‘easier’. The use of Mizo for teacher–pupil interaction does not seem to be due to the authority of the teacher alone, but due to the tacit agreement arrived at between the teacher and pupils. The teacher begins with teaching, the phenomenon of ‘Rotation’. Only the topic is stated in English, all explanation being done in Mizo. After this is done, Pu Saihnuna poses a question to the pupils: ‘How much time does each rotation take?’ He addresses the students not by name, but either by their roll number or more frequently by the residential area from which they come such as: ‘Hey, you from Tlangkawn, stand up.’ ‘You from Vety Veng.’2 ‘You, from New Colony.’ Most of the students are not able to answer. While this process is going on, a few students in the class chew chewing gum. The teacher throws a chalk at them and orders them to spit it out, which they do from the rear window of the classroom. In this regard, he spares no one, be it a boy or a girl.

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As he writes the question on the blackboard, a female student looks down in her book. He throws a chalk at her and asks her, ‘Why are you looking down in your book when I am teaching?’ Then he goes on to teach another sub-topic on ‘Revolution’ and handles it in the same way as ‘Rotation’. As the stipulated time for the period comes to an end, he asks the students: ‘What is the outermost layer of the earth called?’ Most of the students are not able to answer, then one of the front benchers, a girl answers: ‘Crust.’ He then asks about its geographical name but they are not able to answer. Therefore, he provides the answer himself, saying ‘Lithosphere’.

Analysis of this classroom situation and interaction reveals first that the classroom represents what Goffman has termed as the ‘front regions’. The classroom setting is immensely important, for according to Goffman, ‘those who would use a particular setting as part of their performance cannot begin their act until they have brought themselves to the appropriate place and must terminate their performance when they leave it’ (Goffman 1973: 33). Further, the classroom may also be considered in Thapan’s words, ‘as a situated activity system to the extent that teachers and pupils are seen as performing “situated roles” and their performance is dependent on the setting and on one another’. However, it would be incorrect to ignore the fact that interaction in the classroom is also affected by activities and relations outside it. As far as the ‘context’ is concerned, one finds that the specific classroom situation has imposed itself upon the meanings attributed to it. It has been argued by Woods that many physical contexts communicate powerful messages, ‘from their makers to their users’ (Woods 1983). The present classroom situation represents the ‘traditional classroom setting’ which is ‘both a symbol and a reinforcement of centrally controlled interaction’, as emphasised by Woods (ibid.: 22). The situation itself compels the teacher to ‘talk at the pupils’. Here decentralised group work and pupil participation on their own terms are almost impossible. Thus what follows from this context is the traditional form of teaching called variously as the ‘recitation’ method in the United States of America and the ‘chalk and talk’ in the United Kingdom. This is basically a coping

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strategy of the teacher which is dictated by the context and not by any educational philosophy. Another focus area of interactionism in the school are the perspectives which are manifest in broadly three areas: teaching typologies, teacher typologies of pupils and teacher perspectives on deviance. According to Peter Woods: In seeking to understand teacher action, we need to examine its basic constitution in perspectives. This involves matters like how teachers define their task, how they view pupils, what constitutes good and bad pupils and good and bad work, their views on how to teach and subject content (1983: 42).

There are two paradigms which govern the teaching typologies: ‘the psychometric paradigm’, based on the traditional mode which views knowledge as objective and the child as having finite capacity; and ‘the phenomenological paradigm’ which is based on the progressive mode and views knowledge as constructed and the child as having an unlimited capacity. The teacher typologies of pupils are based on three stages of assessment: ‘speculation’, ‘elaboration’ and ‘stabilisation’. In the first stage, the teacher attempts to find the character of the pupil by observation; in the second, he/she tries to verify it; and by the third stage, the teacher has a clear and stable idea about the pupil. With regard to deviance, there are two categories of teachers: ‘deviance-provocative teacher’ who believes pupils avoid work and are anti-authority and ‘deviance-insulative teacher’ who believes that all pupils are basically good and that there are certain conditions which produce deviance. In the classroom situation under study, we find that Pu Saihnuna’s teaching typology is essentially that of the ‘psychometric paradigm’. This paradigm emanates from the traditional mode, wherein it is believed that the pupil has a finite capacity, is socially irresponsible and is basically a vessel to be filled and corresponds to what Paulo Freire has termed as the ‘banking education’. Herein, the contents of educational knowledge in the process of being narrated become ‘lifeless and petrified’ (Freire 1996: 53). As for typification of his pupils, Saihnuna’s assessment of his pupils falls in the ‘speculation stage’, which is the initial stage of pupil assessment. The way in which Saihnuna addresses his pupils on the basis of veng (locality) from which they come from demonstrates this fact. In the three stages of pupil assessment, speculation is the first stage in which a

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teacher tries to find out what kind of character a pupil has. It is based on appearance, conformity to discipline, conformity to academic role, likeability, and peer group relations. Such a characterisation is built over time by direct observation and experience and knowledge of pupil’s background, resulting from the staffroom discussions. As the pedagogy is based on a large instructional unit, ‘the catch-all’ category of class, ethnicity and above all locality, is at work here. By the way Saihnuna deals with the students in the classroom by throwing chalk at them and by verbal admonitions, he is a ‘devianceprovocative teacher’ (Woods 1983: 53). This perspective makes him believe that deviant pupils are work avoiders, are anti-authority and deliberately rebellious. This opinion leads Saihnuna to take the provocative action of ‘picking on them’. Among the strategies employed in this classroom situation by Saihnuna, is first what has been termed by Delamont (1976) as the ‘two thirds rule’. He spends more than two-thirds of classroom time in speaking and most of the talking is done by him. Saihnuna lectures on the twin topics of ‘rotation’ and ‘revolution’ under the general rubric of the discipline of geography. He then questions the pupils about what he perceives as the academic content of the lesson, thereby persuading them to adopt his perspective. Herein the pupils have to step into the teacher’s system of meanings. In the process, the meanings held by the pupils are either confirmed, extended or even replaced. In this context, Woods has argued: A peculiar feature of teacher’s questions is that he already knows the answers, and will work to get pupils to produce the ‘right’ ones. This particular form of teaching […] imposes conditions on what will be counted as ‘intelligent’ […] knowledge and ‘ability’ are thus firmly related to the school framework and are not qualities that are universally applicable[…]. Teacher control in fact, is built into the very fabric of the language of the classroom called metacommunication i.e. communication about communication (1983: 110).

The remaining one-third time is spent on establishing and maintaining control, i.e., the appropriate conditions for teaching. By keeping a strict control over the bodily movements of the pupils, Saihnuna uses the ‘coping strategy’ to deal with his difficulties on the one hand and his survival on the other. The difficulties he faces are high pupil–teacher ratio, recalcitrant clientele, low morale, examination dominated curriculum, and scarcity of resources.

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Therefore he resorts to the survival strategy of domination, the ethos of which is to ‘keep them down’ (Woods 1983: 110). Hargreaves (1972) has called this strategy ‘policing’. Policing involves crowd control and also arranging the situation and activity. Hargreaves has identified three main elements of policing: rigorous and systematic control over pupil talk and bodily movement; an explicit articulation of the rule system and public display of the hierarchical relation between teacher and pupil; and moral features of classroom taking priority over the cognitive. These can be seen in Saihnuna’s behavior towards his pupils. Hargreaves notes that, in this sense, ‘forms of teaching […] and particular negotiative strategies […] which are organised primarily around principles of social control come to be, at the very least, indistinguishable from forms of teaching which are cognitively based’ (ibid.: 144). Analysing this classroom situation from the pupils’ point of view, it can be stated that the pupils employ the ‘detachment’ strategy (Woods 1983). Their behaviour borders on ‘mucking about’, i.e., silly behaviour which appears to be as a consequence of boredom. In this regard, Peter Woods remarks, ‘Evidence suggests that the majority of pupils have a basic orientation towards school which is largely and potentially supportive of the official programme. This is further reflected in their respect for firm control’ (1983: 62). However as several studies indicate, the students consider too strict a teacher unfair and in their opinion, it is one of the biggest offences teachers could commit as they do not like being ‘put down’ or ‘picked on’.

Classroom Observation II ‘English grammar is being taught to class VIII-A students by Pi Pachawi. The classroom situation is similar to the previous one, i.e., ‘traditional classroom setting’ which symbolises and reinforces centrally controlled interaction. The class is attended by 43 students: 22 boys and 21 girls. The backbenches are occupied by the pupils from villages. The teacher is revising the topic ‘Types of Nouns’ for the impending First Term examinations. She poses the question to her students: ‘What are the types of nouns?’ and then translates the question into Mizo. The students together answer erroneously, ‘Eight parts of speech’. She maintains her calm and proceeds to explain. After explaining, Pi Pachawi asks the students to provide examples of different types of nouns. The students are addressed by their names and not by their roll numbers or by the residential area from where

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they come. She then assigns written work to the students and they are asked to define different types of noun and to give five examples of each. The front-benchers are the first to complete the assignment and show it to Pi Pachawi for correction. The backbenchers take a much longer time to complete their work. A few amongst them take their work for correction but the majority of them hesitate and do not go to the teacher. Many have been unable to complete the exercise, while others among them have been just chatting and have made no effort to complete it. The period then comes to an end and the teacher leaves the classroom contented.

Though this classroom situation is objectively the same as the previous one wherein the teacher is in a position of authority, she however attempts to construct a situation where the pupils are given freedom to participate actively in the classroom. As far as the perspectives are concerned, Pi Pachawi firstly subscribes to the ‘psychometric paradigm’ of teaching typology, which is the traditional mode of teaching. She is generally supportive of her pupils. Her typification of pupils, though limited to the first stage of assessment, i.e., ‘speculation’, borders on ‘elaboration’ — the second stage of assessment — as she tries to verify in a limited way the behaviour of her students. Pi Pachawi is what Peter Woods has termed as a ‘deviance-insulative teacher’ who believes in the goodness of her pupils. She trusts and cares for all her pupils and is fair and respectful towards them. However, she is scornful towards the pupils from villages who generally occupy the backbenches. This is evident from the following remark she makes in the back region of the staffroom. ‘These students are very weak — they do not know even noun, pronoun. In the early classes, they do not learn properly. Those coming from Beulah School and Auxilium School are better. Those coming from villages do not know anything’. Pachawi is driven by ‘missionary ideology’ towards her profession in that she sees her role as that of a ‘social and cultural missionary’ — a kind of secular priesthood dedicated to the work of civilization. She is a ‘liberal’ as she emphasises on better teaching and better classroom management. Pachawi is conscious of the high status given to English, the subject being taught by her, and is aware of the distinctiveness of English as an ‘epistemic community’. She employs the strategies of ‘socialisation’, the essence of which is ‘teach them right’ and ‘fraternisation’. As much of school life is about

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negotiation, we see that there is an implicit negotiation, a working consensus between the teacher and the pupils here. A working consensus or ‘truce’ has been defined as that body of tacit understanding by which the social order of the classroom is maintained (Woods 1983). In this classroom situation, the teacher and pupils have found terms that will best suit their interests and that each would accept. The strategies which the pupils have employed here are ‘supportive’ or what Hargreaves has termed as ‘pleasing the teacher’. A few among them, especially those from the rural areas, have made use of the strategies of ‘detachment’ or ‘indifference’. The former strategy has been employed by the front-benchers in the class — the urban bred pupils — who make all out efforts to complete the assignment and show it to the teacher. As has been stated, the latter strategy has been used by pupils coming from villages — by not taking an active interest in the class and not completing the assignment either by design or due to not being adequately motivated, the rural students demonstrate ‘indifference’ to the classroom situation. The pupil perspectives on teachers are not homogenous. While students from the Saiha town said that they find Pi Pachawi to be humane, able to teach, make them work and exercise control, the students from the villages said that though they find her to be humane, able to teach but she is not able to make them work or exercise classroom control — the way they expect it from her. The classroom situation is alienating for them partly because the teacher is unable to maintain control and partly because they find English, the subject taught by her, difficult. After having dealt with the classroom interactions in the urban context of the School A, I now turn my attention to the predominantly rural setting of School B.

Classroom Observation I The class being taught is class VIII. The subject being taught is English and the topic under instruction is a piece of prose titled ‘Our nearest neighbour’. The teacher is S. Lalhnunkunga. The class is attended by 13 students who are seated in two rows. All the classrooms in the school are made out of a large hall, each classroom being partitioned by either bamboo-matting or thin asbestos. It is broken at many places from which not only the noise and clutter of the other classes permeates, but one can also have a

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good view of the other classrooms. Thick dust rests on everything including the furniture which dons the classroom. The floor is pucca but pieces of paper are strewn all around. For ventilation, there are one or two windows in each classroom but the window panes are conspicuous by their absence; what one sees is the bare frame of the window, not the window itself. The doors are half broken and at the back of each classroom lies a heap of broken furniture in one corner. It is in these physical conditions that the teaching–learning takes place. There are no charts in any of the classrooms and the only teaching aids are blackboard, chalk and an indigenous duster, made of a square piece of cloth which has been stuffed with small pieces of cloth. Majority of the pupils are not in their uniform. Those who are wearing something of the semblance of a uniform are clothed in soiled and unwashed, incomplete uniform without shoes and socks, and a few students are even barefoot. The teacher, soon after entering the classroom, writes the topic to be taught on the blackboard, spelling neighbour, as ‘neighbor’. Then he starts reading the chapter verbatim, para by para. After each paragraph, S. Lalhnunkunga translates it into Mara reih (Mara language) which is interspersed briefly by explaining in Mara. After he has finished reading the entire chapter, he asks the students to read one by one. All of them initially feel very shy. Later they attempt to read aloud hesitantly and with pauses. After this, the teacher writes certain words from the chapter on the blackboard and repeatedly commits spelling errors. For instance, he writes ‘forthnight’ in place of ‘fortnight’, ‘accerate’ instead of ‘accurate’. In the meantime, students do not pay much attention to what is being taught. A few peep into the book in a casual manner; a boy and a girl sitting in the first row crack jokes and playfully hit each other while the class is in progress. Another boy sitting in the second row spits on the floor and then rubs it off with his feet; and still another sits with his hands in pocket while the others around him engage in crosstalk. Meanwhile the bell goes and the pupils wait impatiently for the teacher to stop but on his part, the teacher remains oblivious for he has not heard the bell and continues with the lesson. The impatience of the students grows and finally takes the better of them. Being thoroughly bored, they start getting fidgety. Some yawn, some lazily peep out of the window while some put their pen in their hair. Yet the authority of the teacher in the classroom situation does not permit them to say anything.

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In the interactionist perspective to the study of schools though the main concern is with how situations are constructed, physical properties and space are also considered crucial to our understanding of the situation (Woods 1983). If we were to consider the physical dimensions in this classroom situation and the others in School B, we would be struck by it. In a sense, these set the tone for the experience of schooling that follows. Hargreaves et al. (1972) have noted that teachers organise a lesson in five main phases: entry, settling down, the lesson proper, clearing up and exit. In these phases, tasks flow interconnected by ‘switch signals’. These are signs from the teacher indicating that one task has finished and another is to begin. They are attentiondrawers, linking instructions and task indicators. In this classroom situation, the teacher immediately after making an entry into the classroom, bypasses the second phase and right away moves to the third, i.e., the lesson proper. In the case of Pu S. Lalhnunkunga too, the ‘two-thirds rule’ applies for he utilises the chalk and talk approach and merely one-third time is given to the pupils to participate in the classroom situation. The teacher here is employing the strategy of ‘ritual and routine’. As far as the pupils are concerned, one finds strong elements of ‘counter-school culture’ here as was the case with ‘Willis’ lads’. There is what Willis has termed as ‘an aimless air of insubordination’ (1977: 13). The pupils here are using the ‘detachment’ or ‘indifference’ strategy which borders on ‘oppositional’. This is evident in pupil behaviour. A girl and a boy joke and laugh, another spits, the other casually sits with his hands in the pocket while still others indulge in crosstalk. But the most common strategy observed here and in the other classroom situations is ‘having a laugh’. To quote Woods, ‘of all pupil strategies ‘having a laugh’ or ‘mucking’ or ‘messing about’ seems the most common[…]. It is also a way out of fear and boredom an antidote to almost anything’ (1983: 123). He distinguishes between three types of laughter: ‘natural laughter’ which is oriented to background culture; ‘mucking about’ which is a kind of apparently aimless and ‘silly’ behaviour and is a response to boredom; and ‘subversive laughter’ to intentionally undermine the teacher’s authority. In this classroom situation, one finds a combination of ‘natural laughter’ and ‘mucking about’. ‘Having a laugh’ can also mean ‘doing nothing’; and doing nothing can be talking, joking, exchanging stories, carrying on, being together, having weird ideas, lazing around, fighting or day dreaming.

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The response of the students is also shaped by the inability of the teacher to exercise control as the teaching goes on mechanically here. Woods has rightly pointed out, ‘In order for work and teaching to be possible the teacher must have “control”. Pupils feel insulted by weakness on the part of those in authority who they expect to be strong, and this weakness, once established, provokes more playing up’ (Woods 1983: 58).

Classroom Observation II Today I observed classroom interaction in class VIII. The subject being taught is Mizo tawng (Mizo language) and the teacher is Pu J. Chola, the Headmaster of the school, who is teaching in the absence of the crafts and Mizo teacher, Pu Chhitha. The number of students attending the class is 24 out of whom nine are girls and 15 are boys. The classroom situation is the same as the previous one and many students are not in uniform. Many of them are over-age for their class. The frontbenchers maintain more discipline than the backbenchers. The textbook being used is Mizo Tawng 8 (Thu leh hla thlankawm Pawl riat Zirlai Bu) by Lalthianghlima prescribed by the Mizoram Board of School Education (MBSE), Aizawl. The chapter being taught is Chapter I, Bung I, and is titled Nun dan tha Rom 13 (Good Manners) taken from the Bible-Rom 13. The main themes highlighted by the chapter are uire suh (not to commit adultery); tual that suh (not to kill); ru suh (not to steal) and nangmah i hmangaih angin vengte i hmangaih tu a ni (love your neighbour as you would love yourself). The teacher reads paragraph by paragraph and explains the text in Mara reih. The students seem attentive in the beginning but later seem bored which is evident by the backbenchers talking, staring blindly at the walls, giggling, yawning, boys joking and laughing. All this results in a lot of commotion. To add to all this, class IX social studies class is in progress in the adjacent room and yet another class of X mathematics in the room adjoining the second. As the rooms are not partitioned properly, what one hears is cacophony, greatly disturbing the process of teaching–learning in all the classrooms.

Classroom Observation III The class under observation is class IX. It is being taught by L. Zahea. The number of students attending the class is 15 — eight of them are girls, while seven are boys. The subject being taught is chemistry and the topic is ‘Carbon and its Compounds’. The lesson

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has been taught earlier and is being repeated today. Pu Zahea teaches both in English and Mara. He begins by telling the students about the uses of carbon and its forms. After this, he asks the students to write fifteen uses of carbon in the household and the different forms in which it is used. A few students have been able to write two to three uses. Sometime later, the teacher begins to tell the students about where diamond (a form of carbon) is to be found in the world and in India. He tells the class about the availability of diamond in the world but gets stuck about its availability in India. He then goes back towards his table, peeps into the text book and in the next few sentences, finds the relevant information. Accordingly, he transmits it to his students but many students have already kept their books inside their bags much before the class is over. When we come out of the class, the teacher tells me: ‘The students are very poor. If we teach them only in English, they would not understand even a word. At the end of the lesson, they would not even know what diamond is. That is why, it is much better to teach them in Mara’.

In the light of the classroom interactions discussed so far, let us examine if pedagogy and evaluation itself contributes to the reproduction of inequalities. Bourdieu calls pedagogy ‘the mode of imposition’ of the ‘cultural arbitrary’ (1990: 15). For Bernstein, the pedagogic context is essentially an interactive one. Distinguishing his own approach from that of Bourdieu, he notes that for Bourdieu, education is merely a carrier of power relations which are external to the school and he has thus ignored the analysis of ‘the actual structure which enables power to be relayed, power to be carried’ (1996: 18). This criticism to my mind is unjustified as Bourdieu, in his theory of ‘symbolic violence’, does give a central place to what he calls ‘the mode of imposition’ or the way of teaching and ‘the mode of inculcation’ or the content of teaching. Turning once again to Bernstein, one may say that there are two concerns in his work: first, how power and control translate to principles of communication; and second, the ways in which these principles of communication regulate forms of consciousness with respect to their reproduction and possibilities of change. Power relations create boundaries and produce dislocations and power is translated through the concept of classification. On the other hand, control establishes legitimate forms of communication and is

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translated through the concept of ‘framing’. According to Bernstein, ‘Frame refers to the form of the context in which knowledge is transmitted and received […] to the specific pedagogical relationship of teacher and taught’ (1977: 88) and later thus, ‘Framing refers to the controls on communication in local, interactional pedagogic relations’ (1996: 22). Turning to the field situation, I now examine if the pedagogical relations between the teacher and the taught and the essence of the process of classroom interaction in the schools studied, reproduce and generate social inequalities. The first classroom situation in School A which has been discussed shows that the teacher tries to maintain a strict control over the bodily movements of the pupils by picking on them and also by throwing chalk at the pupils. He shares a somewhat similar socioeconomic background with some of the front benchers, who are mainly urban born and bred pupils. They are the ones to respond to his question while the pupils from villages are largely unparticipative. Such students are generally from a family background where none of the parents is educated and these students enter the school system with handicaps. The experience of schooling instead of mitigating these handicaps serves to attenuate them. How schooling builds up on what pupils bring with them to school is expressed by Bourdieu when he argues: Insofar as pedagogic work is an irreversible process producing, in the time required for inculcation, an irreversible disposition, […] primary pedagogic action (the earliest phase of upbringing) which is carried out by […] primary pedagogic work, produces a primary habitus, characteristic of a group or class, which is the basis for the subsequent formation of any other habitus (1977: 42).

In the second classroom interaction, we find that though Pi Pachhawi is largely supportive of her pupils and also shares a common social background with many of them, being a Mara herself, she nevertheless perceives that those pupils coming from the villages suffer from linguistic handicaps while lauding the pupils who are from private, English medium schools. This gets reflected in the way she ignores the presence of the village students. However, this is not a one-way process — the pupils too, in various ways, contribute to their own marginal status. This classroom situation builds on the differential distribution of the cultural capital among students and

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adds its own force and arbitrariness by the way it is conducted. Thus one can say that it not only reproduces the existing inequities but also produces new dimensions of inequality. However, the strategy of ‘indifference’ adopted by the rural pupils can be assessed as ‘oppositional’ behaviour too, containing within it the seeds of potential change. The three classroom situations in School B are a category unto themselves. The most conspicuous common feature of the three classroom situations is the boredom that they generate. There is nothing interesting in the situations which can capture the imagination of the pupils. As a consequence, pupils adopt the strategies of indifference and delinquency, which most commonly find expression in ‘having a laff’ or ‘mucking and messing about’. Here, it is apt to quote Joey, ‘a lad’, in Paul Willis’ study: I don’t know why I want to laff, I dunno why its so fuckin important. It just is […] think its just a good gift, that’s all, because you can get out of any situation. If you can laff, if you can make yourself laff, I mean really convincingly, it can get you out of million of things […] (1977: 29).

In a recent article, Krishna Kumar has drawn attention to ‘the burden of dullness’ and ‘irrelevance’ of the school experience in India’s villages. The three classroom situations that I have discussed in the predominantly rural context provide a concrete evidence to Kumar’s arguments. He points out that a basic thing as a geometry box seems a luxury for a girl or boy studying in a village school and enthusiasm and imagination are conspicuously lacking in the services provided to village children’ (The Hindu, 25 January 2005). The situation is much more pitiable in the classrooms of tribal villages. The school culture here is marked by not only confirming the dominant culture but also disconfirming the various facets of the rural culture as it is not only the subject matter which is divorced from the social context but there is no effort on the part of the teacher either to relate the subject matter in the class room to the world outside. However, it is also to be argued about all the classroom observations discussed that domination and reproduction are not monolithic. They, in fact, coexist with resistance which need not always be in the form of open and violent occasional ruptures but can be in the form of every day resistance. This ‘quiet,

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unremitting guerilla warfare’ that takes place ‘day in and day out’, constitutes in the words of James Scott (1986), ‘the arts of subverting the structures of domination’ and are in general terms, the ‘weapons of the weak’. Scott holds that if these individual and symbolic acts are rare and isolated, they are not of much interest but when they acquire a consistent pattern they become resistance. In the classroom observations that were discussed, we see that the pupil’s strategies range from ‘detachment’ or ‘ indifference’ to ‘silly behaviour’ and ‘mucking about’. These strategies are expressed through acts such as cracking jokes, laughing, spitting, crosstalk, defiantly putting hands in the pockets, yawning, peeping out of the window, and chewing ‘chewing gum’. All these acts are recurrent, form a pattern and constitute the counter-school culture. Several scholars such as H. Giroux (2000) and Krishna Kumar (1996) have however argued that these countervailing acts form pedagogic moments that must be seized if we are to develop a ‘discourse of possibility’.

Rituals in School I now examine the school culture which is based on certain values and norms and expressed through rituals (see Figure 4.1 for some aspects of school culture). This premise essentially draws on the notion of schools not merely as ‘instructional sites’ but as ‘cultural sites’ too. I use the term ritual as a form of symbolic action composed primarily of gestures (the enactment of evocative rhythms which constitute dynamic symbolic acts) and postures (a symbolic stilling of action). Further, it is worthwhile to mention here that I am not using the term ‘ritual’ to denote merely the sacred and the symbolic but also that which is practical, profane and instrumental. Mclaren emphasises that we need to examine ‘the practical and the mundane too’ and the way ‘these domains become sanctified inside schools’ (1986: 35). He rightly argues, ‘If ritual is a form of symbolic behaviour, and if all behaviour is symbolic, doesn’t it follow that all behaviour is, ritual behaviour?’ (ibid.: 39). I use the term ‘ritual’ in a broad sense to include those rituals which are ‘the collective celebration of certain ultimate values’ and those which are ‘the individual performance to legitimise and maintain other ultimate values’ (Thapan 2006: 55). These roughly correspond to the ‘collective’ and the ‘individual’, the ‘expressive’ and the ‘instrumental’, the ‘affective’ and the ‘cognitive’ and what are ‘consensual’ and ‘differentiating’ rituals in Bernstein’s terms.

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Figure 4.1. Aspects of school culture: School boys in their self-made bamboo spectacle frames Source: Courtesy of the author.

I first deal with a solo recitation and a drawing competition held at School A. My field notes read thus: Today, I witnessed the solo recitation and drawing competition at School A. The competition was organised by the District Social Welfare Officer. The solo recitation was organised for the high school while action recitation was organised for middle school and primary school students. Besides, for the physically disabled children of primary school and middle school, a drawing competition was organised. Though the competition was meant for the whole of Chhimtuipui district, only students from Saiha, Tuipang and Bualpui (ng) participated. The competition was held in the open. The students sat in the U-shaped corridor of the building, while a blue plastic shamiana was put under which the students, teachers, and the guests sat. In the front row sat the District Education Officer, Principal of School A and K. Pari, the Social Welfare Officer of the Mara Autonomous District Council (MADC) who also compered the programme. On the table were arranged pangpar (plastic flowers). The event was marked by great fervour and enthusiasm. Those who participated were mainly girls, with just a handful of boys but the audience included a large number of boys. Eleven students

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participated in the solo recitation competition. The participants were asked to sing Chang Khat hla, hymn number 531, from the Kristian hla bu, the Christian hymn book. A girl began to sing Pathian hmangaih kan hre zo lo (We cannot fathom God’s love) to the accompaniment of a guitar being played by a fellow student. As the girl sang the hymnPathian hmangaih kan hre zo lo,

We cannot fathom God’s love,

A hmelma a ngaidam thei;

As he forgives even his enemies;

A thutiam hi a chhe thei lo,

His promise will never be broken, Forever he shall keep it Human minds are narrow But His mind is broad; Because of his son’s death and rise I shall be alive.

Kumkhua thlengin min vawng thei Mihring rilru a tet fo va. Ama rilru, a nghet a; A Fa thihna leh thawlehna Avangin kei ka nung ang.

[…] her pitch of voice slowly rising, those gathered for the event were slowly captivated and mesmerised till they immersed themselves wholly and completely in her singing. As the girl sang, her hands slowly moved up facing the sky as though in gratitude and invoking the blessings of the Almighty. The pupils sat together, irrespective of their sex. They were all dressed in bright clothes, mostly western outfits. The girls wore make-up too. Soon a girl came with a cannister in hand which carried artui (boiled eggs). She also distributed orange squash to all those who had gathered. For the action recitation held for the middle school students, the participants were asked to recite Sam Chang 1–9 from the Pathian Lehkhabu Thianghlim — Thutling Hlui Bute (The Holy Bible — Old Testament). Twenty six students took part in this.

Bernstein (1977) notes that there are two distinct, but in practice interrelated, complexes of behaviour which the school transmits: one is concerned with character training and the other with formal training. The school transmits to the pupil images of conduct, character and manner through certain practices, activities, procedures and judgements. Besides this, with formal training the school attempts to transmit to the pupil facts, procedures and practices which are necessary for the acquisition of specific skills. Bernstein has called the former ‘the expressive order’ of the school

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and the latter ‘the instrumental order’. He is of the view that the nature of the two is different: the instrumental order is ‘potentially and often actually divisive in function’ (Bernstein 1977: 20) while the expressive order tends to bind the school community together as a distinct moral collectivity. What we see in this ritual which I have just described is an attempt by the school towards the formation of character through a Christian habitus to relate the individual: through ritualistic acts to a social order, to heighten respect for that order, to revivify that order within the individual and, in particular, to deepen acceptance of the procedures which are used to maintain continuity, order and boundary and which control ambivalence towards the social order (Bernstein, 1977: 54).

Bernstein has derived the concept of the ritual and the expressive order from Durkheim’s classic work, The Elementary forms of Religious Life who argues: There can be no society which does not feel the need of upholding and re-affirming at regular intervals the collective sentiments and the collective ideas which make its unity and its personality […], this moral remaking cannot be achieved except by the means of re-unions, assemblies and meetings where the individuals, being closely united to one another, re-affirm in common their common sentiments (1954: 474).

The school is the society in the instance just described, the ritual essentially aiming to express and affirm the values that the school aims to transmit to its pupils. It serves to revivify the social order and to generate collective sentiments and ideas which give it unity and a distinct personality. Such collective rituals are a regular feature in the life of both the schools under study. After having described and analysed what have variously been called the collective, the expressive, the affective and the consensual rituals, I now focus my attention on the individual, instrumental, cognitive and differentiating rituals. These rituals have been termed as ‘dramatisations of the routine’ by Thapan (2006: 65) as they create significant changes in the ambience by highlighting at different times such opposing elements as collective responsibility and goodwill, and, individual preparations and competitions. One concerned

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with bringing about an internal effervescence in the individual, the other creating a sense of fear and trepidation in the individual in relation to an external situation. Examinations are an instance of the dramatisations of the routine. During my fieldwork, I had the occasion to observe the High School Leaving Certificate (HSLC) examinations in School A. This was the only centre in the whole district. The examinations were being conducted in the presence of the District Education Officer and the Principal of the school. Almost all the candidates present in the room were trying to cheat. Five to six of them took out scribbled notes; a few even took out full books, mainly guide books. This was being done right under the nose of the invigilator who was a Principal of a high school. The invigilator on his part just looked on passively as if he had decided to ignore what he saw. He kept pointing towards a candidate saying, ‘he belongs to a backward community — Pang — and is from Vathuampui’. The situation was the same for girl candidates who were generally over-age. They tried to actively help each other by showing their answer sheets. Most of them had scribbled papers and printed question and answers — exactly the same as they appeared in the question paper. The two kinds of rituals that I have just described are not merely the collective, expressive, affective and consensual on the one hand and the individual, instrumental, cognitive and differentiating on the other. The two convey completely divergent essence and ethos: the first kind borders on the ‘sacred’ while the second borders on the ‘profane’, given the way it is conducted. While the first aims to bind the members into a single moral community, the second attempts to bind them into a single amoral community. It is by the use of a broadened concept of ritual in institutions that which includes not only the conventional ritual behaviour — what in Thapan’s words is ‘the collective affirmation’ and ‘celebration of communitas’ (2006: 73) — but also the socially sanctified practices of examinations that the divergent elements of the school culture are highlighted. The rituals that have been examined in the context of School A reflect not merely different elements of the school culture, but also of a society which is grappling with multidimensional problems. What should then be the role of the school? One is reminded of Émile Durkheim’s words, who writing in the aftermath of the Franco-Prussian War, remarked: ‘The school […] should

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be regarded as the locus par excellence, of moral development for children’ (Durkheim 1961: 19) and further about inculcating discipline — the first element of morality: Discipline is in itself a factor, sui generis, of education […]. Through it and by means of it alone are we able to teach the child to rein in his desires, to set limits to his appetites of all kinds, to limit and through limitation, to define the goals of his activity (ibid.: 43).

It could well be that the key to the problems of education in Mizoram, described above, lie in Durkheim’s observations.

Teacher Interaction and Culture On the basis of the observation of teacher interaction in different contexts, one can first, understand the way in which the teachers live as members of the school and teaching community; and second, it also helps to map out the teacher culture for ‘The opus operatum (the finished product) and the modus operandi (the process) are, but two sides of the same aim (Bourdieu 1990). Let me now examine teacher interaction: first in a staff meeting of the school and second in a meeting of the local Teachers Union. I do this by capturing a picture of these from my field notes. A. Today, I observed the teacher interaction at a staff meeting. The meeting was held in the staffroom of the school. It presented a picture which was different from the usual everyday interaction. The school was closed after half-day at 12 noon. The teachers had a brief tea break after which the meeting commenced. This was the first staff meeting of the year. The academic session had begun on 18 January but effectively only from the 1 February due to the HSLC examinations held in the month of January. The staffroom was a big hall and was partitioned by a knee-high partition. The middle school teachers sat on one side and the high school teachers sat on the other side of the partition. The meeting was presided over by the Principal Pu Zahnuna. The senior-most teacher of the school who is also the Guidance Master sat with him. The chairman addressed members from the side where the middle school teachers were sitting. The meeting started with tawngtaina (prayers), when all those present closed their eyes and bowed down their head. The chairman and all the members invoked the blessings of Lalpa (God) for the successful conduct of the impending first term examinations. The main issues on the agenda were: routine for the

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first term examinations; the issue of the closure or the continuation of the Ramthim Thingpui Dawr, the tea stall run by the Evangelical Church of Maraland (ECM) just outside the school premises; the issue of the teachers frequently taking leave and thus disrupting studies; the transfer of one high school teacher to Lawngtlai, a town neighbouring Saiha; and general cleanliness of the staffrooms and toilets. The chairman raised the issues for discussion and then left it open for the members to express their opinion. For quite sometime, the middle school teachers remained passive listeners while the high school teachers participated, relatively, in a more active way. It was only after the Principal intervened and coaxed the former to speak that they participated. Still, only a few spoke and the others preferred to remain silent. Those who spoke were the senior teachers. The junior teachers, who were invariably the younger lot, preferred not to speak. Among the high school teachers too, the generally articulate and vocal ones spoke. These were mainly the senior male staff while the junior and female staff preferred to listen. The meeting was conducted in Mizo tawng (Mizo Language). It began by discussing the routine to be followed for the terminal exams for the first term. The Principal announced that after the exams were over, there would be a day’s off and teaching shall resume on the 18 May for the second term. Several teachers expressed their reservation on this announcement, a few verbally while the others just mumbling in discontentment. One non-Mizo teacher vented out his frustration thus: ‘It is alright for those who have to check a few copies, but if one has to examine many copies, it will be difficult due to no current and the added responsibility of holding the classes.’ The next issue was that of the Ramthim Thingpui Dawr. Members were of the view that this tea stall causes the school canteen to incur losses. The members were then asked to cast their vote on a piece of paper. As there were equal votes for and against the motion, the Principal decided to use the lottery method to settle the matter. The lottery went in favour of having only one canteen — the school canteen. Incidentally, this was the first time that the issue of contention between a church-run institution and a secular one was discussed and the interest of the latter was upheld. When the meeting was in progress, some teachers spitted on the floor, some spitted kuhva (betel) out of the window while some casually cleaned their hands with the staffroom curtains. Finally, the issue of the transfer of a high school teacher to Lawngtlai was discussed. A teacher who had been sent to Saiha on a transfer

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from Lawngtlai had to be replaced by sending a teacher to Lawngtlai. A teacher belonging to the Mara tribal community had thus been transferred to Lawngtlai, but he got his transfer stalled. Therefore, the name of a vai (non-Mizo) science teacher was proposed by the members. The Principal turned down the proposal, saying that the school had only two proper science and maths teachers and that their services were valued. Another argument was advanced too: that it was proper to transfer a teacher from the arts and humanities side as a replacement for the English teacher. Finally, the name of a teacher from the arts stream was proposed and the meeting came to an end.

The staffroom is what Woods calls the ‘back-regions’ or the areas where ‘the stage actors take time off and relax’ (1983: 38). However, the fact of a formal staff meeting being held here subdues the ‘euphoric atmosphere’ which generally characterises the staffroom (ibid.). The hierarchy in the staff is visible by the seating arrangement with the middle school teachers sitting on one side of the compartmentalised staffroom and the high school teachers on the other. The Principal, who presides over the meeting, does attempt to construct a situation to mitigate the hierarchy by addressing the members from the side where the middle school teachers are sitting. The physical context of segregation no doubt communicates powerful messages here. The adaptation to the situation however shows that it has been manipulated to produce certain definitions — the high school teachers serving to reinforce the distance between themselves and the middle school teachers by taking an active role in the discussion. Though the atmosphere of the meeting is by and large sombre and formal, it is interspersed with brief spells of informality and laughter. For instance, when a teacher expressed his views which were contrary to the majority view, the teachers laughingly remarked, ‘this is the view of the opposition’. The casual element entered the formal meeting in other ways too, besides laughter — for instance, spitting on the floor, spitting the nicotine water out of the staffroom window, sharing the nicotine water from the same tuibur. Though these are the general habits among tribal communities, especially in Mizoram, it is also an effort towards role management. In normal times, the staffroom is a place ‘to relax, recover poise, draw strength, in short to help in managing the teacher role’ (Woods 1983: 74). Laughter, which is a

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distinctive feature of staffrooms, functions to neutralise the stress and problems of their formal job. The staff meeting is also reflective of the teacher culture that pervades the school. There are different teacher sub-cultures in the school. We see that the women teachers remain passive listeners in the entire meeting. Besides the gender subculture, what is exhibited is a generational sub-culture too — the senior teachers occupying a higher status as compared to the relatively younger and junior teachers despite the fact that the latter are respected for their higher qualifications and expertise in their subjects. An ethnic sub-culture can also be sensed here as the vai teachers do not participate actively in the discussions. However, they are valued by the school authorities for more pragmatic reasons in that they teach ‘cerebral subjects’ (Woods 1983: 71) like science and mathematics that enjoy a higher prestige. A distinct subject sub-culture is also visible here. Besides, teachers from the Mara community are hesitant and reluctant to be transferred to another place which is preponderantly a Lai area. B. Attended the Saiha Teachers’ Union meeting. The agenda was whether they should continue having condolence meetings in the case of a death of a teacher or any of his/her relative such as the spouse, parents, children in accordance with the Constitution of the Saiha Teachers’ Union. The members present were divided on the issue. The majority of them were in favour of limiting the holding of a condolence meeting only in case of the death of a teacher and his/her immediate relatives while a few were in favour of retaining the old system. A decision in favour of the former would have necessitated the amendment of this Constitution. The meeting was conducted in Mizo. On the main table, the Bible was placed along with a vase with pangpar (flowers) made of plastic. The meeting began and ended with tawngtaina. About 100–200 teachers from primary schools, middle schools and high schools in Saiha attended the meeting. To counter the argument of those in favour of change, one teacher, Pi Chaki remarked, ‘It is in Aizawl that the Teachers Union is very big with 1000 members or so and where condolence meetings should be held only in the case of the death of a teacher. Those who want to limit the condolence meetings to only the death of teachers must rename their union as “Aizawl Saiha Teachers Union”’. This remark of Pi Chaki drew a lot of laughter from all those who had gathered.

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In the course of discussion, one of the vai teachers remarked, citing the case of several non-Mizo teachers, ‘Our parents are not here; they have been away in our native places and no condolence meeting is held here in case any one of them dies’. No one paid much attention to what he said and the voice was drowned in the din.

The meeting serves to bring to the fore the type of changes coming in Mara society which is becoming more differentiated. It also highlights the marginal status of the vai teachers. Apart from the formal interaction, the teachers interact with each other and with the students at an informal level too. This is best seen during the school interval when an air of informality pervades which is different from the usual classroom interaction characterised by formality. Tired of the routine, teachers take time off to relax. The corridor swarms with pupils and staff and there is hustle and bustle. There is a huge pitcher placed in one of the corners with a mug atop. The students come and take water from that mug and the teachers also drink from it. A teacher calls a pupil and asks him to Kuhva pe rawh (get me a paan). A girl from the canteen comes and brings thingpui (tea), artui (eggs), poori (fried puffed bread), chang (fermented bread) and other eatables. The teachers sit and relax, a male teacher casually sitting on an arm chair with one of his legs on the arm. Another female teacher comes and wipes her hands with the curtain after eating. Soon there is a lot of commotion when a few fat rats are spotted. One of the teachers chases them with a broom. Finally, she is successful in her venture after she has pinned a few to death and her joy is tremendous. She announces that she would have a feast of rats that night to celebrate her success. Woods has described the staffroom thus: The properties of the staff room often lend it a distinctive character perhaps; old battered armchairs which the teachers who ‘belong’ to them defend with great vigour, resisting charitable urges from the head teacher to buy ‘brand new ones’, or stained tea mugs, which carry the evidence of many a happy break-both symbols of, individuality and frequently too, signs of vast disorder, masses of paper, books, journals strewn around flat areas — which contrasts strongly with the system and order outside. Above all, the staff room is characterised by euphoric atmosphere given off by the reactions of people in it, whether they be smoking, doing crosswords, playing bridge, conversing or just relaxing (Woods 1983: 78).

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The general characteristic features of the staffroom as described by Woods are to be found in the back region of the staffroom of School A. In short, the staffroom is ‘a haven in the stormy seas’. In School B, the teacher interaction is different from that in School A as the degree of control is less. Here, the teachers and the other staff have leisure in ample measure and the most popular way to spend leisure is to play ‘draft’, a game like chess in the staffroom. The non-Mizo teacher couple go back home. Since the wife is the only female staff in the high school section, her social interaction is very limited and she prefers to keep quiet and speaks only when spoken to. After every class, the teachers and students take 10 minutes rest after which the bell is rung again. Children come out of the classroom. A few bask in the sun, some play the syhuly (bean game), some boys play with bamboo lying in the school premises, and others make frames for spectacles from bamboo and practice wearing them. Still others try to dance cheraw or the bamboo dance (called rakhatla by Maras), while a few girls climb over each other. The essence of all activities is to enjoy. Motivation among teachers runs at a low ebb. The school according to the teachers is like a ‘ship without a shaft’. It is a picture of disunity and disharmony. The teachers of the school say that the Headmaster fails to inspire his staff. He does not stay in the school in the afternoon and also feel that it is purely on the basis of ‘personal drive’ that they manage to move on with fair degree of sincerity ‘merely to finish the course’ for ‘we are being paid for it’. The attitude of teachers to their job as one teacher puts it, ‘For me, it is only a question of earning my livelihood’. He is a non-Mizo and feels that, ‘whatever we may do, they (students) do not pay respect to us — they respect those teachers who belong to their own social group’. The teachers also feel that there is no feedback from either the students or the parents. The Principal’s room is separate from the staffroom. But he keeps coming to the staffroom to have thopi, (tea) and snacks. The interaction between the staff and the Headmaster is not very open, and not very closed either. Yet, the staff are quite guarded in their speech and overt behaviour towards him. However at his back, they do not hesitate to criticise him bitterly. After having dealt with the interaction among teachers and between the teachers and the headmaster which give us a glimpse of the teacher culture, I now

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present a few case studies of teachers from both the schools. These would help us to further grasp the teacher culture.

Case Study I R. Peters, aged 34, teaches mathematics at School A. Hailing from Alancode in Kanyakumari District of Tamil Nadu, he came to Mizoram in 1983 after doing his BSc in 1981 from Madurai University in second division. He taught at Mary Winchester School and Sialsuk School from 1983 to 1986. During his graduation, Peters was a student leader and was interested in politics. He wanted to join LLB after graduation but his parents were opposed to his plans. During 1981–82, Peters gave private tuitions. One of his friends working in Synod High School, Aizawl, invited him to the North-East in 1983. Initially, Peters taught at Mission School in Assam. There, he was getting a salary of Rs 900 per month while in Mizoram he was to get Rs 1,400 per month. As this meant better monetary returns, he came to Aizawl in 1984 and later worked as a teacher in a semi-aided school. He found the prospect of a government job appealing and in 1986, he joined School A. Peters is married to a girl from his native place who has done a course in computer software. She is a housewife and they have a 10-month-old son. Denomination-wise, Peters belongs to the ECM here but back home, he belongs to the Church of South India (CSI). He feels that the process of adjustment in Mizoram was not very difficult for him; it was rather relatively easy. This has been facilitated by ‘his being a Christian’ and his not having any qualms about ‘accepting thingpui and bawngsa (beef) from the locals. In other words, he has gained acceptance because of his easy social interaction with the people. Peters declares, ‘I am a Christian, and I attend Church here’. About the attitude of the pupils towards him and their response, Peters airs his views thus: ‘Initially among students, there was a feeling of hesitation and a sense of my being a vai. Gradually, things became smoother.’ As far as job satisfaction is concerned, Peters says that he is ‘not much happy’, but ‘not much unhappy either’. About the inclination of the pupils towards education, Peters feels that though students cooperate and also show eagerness, they learn by rote. Performance in science and mathematics is especially poor as teachers are not trained to teach these subjects. A few Mizo ‘arts graduate’ teachers were given training in mathematics to enable

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them to teach the subject and to discourage the appointment of non-Mizos as science and mathematics teachers. As far as parents are concerned, Peters says that they generally ‘compel’ the school authorities to promote their wards by pressurising them and also that ‘parents do not think scientifically but in religious terms’. We shall examine the veracity of this statement towards the end of this chapter when we analyse the science and mathematics education.

Case Study II S. Gangopadhyaya aged 30 teaches mathematics in School A. He hails from village Kulchanda in Burdwan district of West Bengal and pursued BSc (Hons) from Vivekananda Mahavidyalaya, Burdwan in 1983. Thereafter, he did a diploma in mathematics education from Calcutta in 1985, securing a first division. Faced by unemployment in his home state and family circumstances, poverty and his father’s illness, Gangopadhyaya migrated to Mizoram in 1987. Besides these ‘push’ factors of migration, there were ‘pull’ factors too — the ‘higher pay scale for teachers’ in Mizoram compared to the neighbouring state of Assam and ‘proximity to home’ being the determining factors. He says that in 1987, when he was appointed as teacher, about 20 to 25 vai teachers were appointed for science and maths. Subsequently, 34 teachers have been trickling in to the state every year. But now, not many vai teachers are being appointed due to the availability of local teachers for these subjects. Gangopadhyaya makes efforts to explain the topic under study in Mizo as is the practice. Though the classroom situation permits more authority to the teacher, he tries to engage in a two-way process of teaching– learning where pupils are also allowed to participate. The main problem that he faces in his pursuit is ‘that first, students learn by heart and therefore, the content of learning is easily forgotten after two–three days; and second, the foundation of the students in science and mathematics is weak. The reason he cites for this is that, at the middle school level, there are local teachers who are not adequately trained to teach these disciplines. When students reach class VIII, the teachers sometimes have to even teach them the fundamentals like simple substraction, multiplication, division, etc.’ About his students, Gangopadhyaya points out, ‘There are two kinds of students: those who religiously attend church and those

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who neither go to the church nor study’. About the first type, he states, ‘Even if they have an exam, be it a Board Exam, they will still attend church on a Sunday; many times, I scold them that Pathian (God) alone cannot help you to pass the exam. I ask them suppose you are alone, without parents, will the Pathian give you food? They respond in pin-drop silence but later again, they are the same’. In Gangopadhyaya’s view faith alone, without human efforts, cannot bring success to the students in their examinations. About the second type who are mainly boys, he says, ‘They know that their guardians will be away to church for at least three–four hours. So they are absolutely free and lose their time by not going to church, not studying but just indulging in lengdawn (courting of girls). They have the mei-mei or poi-lo attitude (‘anything goes’ or carefree attitude). Gangopadhyaya is married and his wife, a graduate, is a housewife. The couple have a daughter aged three years. His monthly income is Rs 4,500. He always wanted to be a teacher, even as a youth. Though he feels that teachers just get average respect from students and people in Mizoram, he would like to be in this very school.

Case Study III Prasad Nambiar is 34 years old and has been teaching social studies at School B since 1987. He has been working in the school for the last six years. Nambiar first came to Mizoram in 1986 and served in the Public Works Department (PWD), Saiha, for a year. Thereafter, he left this job as it was a temporary one and joined this school. Nambiar hails from Kalayapuram in Kerala. He has done his schooling and graduation in Kerala and was an average student. Belonging to a poor family, he was called to Mizoram by one of his close relatives based in Saiha. He migrated to Mizoram due mainly to ‘push factors’. As he puts it, ‘Kerala being one of the most literate states, only the high scorers get jobs there. Average scorers have no chance and are thus forced to move out in search of jobs’. He came to Mizoram as a bachelor. After serving for three years in School B, he was told by the Headmaster ‘to get a bride who has done BSc BEd’ as the school was urgently in need of a science teacher. He was fortunate to get a wife who was as per his expectations. Nambiar’s wife has been teaching maths and physics in the same school since 1990. With her qualifications, she has been

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able to fill this significant gap experienced by the school. Since the couple is based in an extremely remote area having poor health facilities and communication links, they have been compelled to leave their infant son in their native place. As for the performance of his role, Nambiar fits in the category of the ‘professional teacher’ (Thapan 2006). He perceives his role to be the satisfactory performance of his teaching duties and other administrative responsibilities assigned to him from time to time for he ‘earns his living’ from it. Nambiar is considered to be sincere in his work, punctual, prepares adequately to teach in the class and wants to give his best to the students and is in demand for other tasks too due to his efficiency. Apart from this, however, he does not identify at all with the village, the people or his students. This is apparent when he remarks thus, on the school being closed for tlarai (community work; see Figure 4.2): ‘It is their world, let them do whatever they feel like. I have to do my job, that’s all. After all I earn my livelihood from it.’ Nambiar’s frustration stems from a variety of factors. First, he says that he does not derive much satisfaction in teaching as it is a one-way process with the students never asking any questions. Second, according to Nambiar, the headmaster is incapable of taking the school in the proper direction, which in his words, is ‘a ship without a shaft’. Third, the use of unfair means in the examination in which the Headmaster himself tells the teachers to write answers on the blackboard with the teachers meekly submitting to his orders. Fourth, the frequent interference by the management mainly constituted by ‘the illiterate people’ in the village overriding the educated teachers. Fifth, his lack of identification with the tribal worldview and social customs. For instance, when the annual assembly of the Independent Church of Maraland (ICM) was to be held, he said that he would ‘run away to Saiha’ for if he stayed behind, he would be asked to lodge a number of visitors in his house, as is the Mara custom. Sixth, when he perceives his role of the social studies teacher vis-a-vis that of his wife who teaches mathematics and physics, he finds his own role inferior in certain respects as the services of his wife, being a science teacher, are much more urgently and significantly required. Though both of them are quite dissatisfied with the present scheme of things and want to leave the school at the earliest possible opportunity and join

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‘a better school’, his wife stands a better chance of shifting compared to him as the services of a science teacher are considered more valuable. Nambiar himself, on the contrary, is not much hopeful as there are many ‘sons of the soil’ who can teach social studies, the subject taught by him. Lastly, he mentions the difficult conditions of living that the village offers such as walking for long distances, no electricity and lack of availability of vegetables. He spends his weekends by going to the tikhao (water point) to wash clothes or to the forest to fetch firewood. For his survival in the system, Nambiar has been compelled to conceal his faith. He is a Hindu but has had to declare himself and his wife as Christians. The couple do not worship the Hindu deities openly nor do they perform Hindu rituals as this would mean lighting aggarbattis (incense sticks), and the whole village would know that they are Hindus. Nambiar prefers to maintain a low profile in the school and never expresses his grudges openly for anything as he feels that if a situation arises, the local teachers and the Burmese teachers would unite for they belong to the same racial stock and ‘after all, we are outsiders’. He commands just average respect from his students and gets along with his colleagues in a satisfactory way at a superficial level. At a deeper level however, the couple feels ‘isolated’ and ‘lonely’.

Figure 4.2. School children engaged in Tlaraihrina (Mizo: Hnatlang) Source: Courtesy of the author.

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Case Study IV L. Zahea hails from Yangon, Myanmar. He came to this village at the age of 30 and has been teaching chemistry and physics to senior classes for the last six years. Prior to this, Zahea served in Matupi High School, Myanmar, from 1983–1986. Later, he was transferred and served in Mindat High School in the Chin hills of Myanmar for two years. He resigned from there and migrated to Chhimtuipui district in search of greener pastures. In Zahea’s case, both the ‘push’ and ‘pull’ factors of migration are operative with the ‘push’ factor being economic deprivation. Despite coming from mathematics background, he did not stand a good chance in the job market in Myanmar for according to him he was an average scorer. For his qualification, what he had been earning in Myanmar was a meagre amount compared to what he gets now — Rs 4,500 per mensem. A good pay scale for teachers in Mizoram is the major ‘pull’ factor. Zahea has been a student in the science stream. After his schooling in Hmawbe, Yangon, he completed his BSc in mathematics from the University of Yangon. His wife is a mathematics teacher too and serves in Yangon. Though his parent church is American Baptist, on the Indian side, his affiliation is to the Independent Church of Maraland. Zahea says he has cordial relations with his colleagues barring a few incidents when he had some friction with the management and the headmaster. He is generally liked by his students as he empathises with them and their problems, and also for the way he teaches. After reading a chapter, he translates it into Mara reih, the mother tongue of the students. This is a negotiation strategy which works well both for the students and the teacher. Zahea is also appreciated for his youthful demeanour and his active participation in the affairs of the community and church. An active member of the Mara Thly Py (MTP), the voluntary organisation of the Mara youths, he attends the church services regularly, about thrice a week, and therefore has a fairly high social status. Zahea prefers to keep away from local politics and does not hold any position in the church either — for instance, as a Sande sikul zirtirtu (the Sunday School teacher) — though majority of the school teachers are also simultaneously Sunday School teachers. As for his professional status, though Zahea is fully committed to fulfilling his duties as a teacher and tries his best to be an effective

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one at that, he maintains a low profile in the system, for ‘all said and done, I am a foreigner’, he says. At the level of society, he commands full acceptance of the Mara community at large. However at the administrative level, he cannot raise his voice against anything that goes wrong in the school ‘for the fear of making his presence conspicuous and his survival in the system threatened’. Zahea has cordial relations with his seniors in the hierarchy and despite differences, he does not speak in derogatory terms about them in their absence. Zahea’s commitment towards his job is not spontaneous for he aspired to be an officer in the army but was compelled by circumstances to land up in the teaching profession, as he was over-age for the former. He derives just average satisfaction from his job which is evident when he remarks, ‘Given an opportunity, I would leave the school and do business’. To sum up, it can be said that in comparison to his vai colleagues, Zahea’s position is relatively comfortable. The ethnic similarity with the local people and the Christian faith that he professes have played a significant role in ‘fitting’ him into the local society besides his personal qualities of empathy, cooperation and cheerful countenance.

Case Study V C. Ropianga, aged 38, belongs to the Chinzah clan of the Lai tribal community. He teaches social studies in School A. Pianga, as he is popularly called, belongs to the Isua Krista Kohhran (IKK) denomination and is a local church secretary, a Kohhran Upa (a church elder) and Bible society member. He did his Middle School Leaving Certificate (MSLC) and High School Leaving Certificate (HSLC) from Bualpui (ng), his native village. After graduating from North Eastern Hill University (NEHU), Shillong, Ropianga did BEd from NEHU, Mizoram campus (now Mizoram University) in Aizawl. Prior to joining School A in 1985, Pianga taught at Bualpui (ng) and then at a government high school in Lawngtlai, and has a total teaching experience of 14 years. His wife, a BA, BEd, is also a teacher. The couple have six children — two sons and four daughters. Ropianga feels that teachers get tlemte (little) respect from zirlaite (students) and mipui (the common people). He has plans of quitting the teaching career in future ‘as 15 years of teaching

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experience is enough’. Aiming to join politics in the near future, Ropianga asserts that in the next few years, he would decide about which party to join and has plans to contest the Lai Autonomous District Council (LADC) elections from Bualpui (ng). As far as his perspectives or ‘the screen to view the world’ (Woods 1983) are concerned, he believes that a religious person makes a good teacher due to his interest in work and also due to his rinawma (honesty). In his view, a religious person is not only one who simply attends church but he who understands and follows the teachings of Jesus Christ. Pianga feels that not only a Christian but a person of any faith can be a good teacher so long as he does not teach the tenets of his own religion alone, to students. One who is genuinely interested in his subject and who does not neglect his duty is a good teacher. According to him, ‘Some teachers merely talk about the teachings of Jesus Christ but they never go to their classes, they are lazy. If a person truly follows the teachings of Jesus, he will not only perform his teaching duties properly but also engage in the hnatlang (social and community work)’. Ropianga further points out that the students are mainly interested in gambling, playing cards, drinking wine and fashion. According to him, this is the reason why it is difficult for students to go for higher studies and the level of education is poor in Mizoram. In his view, barely 3 per cent of the students are interested in studies. The rest do not think about their future and they do not know what will come to them. He says the reason why people do not want to work hard are: We get easy income from DRDA, DC and the District Council and hence the students do not think about what will happen to their future. After 10–20 years, the development may stop and again there will be poverty. These days it is easy to get a job as a nurse, primary teacher, lower division clerk. Even a class VIII pass person can get a job in the District Council.

Ropianga holds strong views about weak discipline among students. He airs his opinion thus: Most families cannot control their children — morning and evening, the children want to do lengdawn. If they neglect their studies, how can they pass? They sniff dendrite and use Proxivon capsule for injection. The worst are those from the rich background whose parents are contractors and politicians.

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In the classroom, Ropianga adheres to the ‘psychometric paradigm’ (Woods 1983) of the teaching typology. Therefore he views the students as ignorant, with a limited capacity who need to be enlightened and made more aware by the teacher. He is a deviance-provocative teacher who considers deviant pupils as work avoiders, anti-authority and rebellious. He believes in the ‘missionary ideology’ (Woods 1983: 65) who looks at his profession as serving the cause of civilisation. By emphasising strongly on discipline, Ropianga represents the teacher sub-culture of ‘conservatism’. He is not much liked by the students in the school as according to them, ‘a teacher who is not strict at all is the “best” — one who does not scold us or gives us homework’. The case studies of teachers discussed give us a glimpse of the different categories of teachers in Mizoram. The first category comprises teachers from the Indian mainland who are referred to as the vai; the second consists of the Burmese teachers who have migrated to the Indian side; and the local Mizo, Lai or Mara teachers form the third category. The vai teachers can be further subdivided into two main groups — the Christian vai and the non-Christian vai. The case study of R. Peters exemplifies the former while the case studies of S. Gangopadhyaya and Prasad Nambiar are the exemplars of the latter. Hailing mainly from Assam, West Bengal, Bihar, Manipur and Kerala, these vai teachers are generally called to these areas by friends and relatives. They migrate to Mizoram due to both ‘pull’ and ‘push’ factors. The pull factors are the better pay scales in Mizoram for teachers and the push factors are poverty and educated unemployment. Though both the groups of vai teachers have an ambivalent status in the local society, clearly the path of adjustment is much smoother for the Christian vai due to a shared faith. The relatively easy acceptance of the Christian vai teacher is also because he empathises more with the local people and because he shares the pleasantries of everyday life with them as is demonstrated by the case study of R. Peters. The non-Christian vai are mainly the Muslims and the Hindus. It is not only the path of their adjustment which is difficult. They are also compelled to lead a somewhat clandestine life as is evident in the case of Nambiar. The alienation which this teacher couple faces is a two-way process. It is generated chiefly by their lack of empathy for the local people and also due to the fact that the local people do not accept them because of their belonging to a

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different racial stock, professing a different faith and also because their history provides them with evidence of exploitation at the hands of the vai category of people to which this teacher-couple belong. The vai teachers feel that they are not much respected by the students and people due to their pre-conceived biases. One of my respondents remarked thus: Out of school, the students say about us that he is a vaipa. Among themselves, they refer to the vai teachers hailing from Bihar and UP as dumka. Vai teachers are even called mi-anglo (the people with low IQ).

It is primarily due to the paucity of science and mathematics teachers in Mizoram that the services of vai teachers are required. The extreme sense of alienation among these teachers can be gauged by the following statement of a vai teacher: Till the time I learnt the language, I really liked the people and the place, feeling that it is a place in heaven […] but when I understood the language[…]. I was really annoyed and now my annoyance is at its peak.

Nevertheless, it must be stated that the antagonism faced by the non-Christian vai teachers is much less in degree in Chhimtuipui district as compared to the other districts in Mizoram due to the higher level of negative orientations towards the non-Mizos in the latter. For vai teachers, as is evident from the case studies, it is merely a matter of survival. They live in extremely difficult conditions and feel marginalised. However, they cannot voice their sense of marginalisation as they have to earn their livelihood in Mizoram. The Burmese teachers form another significant category of teachers in Mizoram. The enrolment records in the College for Teachers Education (CTE), Aizawl, indicate that out of 648 inservice teachers trained here between 1990–1995, more than 150 were Burmese. Before we analyse the teacher culture of the Burmese teachers, it is apt to have a brief discussion about their background. Migration by people from the Chin hills of Myanmar to Chhimtuipui district and also other districts of Mizoram is frequent. It gained momentum in the 1970s and the 1980s due to the increased pace of development, consequent upon Mizoram acquiring the status of a Union Territory in 1972 and later as a state in 1987. There are various factors for migration. The first factor is racial, religious

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and linguistic similarities of people on both sides of the border, with the porous border facilitating the process. The second factor is that due to the military regime in Myanmar, the educated people feel suffocated and realise that their fundamental rights are being curtailed. My respondents expressed their feelings thus, ‘We do not like the dictatorship there, we want to live freely’. The third factor is reaping the benefits of better opportunities on the Indian side and thus to enhance their economic status. Confiding in me, Zahea remarked that a teacher of his seniority would be earning around 1,200–1,600 kyats in the Chin hills of Myanmar which is a meagre sum compared to what he is earning here. Further, that it is only the high scorers who get jobs back home and average scorers do not stand any chance of employment there. The science and mathematics teachers from Myanmar are the most sought after, not only in Chhimtuipui district but all over Mizoram. The fourth factor is those migrating suffer religious persecution at the hands of the Burmans or Kawlmi as the Chin people refer to them. The Kawlmi are Buddhists while the Chins are Christians. The last factor is that due to the prevalence of forced labour for digging roads or for porterage, the educated Chins are sometimes called to do hard labour and are not paid for it. Therefore, they display much resistance towards the established regime. After graduating in arts or science, these graduates from across the border are initially absorbed as primary school teachers. After serving for three years, they are automatically promoted to the middle school. A teacher needs six years of teaching experience in primary and middle school to become a high school teacher. The teachers who generally migrate are males in the 20–40 years age group. There are three main categories of migrants. First, there are the Lai or the Laizo (as they are called in the Chin hills). They generally hail from Falam and Haka subdivisions of the Chin hills in Myanmar. The Laizo form approximately 40 per cent of the total educated migrants. Their preference is to settle down in an area where they can find people of their own tribal group. The second category consists of the Mara migrants who are mainly from Thlantlang township. They form approximately 20 per cent of the total educated migrants. These migrants walk on foot for two to three days to enter the Indian side. The third category comprise the Tahan Mizo who constitute about 40 per cent of the total educated migrants. They come from Champhai side in the eastern part of Mizoram on light vehicles.

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The migrating teachers and other groups belong to the American Baptist Mission called the Zomi Baptist Convention (ZBC) in the Chin hills. After shifting to the Indian side, they belong to the Baptist Church of Mizoram or the Evangelical Church of Maraland in the Mara Autonomous District Council (MADC) area and to the Lairam Baptist church in the LADC, as the case may be. The process of their adjustment is quite smooth owing primarily to belonging to the same racial stock, shared kinship ties and professing the same faith. In 1995, it was estimated that there were approximately 10,000 Burmese nationals inhabiting Aizawl city itself. To meet their religious needs, the Baptist Church of Mizoram conducts Church Services in Haka holh (the Lai Language) in Aizawl. Given the fact that these services are held in the knowledge of the church and also that the Burmese teachers undergo in-service training in the stateowned CTE, their existence in Mizoram is an open secret. The migrating Burmese teachers in our study such as L. Zahea feel more secure in Chhimtuipui district compared to their counterparts in Aizawl and Lunglei districts. One of my respondents Sui-awr remarked: We enjoy the same respect as the other teachers, we have the same say in school matters too. Initially, when we come here, we do not get the same respect from colleagues, students and people as we cannot speak the Mizo tawng (Mizo language) in the first year.

On my asking if he planned to return to the Chin hills, Sui-awr replies: ‘No, there is no need to return that side. I have married a girl from here and have no future plans of going back’. Teachers such as Zahea in my case studies participate actively in social activities too — for instance, in Mara Students Organisation (MSO), Mara Thly Py (MTP) or the Lai Students Association (LSA) and Young Lai Association (YLA) as the case may be. However, those migrating teachers who are in Aizawl and Lungei districts do not have the same status as ‘Mizos feel that we are foreigners’. A respondent further adds: ‘In Aizawl and Lunglei district, some communal feeling is there but not in the Chhimtuipui district.’ The problem is much more attenuated in the northeastern district of Champhai where the Mizo Zirlai Pawl (MZP), an important student’s organisation in Mizoram, declares them as foreigners. The migrating teachers do not participate in other activities unlike their counterparts in the Chhimtuipui district. The Mizos in the

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Champhai area call these migrants variously as Pawi (this term is also used for members of the Lai community in Mizoram), Burma mi (the people of Burma) and Ramdangmi (the people of another land). The Burmese teachers are accepted more by their pupils than their colleagues. Zahea says, ‘The students have some kind of a sense of fraternity with us as they feel that all of us are from Mongolia’. The situation is not the same with their fellow colleagues. About them, he says: ‘They have a different feeling[...] they only see us as doing a job with them’. The last category of teachers in Mizoram are the local people themselves. The case study of Ropianga demonstrates that their existence is considered the most legitimate as they are the ‘sons of the soil’. Most of them also double up as Sunday School teachers and also as kohhran upa (church elder), variously called awno-nomacha in Mara. A sizeable section among them want to join politics or to start their own business.

Pupil Culture ‘Pupil culture’, argues Thapan, ‘is made up of the pupil and his private world in interaction with the school environment in its manifold character including people, events and situations of the pedagogic process’ (2006: 117). It is affected by the background, attitude and experiences of the pupil, their expectations from school, their interactions with fellow pupils, and their hopes and fears for the future. When the pupils enter the domain of secondary socialisation of the school, they bring with themselves the values inculcated during their primary socialisation. These not only affect their academic performance but also their attitudes and views. In this section, I examine some dimensions of the pupil culture. This is done by a discussion on the views and attitudes of the students. Though the classroom is a ‘front-region’ according to Goffman, what I describe below from my fieldnotes is its picture as a ‘backregion’ due primarily to the fact that the teacher has not yet arrived in the classroom. Due to the absence of the teaching–learning process, the classroom can be treated as a back-region, when the pupils are casually sitting and interacting, and an informal and casual air pervades the atmosphere.

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Girls and boys sit separately. Three girls sit together in each row of the middle segment. The boys sit on one of the two side rows; the other row is occupied by the girls. I start my conversation with Julie. Her mother is a Mara while her father is a Bengali. She narrates, ‘When I was in Class I and II, they (the Mizo and Lai pupils) looked at us like tigers do and teased me that I am an English lady from London and that my nose is pointed like a parrot’, and further, ‘They would be very good to us if we behave the way they want us to behave. For instance, if they tell me, “Go and sit there” and I obey what they say. But we are not their slaves. I remain calm because my Mummy told me to remain quiet as I have to study here till Class X’. Julie adds, ‘There was a science seminar in February. I performed well but my name was not there. So I have decided that I will not participate in any competition now’. Another Mara girl, Steffi, airs her opinion thus: ‘They (the Mizo and Lai boys) knock our bags. We scold them and they go back. If we do not say anything to them, they will do everything with us that they do with Mizo girls. If a girl is absent, some boy will come and sit in the middle. They behave like married people do […] they can do it with any girl’. She adds, ‘If we get good marks, the Mizo look down upon us. They have a feeling of being separate’.

Thapan (2006) asserts that friendships among the pupils are central to their life at school and these are expressed in talking, doing things and being together. The most important bases of friendship are similar attitudes towards life and people and common interests. Friendship in my fieldwork situation is governed by sex and ethnic background, more than anything else. For instance, Julie points out, ‘I am only on talking terms with the Mizo students and not on friendship terms. They always come and fight with us but we keep quiet. But the situation is still better here than in Aizawl’. On a similar note, Steffi adds, ‘Outwardly they like but inwardly they do not like to make friends with us. Today, they may talk nicely but tomorrow they will talk badly with us’. The insularity of friendship on the basis of ethnic differences is much more pronounced in girls compared to boys.

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To fully comprehend the pupil culture, it is useful to return once again to the classroom observations that we discussed in the earlier section. It is apparent from the above that merely a few pupils are conscious of their role in the pedagogic process, are not passive learners and are conscious of the benefits of their participation in the educative process. The majority of the pupils are neither active learners nor conscious of the benefits of their participation in the lesson. The strategies employed by them vary accordingly. The former category of pupils employ the ‘supportive’ strategies while the latter employ the strategy of ‘indifference’. The best teacher according to most of the students is ‘one who is not strict at all […] one who does not scold us or gives us homework’. Majority of the students like the school for the opportunity it offers — of ‘laugh’ or because it is the place where they meet their mates. Most of the students hold that a religious person makes a better teacher as ‘such people work according to faith’, ‘are more disciplined’ and that ‘they set an example before the others’. However, it is noteworthy that for them, ‘a Christian is the only religious person’. Majority of them also show preference for religious teaching in the syllabus and prefer religious activities in the routine in order to have a good moral life.

Values in Educational Knowledge ‘The destiny of India is now being shaped in her classrooms’, noted D. S. Kothari, the chairperson of the first Education Commission in the post-independence era in 1966. Such euphoric optimism was characteristic of that age. Much was being expected out of sectors such as law, science and technology and education. But when education failed to deliver the desired results some sort of skepticism, if not outright pessimism, sunk in. Time now was to rethink and reinterpret what went on in the classrooms of India in order to grasp the problem at the core. Not only were different kinds of inequalities being perpetuated but communalism also raised its head. Were the values being imparted in the context of the secondary socialisation of the school basically different or same as those of primary socialisation imparted by the family, village, neighbourhood, etc., or were they different? Would they lead to any change in the social scenario or would they maintain the status quo? These were the moot questions being raised. Such concerns were not merely the concerns

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of yesterday’s educators but continue to be the concerns of the educators of even today. In recent years, the need to devote attention to the micro-level school processes such as curriculum and classroom interaction is being emphasised in the sociology of education. ‘We need to reconcile agency and structure within the school context’, notes Scrase (1993: 51). Another focus in the contemporary sociological studies of education is to treat schools not merely as social sites but cultural sites too as it is being understood that schooling is also about ideology, culture and politics. Keeping in mind these broad perspectives, I seek to examine the values and ideologies as embodied in the curricular textbooks being used by the schools under study, after having dealt with the classroom interactions and pedagogy earlier. These textbooks — the prescribed Hindi texts by the Mizoram Board of Secondary Education (MBSE), Aizawl — are titled Zoram Bharti. In Mizoram, Hindi is studied from classes V to VIII. I analyse the values associated with citizenship and nationalism, gender and finally religion. Just as the number of units allotted to a particular subject indicates its relative status, similarly the number of curricular references to a particular theme enshrining a certain value — howsoever mundane it may appear — points to its relative significance and also ‘politics of knowledge’(Apple 2000) as to what gets represented, what is eliminated and why. It is useful first to grasp what the term value implies before proceeding further. Values, as the term itself denotes, are those which people in any society hold dear and cherish. As sociologists, notes Béteille, our concern is to understand: how in every society people single out certain things in life for special attention, things which they hold dear, things which they cherish or value; how they strive for power themselves so as to achieve a fuller realisation of their cherished values; and how, having attained power, they distort and corrupt these very values or seek to suppress the cherished values of others (2000: 11).

NationaIism, Democracy and Citizenship One of the major avowed aims of education in India is to promote social and national integration. This it has been felt would ultimately lead to ‘the creation of a strong, united country’, which in turn, is considered to be an ‘essential pre-condition for all progress’

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(Government of India 1966: 9). Independent India bequeathed upon its successive generations a hierarchical and stratified society — a society which was marked by differences between rich and poor, educated and the uneducated, rural and urban, lower castes and the upper castes besides regional, linguistic, gender and religious differences. Therefore, it was envisaged that the first and foremost need was ‘to strengthen democracy’. This required an enlightened populace with qualities such as self-restraint, tolerance, mutual goodwill and the obligations of good citizenship as a way of life. Here, I attempt to examine the values in educational knowledge pertaining to nationalism, regionalism and democracy as expressed in the textbooks. In Zoram Bharti Book V, a pan-Mizo identity is sought to be created. Thus, in a chapter titled Hum Kaun Hain? Hum Hum Hum Hum

Kaun Hain Mizo hain. sab Mizoram mein hain sab Mizo hain’.

Who are we? We are Mizo. We are in Mizoram. All of us are Mizos.

In Zoram Bharti Book VI, out of a total of 21 chapters, three, viz., Hamara Desh, Swatantrata Diwas and Chacha Nehru are explicitly about nationalism and national figures. The brief chapter titled Hamara Desh emphasises upon the great nation that India is, unity in diversity, Hindi as the national language, a sense of brotherhood, and also points out that Mizoram is a part of India and that all Mizos are citizens of India. It reads thus: Mizoram Bharat ka ek ang hai Hum Bharat ke nagrik hain Hindi Bharat ki rashtra bhasha hai, Hum bhi Hindi seekhte hain Sab Bhartiya bhai bhai hain.

Mizoram is a part of India We are the citizens of India Hindi is the national language of India We also learn Hindi All Indians are brothers

The chapter titled Swatantrata Diwas mentions the importance of this national day, how it is celebrated and also reminds the ‘student how to be a good citizen’ in these words: ‘Hum sab ek hain aur hum sab mil-jul kar rahenge’ (We are one and united and we shall live in harmony). However, one finds that the sense of nation has been portrayed as something remote and distant. When it comes to defining the

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borders of the land they inhabit, in a chapter entitled ‘Dishayen’ (Directions), the boundaries stop at Mizoram. The chapter states: Mizoram ki seemayen is prakaar hain The boundaries of Mizoram are as follows: uske purab mein Burma, On its east is Burma dakshin mein Arakan On its south is Arakan paschim mein Bangladesh On its west is Bangladesh tatha uttar mein Assam hain. And on its north is Assam.

Nowhere is it mentioned that Burma and Bangladesh are separate countries, while Assam, which borders Mizoram on the north, is a part of India — the country of which the Mizos are citizens. Besides, the name of Tripura with which Mizoram shares its interstate boundaries on the north-west, is conspicuous by its absence.3 In the chapter on Chacha Nehru, students are advised to derive inspiration from Nehru for he toiled hard for the sake of the country, and the students are reminded that they should also strive to be good citizens by working hard for the country. Finally, in a prayer titled, Eish prarthana, students are exhorted to pray for the happiness and well-being of India. The new Zoram Bharti Book VI has two chapters on Hamare Bapu (Mahatma Gandhi) and Azadi ka Din (Independence Day). In Zoram Bharti Book VII, out of a total of 24 chapters, two are on themes of national importance, one makes passing reference to the duties of citizens, five are on the state of Mizoram, and one is on the theme of region. The chapter Hamara Bharatvarsha stresses on the theme of unity in diversity — geographical and in terms of different tribes. It also exhorts the learners not to fight over petty issues and to stand united so that the nation can prosper. Another chapter titled Lal Qila (The Red Fort) deals with this place of national importance and underlines the importance of the Red Fort as a place of historical importance and as a symbol of Indian independence. Five chapters deal with themes of regional and state importance. One deals with Mizo dance form, cherawlam4 and the other with a Mizo festival, Mimkut. A poem Hamara Pradesh and a piece of prose Mizoram deal exclusively with Mizoram state. The latter conveys the significance of Mizoram from the point of view of internal security. It also notes that though there are diverse sub-tribes in Mizoram, they are collectively called the Mizo, which literally

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connotes people of the hills (Mi-people, Zo-hills). This chapter also mentions agriculture to be the main occupation of the people and notes that shifting or jhum cultivation is the main mode of livelihood but describes it as a wasteful method which results in the destruction of forests. It also informs about Mizoram state’s efforts to conserve forests by the New Land Use Policy (NLUP) besides enlightening the learners about the great progress Mizoram has made and encourages them to be partners in the progress of the state. Finally, one chapter Brahmaputra deals with this major river in the northeastern region. In Zoram Bharti-Book VIII, out of a total of 28 chapters, five are on themes of national importance, while three are explicitly on themes of state importance. This is somewhat in contrast to Zoram Bharti Books VI and VII where more weightage was given to themes of state importance. Hamara Desh (our country), a poem, serves to drive home the point of patriotism and communal harmony. Similarly, in the chapter that follows, Hamari Rashtrabhasha (our national language), the importance of Hindi mainly in its role as strengthening unity of the country is emphasised. This chapter is followed by another on Rashtriya Kartavya (our National Duties) wherein the learners are informed about their national duties. These duties, the lesson points out are to maintain safety and security of the country, to maintain unity, to uphold national interest above self interest, and to protect national property. Clearly, here ‘the notions of citizenship are embedded within the ethics of citizenship i.e., ‘what constitutes a good citizen? (Thapan 2003: 1450). The teaching of citizenship includes not merely an emphasis on rights but also on duties (Roy 2003). Finally, two chapters deal with personalities of national importance — Rashtrapita Gandhi emphasises the qualities epitomised by Gandhi such as truth and non-violence and the influence of Shrawan Kumar and Harishchandra on him, and that on Indira Gandhi, deals with her life and times as the third Prime Minister of India. Of the three chapters on Mizoram state, one is on Rihdil (a lake in Mizoram), one on Chapcharkut and the third is on Zawlbuk (the youth dormitory) in the traditional Mizo society. In the chapter Rihdil, this lake is mentioned as the biggest and the most famous one in Mizoram which is situated between Mizoram and Burma. It also emphasises that a dead person’s soul goes to Rihdil as believed by the Mizos. The chapter ignores the existence of Palak dil, the largest lake of Mizoram situated in the Mara Autonomous District Council Area in

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Chhimtuipui district.5 The new Zoram Bharti for class VIII contains four chapters on national themes viz., Rashtrapita Mahatma Gandhi (Father of the Nation), Mera Bharat Mahan (My India is Great), Indira ke Naam Patra (Letters to Indira) and Chhabis Janvari ki Parade (26th January Parade) while three chapters deal with regional themes such as Hamara Gaon (Our Village), Chapchar Kut and Zawlbuk. The emphasis on the themes of national integration, unity in diversity, national symbols and personalities is in accordance with the National Policy of Education. The aim of the curriculum is to awaken consciousness about nationalism and national integration and make the citizens aware and enlightened about their rights and duties. These are considered essential preconditions for the creation of a strong democracy. There is a simultaneous emphasis on the themes of ‘region’, given the fact that education is in the Concurrent List of the Constitution, with both the Union and the State governments having significant role in policy making and execution, besides the aim of making education more relevant. Neverthe-less, it remains to be seen as to what extent the values embedded in the school curriculum are inculcated by the students. Is it mere lip-service or something beyond that? The next chapter shall attempt to answer these questions. To carry the discussion further, I now discuss the minutes of the Text Book Committee meetings of Mizoram Board of School Education (MBSE), especially with regard to the teaching of Hindi. The MBSE came into existence in 1975, almost three years after Mizoram attained the status of a Union Territory in 1972. The first and second meetings of the Text Book Committee were held on 14 July 1977 and 4 October 1978 when the President of the MBSE was a non-Mizo. In the second meeting, a decision was taken to include English and Elementary Hindi in middle school syllabus. It was decided that English must have 100 marks weightage while Hindi must have 50 marks. A decision was also taken to replace Assam History by World History. Besides the regular middle school, there were separate institutions too for the teaching of Hindi. These were called the Rashtra Bhasha Vidyalayas but their name was later changed to Hindi Schools. By the fourth meeting on 11 June 1980, when Lalnunmawia took over as President, MBSE, the voices of the non-Mizo members started getting weak. Simultaneously, the Mizo voices began to strengthen and two Mizo members were included in the course

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committee for Hindi so ‘that they might present the actual situation in Mizoram with regard to Hindi’. A decision was also taken that students whose mother tongue was Hindi had to take elementary Mizo. Later a proposal was made to make Hindi compulsory till class X, but it was decided that the status quo be maintained to restrict the teaching of Hindi till middle school level. In the Text Book committee meeting on 6 September 1995, it was reported that members of Hindi Teachers Association made a representation to enhance the status of Hindi by increasing the marks to 100 from the existing 50. However, this proposal too was rejected. The Text Book Committee meetings are significant as they show the gradual marginalisation of Hindi and the non-Mizos officials. Though being a part of the national set-up, the Mizoram Board must necessarily adhere to some guidelines, mainly in the area of values of nationalism and Hindi learning. Apart from that, it has the freedom to emphasise a particular theme to the degree it desires to as the MBSE comes within the ambit of the state education department for all practical purposes. This brings into focus the role of the state in educational planning and implementation, which is critical to our understanding of processes of school education.

Gender Values Out of a total of 21 chapters in the Hindi textbook Zoram Bharti Book VI for Class VI, almost 10 touch on the subject of gender. The book opens with a prayer where both a girl and a boy are depicted as praying. However, throughout the book boys are portrayed in active roles such as studying, going to school, playing football and hockey, whereas girls are shown as passive onlookers. To provide a glimpse, consider this: Lalfela achha ladka hai Uska haath saaf hai Veh lifebuoy sabun se nahata hai Veh Vairengte main school jaata hai

Lalfela is a good boy, His hands are clean, He bathes with lifebuoy soap, He goes to school in Vairengte,

Veh office mein nahin jata Veh football bhi khelta hai Main bhi hockey khel sakta hoon Vanzama gadi chalata hai Veh Shillong mein jayega Chhatra kaksha mein baithte hain Veh path padte hain.

He does not go to office, He also plays football, I can also play hockey, Vanzama drives a car, He will go to Shillong. The students sit in the class, They read the lesson

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Women are depicted in gender-stereotypical roles of nurturance and cooking such as waking up the child for school and cooking. In a chapter titled Hamara parivar, it finds expression thus: Mere pitaji ghar ke malik hain Mere dada boodhe ho gaye hain […] Pitaji adhyapak hain Veh angrezi padhate hai Meri maa hamare liye khana banati hain Veh kabhi-kabhi bagiche mein kaam karti hain.

My father is the master of the home My grandfather has grown old […] Father is a teacher He teaches English My mother cooks food for us She sometimes works in the garden

Barely one poem titled Veer naari depicts a woman, Zaidiki, as brave as against seven male-centric selections (prose and poetry). In Zoram Bharti Book VII, while girls are depicted six times, the boys are depicted as many as 13 times. In the poem Kaisa jeevan hamara, three girls are shown in the garden along with a boy carrying the message of togetherness. In another chapter, entitled Cherawlam (a Mizo dance form), a group of eight girls has been depicted as dancing the bamboo dance. In a chapter Sabun ki upyogita, a woman is depicted as washing clothes, while the male figure bathes. In a poem Dharti pukar rahi hai sabko, two women are depicted as gathering the harvest while a boy stands. On the other hand, the boys are shown as going to school to study, as helping the elderly, dancing at mimkut (a Mizo festival), hunting, working in a laboratory and playing football and cricket. In Zoram Bharti Book VIII, not only men and boys are depicted more numerously than girls and women but also shown in active roles like doing the march past, as more aware of their national duties, studying, climbing trees, and wielding hoe. Girls, on the other hand, are shown as studying in only one instance while in the remaining two are depicted as selling vegetables and dancing at chapcharkut (a Mizo festival). In Zoram Bharti Book IV, the new Hindi Reader for class IV published in 2007 too, not merely are the boys depicted more pictorially but also in active roles and outdoor activities, and also thematically. For instance, in Chapter 11 titled Parishrami Ladka (Hardworking Boy) and Chapter 19 Janam Din (Birthday) women are depicted in roles of nurturance. Chapter 15 titled Maa (Mother) mentions that the mother gets up early, wakes up her children and

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serves tea to every member of the family and sometimes narrates bedtime stories, while the father goes to office and the son goes to school after bath. It is not mentioned what the daughter does. The chapter however mentions that the mother loves her son and that we should obey our mothers. In the new Zoram Bharti Book VI too, not merely are boys and men shown more than 20 times as compared to girls and women but in active roles such as in different vocations of agriculture, weaving, tailoring, sweetmeat selling and as selling fish, poultry, etc. whereas in the everyday life all these chores are done more by women than men. Boys are also shown as going to school, the zoo and engaged in play. Merely one chapter (chapter 15, Veer Nari or brave woman) out of a total of 23 depicts women as brave. Similarly, in Zoram Bharti Book VIII published in 2004, not only are boys and men shown numerically more but also in active roles such as studying, working in the agricultural fields, driving taxis, seeking admission to school, and playing cricket while women are shown in active roles barely in two chapters when they are depicted as praying and partipating in Chapchar Kut, a folk dance of the Mizos. The gender values being transmitted through the curriculum and also the school ethos are in consonance with the societal values pertaining to gender. The position of women in the Mizo and Mara society, though not as low as their counterparts in the plains, is still inferior to men. Despite the fact that position of women in the household is supreme, they generally remain much more busy than the men. Cooking, collecting firewood, washing clothes and playing an active role in agriculture are extremely strenuous and exacting in the difficult terrain of the mountains. The school curriculum reinforces the performance of these tasks by women and also the qualities of obedience, docility and diligence for girls/women, while the qualities emphasised upon for boys and men are bravery, outgoing nature and sportsmanship. In work education, girl students are required to take up weaving and tailoring while boys are required to opt for basketry, carpentry, etc. These are in consonance with the gender stereotypes prevalent in society and such findings are similar to those arrived at by other researchers — for instance, Mala Khullar (1990) in her study of the moral education of children in Markapur, a village in Delhi. These studies, including the present one, serve to show that the textbooks embody the dominant ideologies of the social and public domain and thereby reflect the

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relations of domination and control that are inherent in society. Generally, the aim of the schools is to prepare the boys as useful citizens and the girls as wives and mothers who rear the next generation of male citizens.6

Religious Values With regard to religious values, neither the textbook knowledge nor the school ethos is characterised by propagating religion. However, the normative and cognitive interpretations are drawn from Christianity alone, the pictorial and curricular representations manifesting it. For instance, in Zoram Bharti Book VI, though no separate chapter is included on religious ideology, there is an undercurrent of Christian values to the exclusion of other faiths. In an 11-line piece of prose, four sentences are exclusively devoted to Sunday, two sentences to Saturday and one each to Monday and Wednesday. It reads thus: Ravivar hafte ka pehla din hai, Hum ravivar ko girja-ghar jaate hain Hum girija-ghar mein prarthana karte hain Hum updesh bhi sunte hain.

Sunday is the first day of the week. We go to the church on Sunday. We pray in the church. We also listen to preaching.

In the exercises too which follow, students are reminded of Sunday being the sacred day of the Christians when people pray and abstain from work: ‘Ravivar ko kabhi kaam mat karo.’ The later edition of the book published in 2005 is more explicit. Chapter11 titled Saptah ke Din states: Ravivar saptah ka pehla din hai. Yeh Isaiyon ka pavitra din hai. Ravivar ko isai log girija mein jakar prarthna karte hain Aur Bible ke pravachano ko sunte hain. Veh Sunday School mein sundar achran bhi seekhte hain.

Sunday is the first day of the week. It is the sacred day of the Christians. On Sunday, the Christians go to the church and pray, And listen to the preachings of the Bible. They also learn good behaviour in the Sunday School.

In another piece of prose titled Maheeno ka gyan (knowledge of the months), three sentences out of 10 are assigned to the month

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of December, two each to January and February and one each to March and January. It states: December saal ka antim maheena hai. December mein Christmas aata hai. Christmas bada tyohar hai

December is the last month of the year. Christmas comes in December. Christmas is a big festival.

The same ethos is emphasised in the exercises that follow. In Zoram Bharti Book VII, two selections are explicitly assigned to Christ and the churches. One is a poem titled Ishu Mahaan and the other is a piece of prose, Goa aur iske girija-ghar. This piece deals with Goa and its cathedrals, and more specifically with the St. Cathedral. The themes are pictorially emphasised too. Zoram Bharti Book VIII carries a poem Apni Samajh ka Sahara na Lena. It exhorts the learner to surrender completely to God and not to use his/her rational faculties. It reads: ‘Tu apni samajh ka sahara naa lena, varan, sampoorna man se ishwar par bharosa rakhna.’ (Do not use your reason, but have complete faith in God). The emphasis of religious values as embodied in the textbooks is on Christianity alone. Neither the ‘cognitive interpretations’ nor the ‘normative interpretations’ to use Berger and Luckman’s terms, are derived from religions other than Christianity. My observations about religious values are applicable for the new textbooks as well.7 Christianity and its associated beliefs and practices constitute an important theme amongst normative interpretations significant in the children’s primary socialisation. The content of the school knowledge and the processes of social interaction in the sphere of secondary socialisation reinforce the values in primary socialisation. The relevant question which remains to be answered is what are the factors for the insular references to Christianity? This shall be answered in the next chapter when I examine the relationship between school and society.

Some New Curricular Themes Environmental themes are new additions in the curricular knowledge in the textbooks. One interesting feature of Zoram Bharti Book VI (published in 2005) is a chapter, Main Kaun Hun (Who am I) on money that is reflective of the changing times. It states:

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Main Bachon ka khilona hun. Main yuvakon ki khushi hun Main Budhon ka sahara hun Main Badshah hun. Main badshahon ka badshah hun Main sab kuch kar sakta hun Main sab jagah hun Manushya mera Ghulam hai Main use nacha sakta hun aur nacha raha hun Main duniya ko ulat sakta hun.

I am a plaything for children, I am a joy for the youth and the support for the old. I am the king and king of kings.

I am omnipotent. I am omnipresent Man is my slave and I can make him dance to my tunes which I am doing I have the potential to overturn the world and Main use ulat chuka hun that I have already turned the world topsy-turvy Main devta hun, devtaon ka I am the God and the God of devta hun Gods Isliye meri sharan me ao. Therefore come under my shelter, Main tumhe vardan doonga I shall bless you. Main kaun hun? Main rupaya hun. Who am I? I am the rupee.

What this implies for hitherto egalitarian and classless tribal communities that traditionally had a system of governing elite that were replaced by another set of elites in the post-independence period (who were a product of Christianity and western education) is not difficult to imagine. The signs of this implication have already started manifesting in the rising material aspirations of the people and the increasing disparities between the rich and the poor.

Science and Mathematics Education It has often been pointed out that though Mizoram is one of the most literate states of India, education in the two aforementioned subjects has not received its due share. Scholars (Chaube 1973; Hluna 1992) have expressed concern over the quality of education which was imparted to the hill people. Chaube has noted: The hills people got only half an education. The subsidised mission schools, throughout the British period, were almost entirely of middle-english standard. The primary objective of the Mission was to collect good preachers. Their teaching was biased towards religion and literature. The general standard of knowledge remained quite low. The hill students, even today are generally weak in mathematics, natural science and abstract philosophy (1973: 43).

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My purpose here is to analyse the current status of science and mathematics education but it would be useful to first focus on the concept of science in the sociological literature. In English, the term ‘science’ has a narrow connotation as it stands for disciplines such as physics, chemistry, botany and zoology and not for sociology, economics and politics. On the other hand, in the French and German tradition, the term has a broader and wider connotation (Béteille 2002). In France, Durkheim used the concept of science in a broad sense and included sociology too within its ambit. Similarly, Wissenschaft or science has had a broader connotation in Germany too. Weber (1957a), in his much celebrated essay Wissenschaft als Beruf or Science as a Vocation, extended the concept of science not only to include the natural sciences but also politics, economics and sociology. Science has generally been associated with precision and measurement. However, it has been defined differently by philosophers and sociologists. For them, the hallmark of science is a ‘certain kind of engagement with empirical reality’ (Béteille 2002) which necessarily involves ‘respect for observation as opposed to tradition’ (Russell 1985). Going by this criterion, Béteille argues for the exclusion of mathematics from the purview of science. What is significant for him is not the issue of ‘exactitude’ but a ‘particular’ orientation to facts. For him, mathematics falls in the intellectual tradition which values ‘abstract ideas and formal principles’ whereas science falls in the intellectual tradition which ‘cultivates the disciplined practice of empirical enquiry’ (2002: 212). Coming to the empirical data, I examine the performance of the students under study in maths and science in the two schools of my study. Since the student population in School A is heterogeneous, I have examined the performance of both Mara and non-Mara (which includes the Mizo, Lai, Pang, etc.) students in the two subjects. A perusal of Middle School Leaving Certificate (MSLC) and High School Leaving Certificate (HSLC) results though not very reliable due to the reasons cited in section II of this chapter, suggest that the students manage to pass in these subjects only with grace marks. Those Mara students who are presently in class VIII in School A secured an average of 28.8 per cent marks in mathematics in the MSLC examinations. Six out of 16 students managed to pass with grace marks. Those 14 students, who are presently in class IX, secured an average of 36 per cent marks in mathematics in the

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MSLC examinations. Four students out of 14 managed to pass with grace marks. Those who are presently in class X secured an average of 38.7 per cent marks in mathematics in the MSLC examinations. Three students out of 11 managed to pass with grace marks. The non-Mara students in School A who are presently in class VIII secured an average of 21.8 per cent marks in mathematics with nine students passing with grace marks. The students who are in class IX secured 32.3 per cent in mathematics with four students passing with grace marks. Those students currently in class X secured an average of 33.2 per cent marks in mathematics with three getting grace marks. In the case of School B, 74 per cent of the students failed in mathematics in class VIII in 1993. The situation somewhat improved for class IX wherein 43 per cent failed. A dismal picture presented itself after the students reached class X. In the first term exams, 75 per cent of the students failed in mathematics. In the second term, the percentage of the failures increased to cent per cent, while there was a complete reversal in the Board Examination, wherein all 100 per cent managed to pass in mathematics (due to the reasons cited earlier; see p. 100). Although mathematics is considered to be a problem area for education in India as a whole, it has been identified more so in the context of Mizoram. The status of science education as depicted by my sample was comparatively better than mathematics in School A. In the Middle School Leaving Examination, the Mara students who are presently in class VIII in School A had secured an average of 48.2 per cent in science. The students who are presently in class IX secured an average of 58.4 per cent in science in the MSLC examination. The students who are presently in class X secured 42.8 per cent in science in the MSLC examination. The results of the non-Mara students were almost similar. The average percentage of the nonMara students presently in class VIII in science in the MSLC examination was 40.6 per cent. The average percentage of students presently in class IX are 54.4 per cent in science, while students who are presently in class X secured an average of 48.2 per cent in science in the MSLC examination. However, in order to have a realistic picture, these marks must be scaled down considerably due to the use of unfair means. While the MSLC results for the students of School B were not available, the results of the home examinations present a more realistic picture. In 1995 in the 1st term examinations in class V,

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81 per cent of the students secured marks below 30 per cent in science. In the second term, 75 per cent of the students secured marks below 30 per cent in science and in the third term examinations, 58 per cent of the students secured marks below 30 per cent in science. Among class VI students, 73 students secured marks below 30 per cent in science in the first term. In the second term, 86 per cent students secured 30 per cent marks in science while in the third term, 78 per cent of the students secured marks below 30 per cent in science. Among students of class VII, 83 per cent of the students secured marks below 30 per cent in science in the first term. In the second term, all 100 per cent students secured less than 30 per cent in science while the marks for the third term were not available. D. Khathing, writing about science education in the North-East, observes that development of science cannot be understood in isolation. It is influenced by external factors such as social, political and religious. He writes: With respect to science education, our hill tribal people in the northeast are somehow hesitant in opting for Science. They feel that science is something abstract, something that requires perseverance and extra intelligence. Being rather easy going and leisurely, to them the study of science also often means extra work and less time to play (1984: 90).

Pinpointing some of the problems of science teaching in North-East India, Khathing mentions lack of laboratory and library facilities, lack of trained teachers in science, English as the medium of instruction, lack of local teachers, maintenance of equipment, irregular attendance, less scope for industrial development and hence less incentive for science. R. D. Pathak (1981) seeks to bring out the genderwise differences in scientific and technological education among Mizo students. He argues that though boys are more inclined towards technical activities than girls, in general girls do not lag behind the boys in their preference for scientific activities. All the infrastructural problems notwithstanding here, I attempt to see if and how science and scientific development is linked to the social structure in Mizoram. In this context, one is reminded of Max Weber who noted, ‘the belief in the value of scientific truth is not derived from nature but is a product of definite cultures’ (1957a: 59). In a similar vein, R. K. Merton has argued that ‘the persistent growth

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of science occurs only in societies of a certain order’ and requires ‘appropriate cultural conditions’ (Merton 1975: 591). According to him, the ethos of science has four imperatives — universalism, communism, disinterestedness and organised skepticism. Universalism implies that the truth claims must be subjected to preestablished impersonal criteria and that objectivity precludes particularism. Communism implies a sense of common ownership of goods. Merton observes that the scientific findings are ‘a product of social collaboration’ and are ‘assigned to the community’ whereas the scientist’s own claim to his intellectual ‘property’ lies in ‘recognition’ and ‘esteem’ (ibid.: 610). Therefore, scientists depend upon a cultural heritage. The cooperation and cumulative aspect of science is reflected in Newton’s statement thus: ‘If I have seen farther, it is by standing on the shoulder of giants.’ Disinterestedness is a basic institutional element of science. It is not altruism. Disinterestedness means ‘a passion for knowledge, idle curiosity, altruistic concern for the benefit of humanity’ (ibid.: 613). Lastly, organised skepticism implies that one does not pass a judgement until ‘the facts are at hand’ and the ‘detached scrutiny of beliefs in terms of empirical and logical criteria’. It also means ‘latent questioning of certain bases of established routine, authority, vested procedures and the realm of the sacred generally’ (ibid.: 601). It follows from this that science conflicts with those institutions which demand unqualified faith and uncritical respect because science makes skepticism ‘a virtue’. Let us examine these imperatives of the ethos of science in the context of the ethos of the Mizo and Mara society. As we shall note, there is a significant cleavage between the ethos of universalism which requires judging things on impersonal and objective criteria and the ethos of particularism. One of the possible reasons why the ethos of science did not develop in this society as it should have could be the emphasis on particularism and ethnocentrism. I do not intend to say that these two aspects are necessarily bad or the emphasis on universalism is essentially good. Of course, these hilly and predominantly tribal societies have had their own reasons rooted in history for the ethno-centric orientation. It has been argued: The institution of science is but part of a larger social structure with which it is not always integrated. When the larger culture opposes universalism the ethos of science is subjected to serious strain. Ethnocentrism and particularism are not compatible with universalism (ibid.: 607).

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The second imperative for the ethos of science to prevail is communism which derives from ‘a sense of common ownership of goods’. Scientific achievements are a ‘product of social collaboration’ and are ‘assigned to the community’ (Merton 1975: 610). The Mizo and Mara society, like other tribal societies, more than meet this yardstick. They have a communitarian character where group takes precedence over the individual. This is expressed in their moral codes of tlawmngaihna and veisehna. With regard to the imperative of disinterestedness too, these societies meet the criterion. Their social ethos has elements of idle curiosity, a ‘passion for knowledge’ and also altruistic concerns for the welfare of humanity. It is with regard to the fourth imperative, organised skepticism, that these societies offer maximum resistance. Organised skepticism, which involves vigorous questioning, and a critical attitude is liable to conflict with the hold of the faith on the Mizo mind. Broadly, the relation between science and Mizo society can be examined and analysed within the perspective of science versus tradition. ‘Tradition is that which links present practices with past ones; it is the past in the present’, argues Béteille (2002: 212). The resistance to science in Mizo society can be traced to the values inculcated in the past. Hluna has aptly observed: ‘What is notable is that an educational heritage from colonialism or missionaries is still part of middle class Mizo culture’ (1992: 229). By way of conclusion, we can say that the Mizo and Mara society have elements for the nurturance of science and science education. The need is to trace and develop them. Modern science also needs to shed its ‘cult of unintelligibility’, to use Merton’s phrase, in order to become more amenable to the tribal mind.

Conclusion To sum up, in this chapter I described the process of schooling as it is experienced by the teacher and the taught. Through the classroom interactions, my aim has been to hear the voices of the chief dramatis personae — the teachers and the pupils. Herein, following Foucalt (1980), I have also tried to see power as a discourse in the micro-context of everyday life. A strong element of the classroom situation, as Peter Woods tells us, is the need for the teachers to control the pupils in their care. In such a situation, power and knowledge are generally on the side of the teacher. However, not all pupils accept the teacher’s definition of the situation and ‘some define it markedly differently’.

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The classroom observations have brought to the fore the twin themes of the reproduction of existing inequalities and the production of ‘competitive inequalities’ generated by the school. In this sense, the pedagogic work of the school is undoubtedly based on the family habitus, but it, in turn, brings about profound and lasting transformation of those it reaches, due to its durability and exhaustiveness. Therefore, the school not only reproduces but also produces a habitus which is inconsistent with the principle of equality. It does this by rewarding those with higher cultural capital and penalising those who possess relatively lesser cultural capital. Bourdieu points out about the children of the lower middle class: as they receive nothing from their family of any use to them, in their academic activities except a sort of, ‘undefined enthusiasm to acquire culture’ are obliged to expect and receive everything from school even if it means accepting the school’s criticism of them as ‘plodders’ (1974: 39).

Bourdieu’s observation applies equally to the underprivileged students in our study. The influence of the habitus created by the school is much more widespread and deeper than we can imagine generally. The habitus acquired at school, argues Bourdieu, conditions the level of reception and degree of assimilation of any subsequent cultural or intellectual messages in later life. These classroom observations have also brought into focus the irrelevance and the boredom generated by the classroom and the marginalisation of a certain category of pupils, thereby reproducing the existing social inequalities. However, what was notable was that reproduction of inequalities and domination was not complete. It was coterminous with its contestation by the pupils in various forms. The acts of resistance by the pupils or what in the words of Scott are ‘the weapons of the weak’ also pointed to the embryonic seeds of ‘critical pedagogies’ that lie dormant. In addition, I discussed the broader messages that the school rituals convey. The chapter has attempted to capture the essence of the teacher culture, the differential positions, commitments, orientations and frustrations of the different categories of teachers — the vai, the Mizo and the Myanmarese. With regard to pupil culture, it has attempted to examine how pupils perceive themselves and others with whom they come in contact with in the course of the

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pedagogic encounter. By the examination of the curriculum, I have tried to gauge the values that it attempts to transmit with special reference to gender, religion and the notion of citizenship. It was revealed that the alienation generated by the classroom is also due to the irrelevance of what goes on inside the classroom. This was especially true of the classroom situations in the rural context of School B. Though writing about the dominated classes, Bourdieu’s observation applies equally to other dominated groups when he states: One of the least noticed effects of compulsory schooling is that it succeeds in obtaining from the dominated classes a recognition of legitimate knowledge and know-how (e.g. in law, medicine, technology, entertainment or art), entailing the devaluation of the knowledge and know-how they effectively command (e.g. customary law, home medicine, craft techniques, folk-art and language and all the lore handed on in the hedge-school of the witch and the shepherd) (1977: 42).

Nowhere does this observation apply more closely than to the devaluation of the tribal cultures such as the Mara and the Mizo. What is taught in the classrooms of tribal India wreaks havoc on the indigenous forms of knowledge, customs and practices, and culture of the tribal societies. Another theme that I touched upon in this chapter was the relation of education and culture, especially the kind of values that education transmits. The next chapter will show that the relationship between education and culture has its roots in the broader society and especially in issues related to identity in North-East India. It is evident that education does not exist in a vacuum — it is a microcosm of society. The use of unfair means by the students is a reflection of the conditions prevailing in the society. The state-run Mizoram Board of School Education (MBSE) has to fulfill the national guidelines, especially as far as the teaching of Hindi is concerned. It therefore declares through the curriculum: Mizoram Bharat ka ek ang ha Hum Bharat ke nagrik hain Hindi Bharat ki rashtra bhasha hai Hum bhi Hindi seekhte hain Sab Bhartiya bhai-bhai hain

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Simultaneously, the state plays a key role in marginalising Hindi and this was evident in the minutes of the Text Book Committee meetings of the MBSE. This marginalisation has a lot to do with the negative orientations and a sense of alienation towards the Hindus and Hindi, especially in Nagaland and Mizoram, and a consequent sense of alienation. The role of the state also comes into focus when we realise that a substantial number of school teachers are migrants from Myanmar. These in-service teachers undergo teacher training in the state run College for Teachers Education, Aizawl. Underlying this trend are the practical concerns of the state and also the fact of strong identity — that borders have separated the countries but not the hearts. The affinity with those from across the border has to do with the strong sense of a Zo identity and with the paucity of local teachers in science and mathematics, thus compelling the state to appoint vai and Burmese teachers. But government jobs being scarce, it is possible that in the near future, there would be intense competition and friction between the local people and migrants from Myanmar. In sum, the chapter was an attempt to unravel the myriad mysteries of the black box of school education and to capture the specific ethos of a tribal society in which the school operates.

Notes 1. Pu in Mizo stands for Mr. 2. Veng in Mizo and Vaih in Mara are the colloquial terms for locality. 3. The later edition of Zoram Bharti Book VI published in 2005 however does mention the name of Tripura. 4. Cheraw Lam entered the Guinness World Records in March 2010. 5. Geetha B. Nambissan (see Kabeer, Nambissan and Subramanian 2003) draws attention to similar problems as to how the quality of schooling, language, culture, learning context and school processes can be alienating for the marginalised sections of Dalits and Adivasis. However, in the present study, we not merely aim to understand tribal society vis-a-vis the general society but the complexities and alienation within the tribal society itself. 6. For a detailed analysis of the subject, see Lakshmi Bhatia (2007a). 7. See, for instance, Chapter 11, Saptah Ke Din (Days of the weeks); Chapter 16 titled Sal Ke Mahine (Months in a year); and Rituain (Seasons) in Zoram Bharati Book VI.


5


School and Society: Home, Community and the State From an analysis of the micro-situation of the school in Chapter 4, I now turn to linking the first rough mappings of the hitherto dark unknown interior of the ‘black box’ with the ‘macro-situation’. It has been argued that ‘the micro-situation can only be understood properly if it is realised that there are sinews and filaments in it that reach out into the wider world’ (Woods 1983: 179–81). The significance of this has also been underlined by others (Bernstein 1977, 1996; Apple 1982; Scrase 1993). In undertaking such an exercise, I make the assumption that there is a broader cultural apparatus of a society beyond the school and the school curriculum. This has been done to analytically consider the society’s other modes of communicating and creating what Raymond Williams (1977) has termed as ‘the effective dominant culture’. In order to actually decipher the micro–macro links, I first examine the home situation of the pupils in the two schools under study. Although in general terms, the home is likely to be construed as a micro one, the sense in which I use the term ‘micro’ here is limited to the processes, interactions and experiences within the school situation itself. Therefore, in the present context as I treat them, the home, community and the state are part of the wider society and constitute the macro-links with the school. In order to examine the home situation, I have undertaken a few case studies of students belonging to both the schools — School A in the urban set-up and School B in the rural set-up. I then proceed to see the linkages between the community, state and school as it has been widely held by scholars that the schools do not exist in a political vacuum but are limited by the power of the State — an area which remains largely unresearched and hence mystified. For a critical analysis of education, it is crucial to examine the role of the State as it is of central significance in determining policy, training teachers, setting curricula, overseeing examinations and the general functioning of

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the education department (see for instance, Apple 1982, 2000 and Scrase 1993). I also attempt to delineate the link between the values generated by secondary socialisation in the context of the school with those transmitted and inculcated by primary socialisation in the context of community knowledge. I take up the values about nationalism, secularism and democracy, as transmitted by the school and as transmitted by the community, mainly by the student organisations in Mizoram, for special treatment. I however do not stop here but pursue my search and seek to have a clearer understanding of the values pertaining to nationalism by a perusal of the debates of the Mizoram Legislative Assembly. In doing so, I firstly assume that the boundaries between the State and society are amorphous and blurred and secondly, I adopt a broad notion of the concept of ‘framing’ as emphasised by Bernstein (1977, 1996). In Chapter 5, we saw how certain values are transmitted through the curriculum. In this chapter, I take my search, in the words of Davies ‘[…] behind the charades, the pageants and the masquerades of play-acting to see whether institutional education as much as politics, or religion, is an attempt to initiate students into the rituals of a dominant culture’ (as quoted in Ahmad 1979: 163). Since the textbooks used in the schools under study have been prescribed by the state-run Mizoram Board of School Education (MBSE), the present analysis hopes to delve into the role of the Mizoram state too in education. This chapter lastly takes up the views of the middle and high school students in both the schools under study about their social identity, medium of instruction and the representativeness of the school curriculum. The responses of the students have been elicited through group discussion. In the light of the views, experiences and reflexivity of the students, I conclude that education in Mizoram is what Bourdieu terms as la violence symbolique.

The Home and the School Of late, there has been a growing realisation in the sociology of India to accord a central place to the study of family background and home situation, especially in its linkages with education, occupation and social mobility. Several studies have indicated that in the contemporary context, when the Constitution of India has guaranteed legal and political equality, this has not necessarily led to the elimination or

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even mitigation of inequalities in the distribution of life chances. If at all, we have been a witness to the growing labyrinth of competitive inequalities with the increasing differentiation of the middle class (Béteille 2002; Deshpande 2004). Béteille asserts that when we speak of competitive inequalities, what is foremost in our mind is the role of family, home and school in the perpetuation of inequalities. It is in this sense that we need to place them back on our mental map when thinking about the contemporary Indian society.

Case Study I T. A. Easterday Beiravah is a student of class VIII in School A and belongs to the Tohei Azyu clan of the Maras. His father T. A. Reipo is a graduate and is in government service. His mother has passed the High School Leaving Certificate (HSLC) examination and is in government service too. Both parents being government servants, the monthly income of the family is Rs 10,000 per month. The number of family members is nine which includes the parents, parental grandmother, father’s younger brother and five children. Easterday’s position is third in the sibling order. His eldest sister studies in the pre-university at the local college. Next to her is a brother who studies in pre-university at Shillong, followed by Easterday, next to whom is his sister who studies in class VI. The youngest among the siblings is his sister who is too young to study. His family speaks Mara at home. Easterday’s mother devotes all time and energy to her children’s education. She not only visits the schools of her children — the private school, church-run high school and School A — but also knows the teachers well, especially the Mara teachers. Easterday’s father does not feel the need to attend to his children’s education as he feels that his wife handles it wisely. However, he guides and coaxes his children to study. Easterday’s mother says that she does not need to scold her children as with just one firm command, they sit down to study though she feels that they are lazy. Patricia who is in college and Florence who studies in class VI are good in studies and the latter gets scholarship too. Easterday takes tuitions like many others in his class. He studied with Mara medium of instruction in the primary school. At the middle school level, he switched over to an English medium school. Given a choice, Easterday would prefer Mara medium of instruction. The social network of the family is mainly Mara though the father is a senior member of the Young Mizo Association (YMA).

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Easterday’s mother is a very active member of the church and Kristian Nu Pawl (Christian Women’s Association). The Bible, hymn-book and other Christian literature occupy a place of pride and respect in the house. Easterday and his siblings attend morning service on Sunday but not the evening service as they have to sit down for studies. Easterday is a member of the Mara Students Organisation (MSO) since 1994. His father says that he is not against his children joining MSO or Mara Thly Py (MTP), the youth organisation of the Maras, so long as people feel these organisations are good. However, he does not want his children to take a leading part in them as it disrupts their education. Before I begin the analysis of the case studies of the pupils, I must state at the outset that I have used Pierre Bourdieu’s concepts of cultural capital and social capital for my interpretation and analysis besides Basil Bernstein’s (1977) classification of families as sources of consensus and disaffection in education. Therefore, it is appropriate to first grasp the essence of these concepts. Bourdieu argues for a broad definition of the term capital in order to explain the complexities of the social world. For him, the concept of the economic capital or ‘the icy-notion of egotistical calculation’ is narrow as it can only explain exchanges oriented to the maximisation of profit. However, it implicitly reduces the other forms of exchanges as non-economic. Bourdieu points out that capital can present itself in three fundamental forms — economic, cultural and social. Symbolic capital, which Bourdieu in his later works terms as cultural capital, moves beyond the costs of schooling. It is a form of property in the sense that it confers tangible and psychological benefits, it can be privatised and lastly, it can be transmitted across generations. However, the similarity ends here as cultural capital is hidden, but is the socially most significant educational investment. Bourdieu notes that cultural capital obscures the distinction made by Greek jurists between inherited properties (ta patroa) and the acquired properties (epikteta). The mode of its reproduction, transmission and inheritance is different as it is inherited through domestic transmission afresh in the course of everyday life (Ball 2004). Cultural capital is acquired in the absence of any deliberate inculcation, rather unconsciously, and initial endowments play a decisive role as the later endowments build on the former. Cultural capital, Bourdieu emphasises, exists in three forms: the embodied state, objectified state and the institutionalised state.

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Bernstein has divided families into four types and the children coming from these occupy different positions in accordance with the extent to which their families are involved with the instrumental and expressive orders of the school. At position 1 are those children whose families are highly involved with both the means and ends of the instrumental and expressive orders of the school. At position 2 are those children whose families understand the means by which the two orders are transmitted, but do not accept the goals. At position 3 are those children whose families accept the ends of the two orders but not the means. Lastly, at position 4 are those children whose families have a negative approach and are completely uninvolved in both the means and ends of the two orders. Bernstein argues that as his classification scheme starts with the culture of the school and not with the social class position of the family, it is applicable to any society. In the field situation, Easterday possesses cultural capital in all the three forms. In the objectified form, his house is well stocked with books, dictionaries, encyclopedia, etc., bought by his father on his trips to Aizawl and Shillong. In the embodied state too, i.e., in the form of long-lasting dispositions of the mind and body or the habitus, cultural capital is gently but firmly incorporated in Easterday and his other siblings as they get considerable encouragement and motivation from their parents, especially his mother who generously parts with her time and energy towards the pursuit of her children’s education. To quote Bourdieu, who emphasises: The accumulation of cultural capital in the embodied sense, i.e. in the form of what is called culture, cultivation, bildung, presupposes a process of embodiment, incorporation, which in so far as it implies a labour of inculcation and assimilation, costs time, time which must be invested personally by the investor[…]. The work of acquisition is work on oneself (self-improvement), an effort that presupposes a personal cost (on paie de sa personne), […] an investment above all of time, but also of that socially constituted form of libido, libido sciendi, with all the privation, renunciation, and sacrifice that it may entail (Ball, 2004: 244).

The life of Easterday’s mother revolves around her job, her children’s education and church activities. Though all her children study in different institutions and are at different stages of the educational ladder, she makes it a point to visit their schools and

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keep in close touch with teachers. Through an emotionally supportive attitude, active and keen interest especially on the part of the mother, all the members have accumulated adequate cultural capital in its incorporated and embodied state. In the institutionalised state too, i.e., in the form of academic qualifications, the family posseses cultural capital. Easterday ‘s father is a graduate and mother is a High School Leaving Certificate (HSLC). These qualifications are on the higher side in the predominantly tribal society emerging from the level of subsistence economy to post-World War II tertiary sector economy. This received a further boost with the bestowal of union territory status on Mizoram and statehood in 1972 and 1987 respectively and the creation of the Autonomous District Councils in southern Mizoram. Going by Bernstein’s classification of families, one may say that Easterday is at position 1 as his family accepts and understands the means and ends of both orders of the school.

Case Study II H. V. L. Rorrelliani belongs to the Lai tribal community of Mizoram. She is a student of class VIII in School A and hails from Cheural village in the Lai Autonomous district (now Lawngtlai district) and lives in Circuit Veng, New Saiha, with her father’s brother’s daughter. Her father has passed the HSLC examination and is a middle school teacher in Cheural and her mother is literate and practises lo-siam (agriculture) in Cheural.1 Back in the village, there are nine members in Rorrelliani’s family. These include six children (out of whom four are girls including Rorrelliani and two are boys), her parents and her paternal grandmother. Her eldest sister studies in class X at Sangau and stays with her paternal uncle (father’s brother). Rorrelliani is at number two in the sibling order and the remaining four are all studying in Cheural village itself. Rorrelliani speaks Mizo at home and attends the services of the Isua Krista Kohhran (IKK) church. Rorrelliani’s father’s brother’s daughter makes bidi (indigenous cigarettes) and kuhva (betel). The latter’s husband has earlier worked as a bus conductor for four to five years, and then as a tailor, but is presently unemployed. Both have passed HSLC. They have two daughters and the family has no steady source of income. They have rented out a room which fetches them Rs 300 per month. In addition, the family has some savings made in the past. The meagre family income is also supplemented by the wife’s earnings from making kuhva and bidi.

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Rorrelliani came to the town for studies as there was no high school in her village. As for the opportunity costs of Rorrelliani’s education, her family only pays for her uniform. All her other needs are met by the family of her father’s brother’s daughter. This is to reciprocate for what the father’s brother daughter herself got from Rorrelliani’s parents when she was a student at School A. At that time, Rorrelliani’s father was posted in that town and the former stayed with him and was looked after by him and his family. Rorrelliani has all along been a good student. She did her primary schooling and middle school from her native village in Mizo medium and secured a first division in both. In her free time, Rorrelliani helps her father’s brother’s daughter in all household chores such as cleaning, washing, cooking, etc. She is a quiet girl and spends the rest of her time in studies. She is very regular in attending church services and the Sande sikul (Sunday School) and gets emotional support from her father’s brother’s daughter. Rorrelliani’s case exemplifies certain interesting features. Though her parents are physically away they, especially her father, has provided her and her eldest sister who is studying at Sangau, adequate motivation and encouragement to carry on with their studies. Rorrelliani possesses cultural capital most prominently in the embodied state for she has deeply incorporated the culture, the ethos (bildung) which has almost become her second nature. Though her mother is just a literate, her father has more than compensated for this disadvantage. Rorrelliani’s case is significant in other aspects too. Unlike other pupils from rural areas, her level of motivation is high. She has overcome the disadvantages of the place of her birth and upbringing, etc., primarily due to hardwork, determination and a single-minded pursuit of education. Rorrelliani’s father’s brother’s daughter too, by providing her with emotional support, motivates her to perform better. Rorrelliani has considerable cultural capital in the institutionalised state too due mainly to her father being an HSLC pass and being in the teaching profession. In terms of Bernstein’s classification, Rorrelliani is at position 1 as her family endorses and understands the school processes.

Case Study III K. Lalrinsanga is a student of class X in School A. He belongs to the Lai tribal community of Mizoram. Originally his family is from Cheural village in the Lai autonomous district council area

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in Chhimtuipui district. In the town, Lalrinsanga lives with his mother and other siblings in New Saiha which is a mixed locality. The language spoken at home is Mizo. His mother, who belongs to the Mizo tribe, is a matriculate, a shopkeeper and sells clothes. Lalrinsanga’s father has done BCom and works as a divisional accountant at Lunglei. The family income is around Rs 8,000 per month. Church denomination wise, the family earlier belonged to the Evangelical Church of Maraland (ECM), but now belongs to Zoram Baptist denomination and Lalrinsanga’s mother is an executive member of the church. There are 11 members in Lalrinsanga ‘s family — nine children (out of whom seven are boys including Lalrinsanga, and two are girls) and the parents. Lalrinsanga is at number two in the sibling order. His elder brother is also a student of School A. The next three brothers in the sibling order study near Kolkata; the other three, including his sister, at Lunglei while the youngest is a girl still very small to study. Lalrinsanga did his primary and middle school from Shillong with a second division. Lalrinsanga’s mother’s daily routine begins with having tea in the morning with her children. After this, the two boys leave for tuitions. The tuition fee is about Rs 125 per head. On their return, they have the morning meal with the mother. After they have left for school, she opens her shop. She attends to all the needs of her children. When the children are having examination, the mother closes the shop early. She does not keep fixed timings of the shop as she has to attend to her children and says, ‘Generally, the children study on their own, but if they have any problem, I take them to the concerned teachers. I know a number of School A teachers — Saihnuna, Pachhawi, etc.’ The mother attends parents — teachers meet too. Besides being from a well off family in Aizawl, she and her husband have a social network in the local town too ‘because we have stayed here for so long’. The children do not contribute much to household chores. Only after coming back from school do they wash their own clothes. Lalrinsanga’s father comes home frequently and teaches, supervises and guides his children, and gives them concrete suggestions for their studies. The mother declares: ‘Children are more attached to their father, as I scold them and always shout at them. I am a short tempered woman’.

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Lalrinsanga has adequate cultural capital in all the three states: embodied, objectified and institutionalised. He, along with his other siblings, is adequately motivated for studies due to the twin influence of both the mother and father. Lalrinsanga has acquired a primary habitus which will be the basis for any subsequent habitus. Bourdieu has defined habitus thus: The habitus as the word implies, is that which one has acquired, but which has become durably incorporated in the body in the form of permanent dispositions. So, the term constantly reminds us that it refers to something historical, linked to individual history and that it belongs to a genetic mode of thought[…] the habitus is a capital, but one which because it is embodied, appears as innate (1993: 97).

Lalrinsanga also has additional reading material to enhance his knowledge and information. Also, he has institutionalised cultural capital as his parents possess academic qualifications on the higher side. Lalrinsanga is also at position 1 as per Bernstein’s classification of families. In all the three cases discussed above — that of Easterday, Rorrelliani and Lalrinsanga — there are certain common underlying threads. All the three possess adequate cultural capital which provides them with motivation and enthusiasm to pursue their education. In the case of Easterday and Lalrinsanga, the role of the mother is especially significant as the mothers in both the cases invest considerable time in their children’s education and devote attention. To quote Bourdieu who asserts in his study of the Kabyles in Algeria, though in a different context, but which forms the linchpin of his later work: The active principle is the labour, time, care, attention and savoir faire which must be squandered to produce a personal gift irreducible to its equivalent in money, a present in which what counts, is not so much what you give as the way you give it, the seemingly ‘gratuitous’ surrender […] of things that are […] personal and therefore, more precious, because […] they can neither be borrowed nor lent, ‘such as time-the time that has been taken to do things that won’t be forgotten’ (Bourdieu and Passeron 1990: 192–93).

It is clear from what Bourdieu notes that for him, symbolic capital is not at par with economic and material capital. It is rather more

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important than the latter. This is because economic capital has to be transformed and translated into respectability in order to become symbolic capital. What is significant is the giving away of the precious time, paying attention and caring which will produce rewards that cannot be converted into money. Although the quote cited above is about the Kabyles in Algeria, Bourdieu’s general emphasis on renunciation and sacrifice for the formation of cultural capital may hold true for western societies. However, it must be taken with a pinch of salt as far as Indian context is concerned. In a literal sense, the word ‘sacrifice’ involves ‘foregoing of anything valued for the sake of anything else’. In the ethos of western societies where human behaviour is guided by rational choices, the notion of ‘foregoing something valuable’ for anything else or ‘sacrifice’ may be an important consideration for human behaviour. A woman may thus ‘sacrifice’ her attending a party or forego watching a movie in order to attend to her child who has an examination the next day. However, this notion of ‘sacrifice’ is not applicable to a mother in the Indian context who considers it her duty or moral obligation and not a sacrifice to attend to her child at the time of examination. Easterday, Rorrelliani and Lalrinsanga are all at position 1, according to Bernstein, who notes, ‘other things being equal, a child from such a family starts off initially highly involved as a pupil’. Bourdieu too has made similar observations about the significance of the early start of the process of accumulation of cultural capital.

Case Study IV T. Eunisi is a student of class IX at School A and belongs to the Thannget clan of the Maras. Hailing from Phura village in the Mara Autonomous District Council (MADC) area in Chhimtuipui district of Mizoram, Eunisi lives in the town with R. T. Vytu, a politician who belongs to the same clan as her. Her father had studied till class IX and was a lo-siam mi (a cultivator). However, he died when she was very young. Eunisi’s mother has studied till class III and is also a cultivator. Eunisi is the youngest of five brothers and sisters — two of them boys and three girls. One of her brothers is a lo-siam mi, who dropped out of school after the seventh class. Next to him is a brother who has studied till class X and is a primary school teacher. Eunisi’s two sisters are next in the sibling order and both of them are illiterate.

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Besides Eunisi, there are six others who live with Vytu’s family. Four of them are boys from Rawmibawk village and study in the town and two are girls — one from Tuipui ferry area and the other from Rawmibawk village. R. T. Vytu himself has four children and the eldest, after completing schooling from Auxilium school is now a student at the local college. He was sent to Tamil Nadu for higher studies but he felt lonely and came back. Vytu’s other children also study at Auxilium. Eunisi came to Saiha as there was no high school in her village. After coming back from school, Eunisi helps in the household chores as do the other two girls staying at Vytu’s house. The boys do not extend any help in the household. Rather, they have to be taken care of. In the evening, the girls are visited by boys according to the custom of laisacharei (courting of girls). Vytu’s wife points out, ‘When young boys come, I and my husband sit there only and we switch on the TV; this is how we discourage them. Since the girls are in our custody, we have to take care that they study. After the household work and studies are over, I do not mind their having laisacharei.’ Eunisi, who aspires to be a nurse, did her primary school in Mara-medium of instruction from Phura with a third division and middle school from there too with Mizo medium passing with a second division. While in Saiha, Eunisi has friends only from the village. She says, ‘Girls from the town do not want to make friends with us’. In the classroom too, Eunisi sits in the second-last row along with other girls from the villages. Her own family provides her with only the school uniform. For all her other needs, she is dependent on the family with whom she stays. Her family does not visit her frequently nor does she talk about it. Eunisi wishes to take tuitions but feels shy to ask for money from the family she stays with. The case study of Eunisi is an instance of the clan solidarity among Maras discussed in Chapter 2 of this study, as a person is morally bound to help his fellow clansmen in times of distress. Eunisi’s father is dead and her mother does not have the resources to educate her. Besides, there being no high school in Phura Eunisi has found succour in Vytu’s house in the town. It can be said that she does not possess cultural capital in any of the three states. She is deprived of economic capital too. She does not have much motivation or enthusiasm and the little that she has is dampened

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by her circumstances. Though clan members are bound by customs to help their fellow clansmen in distress, the latter do not have the same status as one’s own children. Eunisi has to part with her labour in return for the food, lodging and education that she is provided for. Being in a politician’s house where innumerable visitors are a common sight, additional working hands are an asset. Clan solidarity, though an appreciable facet of the society, can however not compensate adequately for the inputs that parents generally make for their children — the efforts or even the investment of time. The custom of laisacharei also sometimes distracts the girl students. In terms of Bernstein’s classification of families, T. Eunisi can be said to be at position 3 as her family accepts the ends of schooling, but not the appropriate means. For such a family, Bernstein argues ‘the procedures of school are often a closed book’ (1977).

Case Study V H. C. Beingiachhisa is a student of class VIII in School A and belongs to the Hlychho clan which is abei-pho, a royal clan. He hails from Phalhrang village in the MADC area in the Chhimtuipui district and belongs to the Evangelical Church of Maraland (ECM). He lives in New Colony, Saiha, which is a mixed locality. By mixed locality is implied a locality where people from diverse ethnic backgrounds such as Lai, Mara, Mizo, etc., live. This is in contrast to old Saiha which has a homogeneous population of Maras. Out of four brothers and sisters, Beingiachhisa is at number three in the sibling order. His eldest brother practices jhum (shifting cultivation) in Phalhrang. Next to him is a sister who does not study, but helps in the household. The youngest is Beingiachhisa’s brother who studies in his native village. Beingiachhisa’s father died in 1987 and his mother, an illiterate, remarried a young bachelor, satlia, seven years after Beingiachhisa’s father’s death after the memorial stone had been constructed. The couple lives in Phalhrang along with other children and do farming to earn their livelihood. Beingiachhisa lives in Saiha with his eima-no (paternal grandmother) who herself lives in her deceased brother’s house with his widow. The latter has three daughters and two sons. The eldest among the three is divorced. She stays in the same house along with her two children — a son who is awaiting his class X results and a daughter who is studying in class III in Don Bosco School, Saiha. She herself is a primary school teacher. Her younger sisters also stay in the same house, while the two brothers are married

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and stay separately with their families in Saiha. Beingiachhisa’s grandmother is 70 years old and gets Rs 100 as pension from the District Council. All needs of Beingiachhisa are met by his local guardians. In case of any requirement, Beingiachhisa asks his grandmother for money. Beingiachhisa has managed to pass primary school and acquired a third division in middle school examination from Phalhrang. Though he and the son of his grandmother’s niece are almost of the same age, there seems to be a huge gap between them in terms of interaction. The latter studied at Shillong for some time and is now appearing for HSLC examinations privately. Beingiachhisa and he rarely go out together. Beingiachhisa helps in all the household chores. He does not want to go back to his village, does not even talk about his family and never mentions his parents. He says he shall go back to his village only after he has done HSLC and got some job. Beingichhisa does not have cultural capital in any state — embodied, objectified or institutionalised. The father is dead and the mother is rebuilding her life after her remarriage. Besides that, given her academic status, she is in no position to give any inputs for her son’s education. The little emotional support that he gets is from his grandmother. Beingichhisa does not have enough money to buy any cultural objects such as books, etc., nor a favourable ethos that can be embodied. The school further marginalises him by its urban middle class-centric ethos. He does not have very high aspirations and somehow wants to complete HSLC and take up some job. He feels alienated both at home and at school. Though he lives in a mixed neighbourhood, he does not have many friends other than those coming from the village. He does not possess much social capital either as although he has many relatives staying in the same house, these relatives are unlikely to utilise their social connections for Beingiachhisa’s benefit. Beingiachhisa is also at position 3 like Eunisi in terms of Bernstein’s classification. These two case studies of T. Eunisi and H. C. Beingiachhisa can be contrasted with that of Rorrelliani. Rorrelliani also hails from a village but owing to her father’s education and occupational status (he being a teacher himself), she has embodied the culture and the ethos to acquire education. On the other hand, Eunisi and Beingiachhisa have almost negligible cultural capital and this reflects in their poor academic performance. Rorrelliani is certainly at an advantageous position compared to the other two.

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Case Study VI H. Malsawmthangi is a student of class IX at School A and belongs to the Hrahsel clan of the Mizo (Lusei) tribal community. Her father is a politician and belongs to Mizo National Front (MNF). Educationwise, he has studied till class VIII. Her mother has studied up to class IV and practices lo-siam but suffers from some psychic illness. There are 11 members in Malsawmthangi’s family. She is the youngest among six brothers and sisters. One of her married sisters, who has studied till class IX, also stays with them along with her husband and two children. One of her sisters is in the pre-university (second year) and another sister is in class X. Malsawmthangi has two brothers, one of whom is a driver while the other is a drop-out and sniffs dendrite. The family is financially comfortable. The father sometimes talks about the education of children but is generally too busy with his vocation of politics. The mother, due to her lack of education and illness, is in no position to play an active role in her children’s education or to give any emotional support. Sometimes, her brotherin-law guides Malsawmthangi in her homework. Even though she does not share the responsibility for household chores, she does not devote her free time to her studies either. Malsawmthangi says she prefers to spend time sitting near the window and peeping out towards the street and is an average student. The family belongs to the ECM denomination. Malsawmthangi does not go to the church or the sande sikul. She says that she is not interested and also feels lazy to go to the church as according to her, it is too far. The family control is generally weak which is evident by Malsawmthangi’s brother sniffing dendrite. There is a sense of lack of direction which pervades the home. As there are certain common underlying features in the case study 6 and 7, I shall analyse them together.

Case Study VII Pangpari is a student of class X in School A and belongs to the Mualchin clan of the Lai tribal community. She hails from village Bualpui (ng) in the Lai Autonomous District Council (LADC) area in Chhimtuipui district. Her family belongs to the IKK denomination and speaks Mizo tawng (Mizo language) at home. Pangpari’s father has studied till class III and is a lo neitu (a farmer) while her mother has studied till class VIII and helps in the farm.

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Eldest among the five siblings, Pangpari did her primary and middle school from Bualpui with Mizo medium and secured a second division. Her family’s income is Rs l500 per month. She came to the town in 1989 for studies and stays with her maternal uncle. V. L. Mualchin, a head assistant in the local college who has studied till class X. His wife has studied till class VIII and the couple have five children. Mualchin’s brother M. C. Lalsawta is a scientist in the USA. Along with Pangpari, two sons of her deceased mother’s brother live with the same family. Besides, Mualchin’s father also lives with them. Pangpari is a member of voluntary organisations such as the Lai Students Association (LSA), Young Lai Association (YLA) and Kristian Thalai Pawl (KTP). The entire cost of her education is borne by her maternal uncle and her own family does not send her any money. Her mother’s brother’s wife, pupi, says, ‘We have in a way adopted her and look after her as best as we can; we shall even receive her bride-price’. Out of the two sons of Pangpari’s maternal uncle, the younger one is doing pre-university and the elder one is a drop-out. He spends time sitting leisurely in jeans, his upper body bare, rolling indigenous cigarettes made from local tobacco and also takes Zu (local rice beer) besides sniffing dendrite. Pangpari is under the influence of these two boys. Neither she nor her cousins attend the church services or the Sunday School. Her cousins remark: Earlier, we used to attend Church on Sunday. We are naughty boys. We celebrate Pathianni (Sunday or the Day of the Lord) as Zuruni (the day to drink beer) and to play cards. The Church does not have any attraction for us. We sometimes even work as casual labour to secure money for drinking.

V. L. Mualchin’s wife is disappointed and says, ‘Being a Christian, I feel much ashamed’. About inputs in education, she says: On our part, we do our best, but they are negligent, lazy and merely try to pass the exam. They have repeated the same classes too; we cannot force them or beat them as they are grown up and have become nula (young girl) and tlangval (young boys). We have done our best as parents and have even provided a separate room to them downstairs which is like a dormitory with partitions.

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Pangpari’s aim is merely to pass the examination. Besides her own family which does not have much to offer in the form of economic or cultural capital — in embodied, objectified and institutionalized states — her immediate household environment is also quite unsuitable for studies. Cynicism prevails in the atmosphere in which Pangpari is in. She feels directionless and has a low level of motivation. Though Pangpari and her cousins are aware of the success of their uncle Lalsawta, they themselves do not have any ambition to reach that level. In terms of Bernstein’s classification, Malsawmthangi and Pangpari are at position 4 in certain respects as their families are uninvolved in both the means and ends of the school processes. The two case studies of H. Malsawmthangi and Pangpari, in addition to demonstrating the low enthusiasm and motivation levels for education, also points to a situation of anomie especially among adolescents and young people. The society has undergone such sudden and rapid changes that its members have not had the time to adjust to these. They were completely unknown to the outside world at the beginning of the twentieth century. However within a span of less than a century, the total population is Christian. From being completely under Assam, they first got some taste of autonomy in the form of a district council. This was followed by the MNF movement that lasted for almost 20 years. Then came elevation to the union territory status followed by statehood, and the creation of autonomous district councils. As a consequence, politics as a vocation has seen a meteoric rise and all this has brought in easy money and also anomie. The state’s porous border adds to the vulnerability of Mizoram as it tends to strengthen its proximity to the Golden Triangle. This exemplifies a situation of anomie or normlessness as noted by Durkheim. For Durkheim, the collective order is the only legitimate moral force that can effectively restrain the social or moral needs. This mechanism sometimes breaks down and normlessness ensues. Durkheim argues: But when society is disturbed by some painful crisis or by beneficent but abrupt transitions, it is momentarily incapable of exercising this influence; thence come the sudden rise in the curve of suicides […]. Then they (individuals) must reduce their requirements, restrain their needs, learn greater self control […] their moral education has to be recommended (1961: 97).

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In Durkheim’s view, sudden changes upset the societal scale instantly but a new scale cannot be improvised as it takes time for the collective conscience to reclassify men and things. During such periods of transition, there is no restraint on aspirations which continue to rise unbridled. ‘The state of deregulation or anomie is thus further heightened by passions being less disciplined, precisely when they need more disciplining’. Undoubtedly, Durkheim’s poignant observations provide us a valuable clue to understand the prevailing conditions in Mizo society. After examining the case studies of pupils from the town, in order to grasp the linkages between the home and school, I now turn my attention to the pupils in the village context. The aim is once again to understand the primary habitus that has been imbibed and incorporated by these pupils and the ways in which this may influence the secondary pedagogic work of the school (implying the process of teaching and learning that goes on in the secondary context of the school).

Case Study I Hmangaihzuali is a student of class VII in School B. Her father died in 1987 at the age of 35. Therefore, the household is headed by her mother Nathlua who has four children including three daughters and a son. Hmangaihzuali is at number two in the sibling order. One of Nathlua’s daughters stays in the house of J. Chola, the Headmaster of School B, while her son lives with his maternal grandfather. Nathlua is a literate. She lives at Tuipang, is involved in animal husbandry and rears pigs and chicken. She is an executive member of the Kristian Nu Pawl and of the mission board. Nathlua gets up at 3 AM each day, walks for three and a half hours, buys paan and returns home. After having meals, she proceeds to the jungle to fetch firewood. Nathlua earns Rs 1,000 per month. As a mother, she finds it financially difficult to educate her children. Besides, she has had no exposure to the outside world and never having travelled to Aizawl or Lunglei, her life has been confined to her own and the neighbouring villages. She does not know what the children learn at school because, as she puts it, ‘I am uneducated’. Nathlua goes to her children’s school at the time of the examinations to pray that they pass. Sometimes, she attends parents–teachers meet when teachers tell the parents how to take care of their children’s education.

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Nathlua feels that her children do not disobey her, even though she is uneducated. Her children though do not take part in agriculture, fetch water or cook. Generally she stays around them when they study but she is not in touch with other parents regarding their children’s education. Her aim in educating her children is that each should do BA and then take up a government job. The case study of Hmangaihzuali indicates that she does not possess any economic, cultural or social capital. She is at position 3 according to Bernstein’s classification as her family has accepted the ends of the process of schooling but do not possess the means for the transmission of the ends. In such instances, Bernstein (1977) observes that both the child and the family face an extremely difficult position for the family is likely to deliver the child to school but fail to support him approximately in matters of learning and adjustment. Due to inadequate cultural capital, such students are likely to pin all their hopes on the school which is, for them, the only gateway to social mobility and the acquisition of culture. Contrary to their hopes, under the guise of fairness and neutrality, the school actually eliminates them.

Case Study II Robert is a student of class X in School B. His father has studied till class IX and mother till class VII. The mother is a housewife and the father is an advisor of Mara Thalai Pawl (MTP). Robert’s father is also involved in the activities of Congress (I). In addition to politics, he owns a printing press and also domesticates animals. The family income is Rs one lakh per annum. The family belongs to the Independent Church of Maraland denomination. The number of family members is eight. Hmolai, a migrant from Myanmar, stays with the family too. He has done his class VIII from the village and has been trying to learn driving. Of the six children — four brothers and two sisters — Robert is the eldest. The sons are studying in different classes of School B, while the daughters are in primary school. Robert’s father visits the church thrice a week — twice on Sunday and once on Saturday evening — and his mother visits the church four times a week. Robert’s father’s friends — the village council president and the high school headmaster — are relatively influential people of Serkawr village. His leisure time activities are to clean the compound and his vehicle and to read newspapers such as the Tipa Express, Rampar, and Vobik Express.

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The family is financially comfortable to educate the children but finds the tuitions somehow difficult to manage. Robert took tuitions in class IX in English and mathematics and paid Rs 280 per month. He got a scholarship on the basis of his good performance in the middle school examinations. The aspirations of Robert’s parents for their children are that Robert should study engineering. They want one of their other sons to be a pastor, another to be a politician and the fourth son to be a government servant. For the daughters, they have general aspirations such as being graduates. Robert’s father wants to send his children to Chennai or Mysore for higher studies. He himself has had the exposure to the outside world and goes to Aizawl and Lunglei three to four times in a year. He attends the parents–teachers meet too whenever it is held. He feels that the teachers discriminate between one child and the other depending on whether they are related to the child or not. Besides, he also believes that teachers generally have low commitment to their work and are merely doing a job. In his opinion, it would be better to have all plains people in the middle and high schools because they as teachers treat each child equally. The parents are aware of the general problems that their children face at school. Robert’s father says, ‘The children don’t study well in school. Therefore it is essential to teach them at home. Even if a teacher is not good in a particular subject, he or she is still asked to teach that subject in school’. Robert’s parents generally sit with them after meals in the evening and also in the morning when they study. They also discuss the weak points of their children with their friends. These two case studies of the students from School B are significant in bringing to the fore certain important aspects of the linkages between home and school. The case of Hmangaihzuali shows that she does not possess cultural capital in any form — embodied, objectified or institutionalised. Hmangaihzuali’s mother is literate. Further, being extremely tied down with the struggle for survival, she neither has the time, nor the motivation or energy to devote to her children’s studies. In the given circumstances, she cannot provide their children with the requisite motivation and enthusiasm to pursue their education. For instance, Nathlua just ‘prays’ that her children pass the examinations. Though Nathlua does not want her children to take up agriculture as an occupation when they grow up as it ‘involves a lot of hard work’ and is ‘very difficult’,

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yet she expects them to help in various agricultural activities such as making chapu (hut), harvesting and carrying grain.2 Nathlua, however, nurtures the aspirations for her children to do BA and MA and take up a government job. On the other hand, the case study of Robert shows that in the rural scenario, he possesses cultural capital to some extent — in terms of institutionalised cultural capital. The parents have adequate economic capital too and they either arrange for tuitions or themselves give time when the children study. Besides, the family does not merely have general aspirations for its children but specific aims too such as pastor, politician, etc. However, it is significant to note that for the daughters, parents have aims for general education only. Robert is at position 1 in terms of Bernstein’s classification. His family has accepted both the means and the ends of the schooling process. The school is likely to benefit him more than the others as the education system actually builds on the primary habitus and adds its force of imposition to the power relations it expresses, argues Bourdieu.

Community, State and the School In Chapter 4, we looked at the values in educational knowledge especially with regard to nationalism, democracy and citizenship, gender and religion. In this section, my aim is firstly to examine the values transmitted by the everyday community knowledge and then to juxtapose them with the school knowledge as embodied in the curricular textbooks. To grasp the relationship between the two, I have used Bernstein’s concept of framing. Bernstein considers the relationship between non-school community knowledge and educational knowledge as an aspect of framing. He notes: There is another aspect […] to framing. We can consider the relationship between the non-school everyday community knowledge of the teacher or taught, and the educational knowledge transmitted in the pedagogical relationship (1977: 89).

This becomes all the more pertinent in the context of tribal societies as they generally have diverse and varied forms of community knowledge. Since the student organisations are a very significant component of the civil society and community life in Mizoram and other parts of North-East India, they offer us by virtue of their activities and worldview, an extremely important arena to examine the transmission of values outside the formal school system.

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Further, whenever a situation of crisis occurs the church, the State and the student organisations in Mizoram act in tandem. In this context, the Legislative Assembly Debates offer us a very valuable site in order to comprehend the relationship between the State, school and society. In the course of these Debates, the statements made by the members may be their individual views but when similar views are held by 50–60 members, or when a particular resolution is passed unanimously, it reflects a pattern. It is in this sense that these debates can be quite illuminating. In my analysis, I also assume that the boundary between the State and society is permeable, porous and therefore blurred as the State is penetrated by social forces (Fuller and Benei 1999). I therefore treat the discussions in the Legislative Assembly Debates too as part of community knowledge. By considering the worldview of the student organisations and the discussions in the Mizoram Legislative Assembly Debates as a part of community knowledge and as a critical aspect of the pedagogic encounter, I adopt a wide notion of the pedagogic practice as a ‘fundamental social context’, following Bernstein (1996). The relationships in schools do not exhaust the concept of the pedagogic practice. Such a notion of pedagogic practice is narrow, argues Bernstein, and the latter must be treated as basic and fundamental in determining any social context. Almost all students in Mizoram are members of student organisations. As elsewhere, the members of these organisations are college students but in Mizoram, students attain membership even at the middle and high school levels. A significant number of these school students are active too in the sense that they attend meetings, take part in processions and also exercise franchise in the organisational elections. The main students organisations in Mizoram are the Mizo Zirlai Pawl (MZP), Mizo Youth Convention (MYC), Mizo Students Union, Zomi Paite Students’ Federation, Mizo Students Association, Mara Students Organisation (MSO), Lai Students Association (LSA), and the Bru Students Organisation. Let me first provide a brief background of the main students organisations. The MZP was founded on 27 October 1935 as a non-political organisation. British policies sounded a death knell for many of the traditional Mizo institutions such as the Zawlbuk (the youth dormitory). By founding the YMA and the MZP in 1935, the British attempted to compensate for this loss. The aim of MZP was to prepare the students to be useful to society and the

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nation and to work for their development and progress. The general headquarters of the MZP is at Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram. It has branches in schools and colleges all over Mizoram as well as outside the state where there are Mizo students. In the 1970s and the 1980s, the MZP was very active and after it joined the MNF movement for autonomy, a ban was imposed on it which was later lifted in 1989. Till 1993, it was a lull period for the organisation and in that year, the MZP was reactivated and branches were opened in schools and colleges. The MSO was formed on 20 April 1965 with 55 Mara students at Shillong. Since all the other hill area students had their own organisations except the Maras, they established MSO with headquarters at Shillong. The motto of the MSO is ‘Maraland is ours’. The MSO was established with the aim to guide Maras in education, to have Mara language as the medium of instruction from primary to high school, to develop Mara culture and promote games and sports, to enrich patriotic songs and stories of Mara, to publish newspapers in Mara language, and to project their other problems and difficulties through the organisation. In 1969, MSO branches were opened at Saiha, Tuipang and Aizawl. Presently, the MSO has issue-based cooperation with the MZP and the LSA though the latter is more vocal than the MSO and in most matters, it acts according to the dictates of the MZP. Its recent activities include protesting against the proposed lifting of the Inner Line Permit/Restricted Area Permit (RAP), issuing Quit Mizoram notice to non-tribal traders of the Lai Autonomous District Council (LADC) area, undertaking survey in west LADC area to detect Chakma foreigners, and demanding that any Mizo or Lai girl married to a non-tribal should be treated as a non-tribal. The major issues taken up by the MZP, the premier students’ organisation in Mizoram at the time of field work, were: settlement of boundary dispute between Assam and Mizoram, road construction between Vairengte in Mizoram and Silchar in Assam, detection of Chakma foreigners in Mizoram and their deportation, checking permits of non-Mizo traders, protest against the issuance of photo identity cards to voters without the deletion of names of foreigners from the electoral rolls, and fighting for the students cause. The MZP sets the tone for the activities of other student organisations in Mizoram. MZP and its affiliates thus reflect Philip G. Altbach’s

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category of ‘society’ oriented movements, as against the ‘etudialist’ student activities, which are concerned only with students issues. As Edward Shils (1968) points out, hostility against existing authority provided the fundamental identity to student activities in the pre- and post-independence period. However, in the pre-1947 period, rebelliousness was legitimated by the ‘morally imposing adult authority of the political leaders who stood in ‘quasi-paternal and avuncular relationship to the students’. In the present times, students do not get support from parents, are distrusted by the politicians and teachers are apprehensive about their activities (ibid.) In the case of Mizoram, the student activity in the present times is geared towards hostility against existing Indian authority. However, the political leaders at the state-level legitimate the rebelliousness of the students by standing in ‘quasi-paternal and avuncular relationship to the students’. In the past, one of the activities of MZP has been an agitation in 1981 to demand the removal of the Agriculture Director, a nonMizo. MZP was at that time protesting against the selection of four non-Mizos for the BSc, Agriculture course. Later, the Students Joint Action Committee (SJAC) was consulted during the signing of the Mizo Peace Accord. Sometime afterwards, the MZP agitated for the removal of the Pro Vice Chancellor of North Eastern Hill University, Mizoram Campus. He was a non-Mizo and allegations of maladjustment and partiality were levelled against him. In 1990, prominent student organisations in the North-East region such as the Naga Students’ Federation, Khasi Students’ Union (KSU) MZP and the All Assam Students’ Union (AASU) came under one banner called Joint Coordination Committee of student organisations of the North-East. The aim was to jointly fight for major issues concerning the general socioeconomic development of the region. At the time of fieldwork, the MZP under the banner of North East Students’ Organisation (NESO) organised an 11-hour bandh on the Indian Independence Day in 1994. This was to protest against the proposal of the central government to lift the Inner Line Regulation (ILR). The ILR controls the entry of outsiders into the three states of Arunachal Pradesh, Nagaland and Mizoram. The other issues addressed by it were influx of people who were perceived as ‘foreigners’; security forces violating human rights in

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the northeastern states and issuance of identity cards to voters without the deletion of names of ‘foreigners’ from the electoral roll. On the same issues, the MZP organised a procession on 28 August 1994 in which 3,000 students participated. The slogans in this procession read: We are not Indians, but we are in India. Self determination is the right of the Mizos. Save Mizoram today, India tomorrow. Love Mizoram today, India tomorrow.

The year 1994 was a particularly significant one when MZP intensified its activities due to the proposed lifting of Inner Line Permit by the government. There was an emergency session of the Mizoram State Assembly too on the subject. The discussions raise significant points not only about the Inner Line Permit but also about nationalism and national integration. They help us to understand the Mizo perspective on nationalism. 2 October 1994 was set as the deadline by the MZP for illegal traders and non-Mizos without permits to leave Mizoram. If the latter did not abide by the decision, the MZP declared that it would force them to leave by whatever means possible. MZP volunteers moved in groups on the streets and in various localities to search for such people without permits and asked them to leave Mizoram. This agitation was very effective in Aizawl, Lunglei districts and also the LADC area in Chhimtuipui district. The LSA lent its full support to the MZP on the issue of the Inner Line Permit and also on the ‘anti-foreigners’ issue. In a press release, it declared that it was being issued ‘as a last warning to non-tribals in order to prevent assimilation by non- tribals’. It is interesting to know the main points, as these reflect the worldview of the students. All non-tribal traders without valid license should leave Lai area before 15.6.1995. All non-tribals without the Inner Line Permit should leave Lai District Council Area before 15.6.1995. We feel that the steps taken by the MZP are courageous and we will support them to the end. The local girls who are married to non-tribals should feel ashamed and their families should know that they are spies of the non-tribals and are enemies of the tribe.

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The Lai Students Association (LSA) finds it abhorrent that some local girls seem to be boastful about their marriage to pot-bellied, skinny and dark complexioned non-tribals and warns them to be careful in future.

In the foregoing account, I have attempted to unravel some aspects of the community knowledge with special reference to the worldview of the student organisations about the Indian nation. K. N. Sahay (1977) argues that slogans reflect the tribal self-image and identity. If we were to consider the slogans used by the student organisations in Mizoram, they reflect a pride in being a Mizo and of belonging to Mizoram but simultaneously, there is an aggressive rejection of belonging to India and being an Indian. In this sense, the worldview generated by the activities of the student organisations is in complete contradiction to the messages of ‘nationalism’ purported to be conveyed by the school textbooks that go thus: Mizoram Bharat ka ek ang hai Hum Bharat ke nagrik hain Hindi Bharat ki rashtra bhasha hai Hum Bhi Hindi seekhte hain Sab bhartiya bhai-bhai hain 3

Now that we have a fairly clear idea about the community knowledge generated by the occasional ruptures due to the activities of the student organisations in Mizoram, let us strive to have a more comprehensive understanding of the notions about nationalism and national integration by examining some of the Mizoram Legislative Assembly Debates to delve into the epistem of the state. In doing so, I must reiterate that first, I adopt a wide notion of the concept of framing and pedagogic practice as emphasised by Bernstein (1977, 1996) and second, my handling of the subject assumes that the boundaries of the state are penetrated by social forces. I must also state briefly why the subject of nationalism is important for me. Generally, it is the tendency of mainstream India to label the attitudes of the people in north-east India, especially the Mizos and Nagas, as subnationalism. In this context, to have a clear and deeper understanding of the views held by these tribal groups about nationalism vis-a-vis the region, the subject acquires significance for me. It is useful to first briefly consider the ways in which the State has been conceived of in sociological literature. The first and foremost

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sociological definition of the State comes from Max Weber who defines the state as ‘a system of administrative and legal order which claims binding authority, not only over the members of the State, the citizens […] but also to a very large extent, over all action taking place in the area of its jurisdiction’ (1964: 56). In a similar vein, T. Mitchell argues that the state is an actual organisation. He is of the opinion that we must not separate the material forms of the State from the ideological. The idea of the State is a form of symbolic capital. Almost on the same lines, Skocpol notes that ‘the state properly conceived’ consists of ‘a set of administrative, policing and military organization headed and more or less well coordinated by an executive authority’ (1979). As against these notions of the State, there are others most notably expressed by Miliband, Poulantzas and Abrams. For Miliband, the State apparatus furthers the interests of the capital. Poulantzas sees the state as ‘the cohesive factor within the social formation’ while in the view of Abrams the State is not an institution, let alone a thing, but an ‘ideological project’. After independence, the modern constitutional State established itself ‘at the core of India’s Society’, so that it etched itself into the imagination of Indians in a way that no previous agency had ever done’, as has been pointed out by Khilnani (1997: 41). Let us now see through the perusal of the Mizoram Legislative Assembly Debates how the State in Mizoram has established itself at the core of its society and the ways in which it is ‘an ideological project’, to use Abrams’ expression, with regard to the idea of nationhood. Though there are few direct references to nationalism, national integration or the attitude towards the nation, the threat of assimilation is a recurrent theme in the Mizoram Legislative Assembly Debates. For instance, in 1984, a member from the MNF stated: the Mizo community is no longer secure. It is on the threshold of assimilation by other people. The Inner Line Regulation is in force but it is not put into practice effectively. While Meghalaya retains District Council, Mizoram lost its District Council when it was upgraded to U.T. An important milestone in the History of Mizoram has been erased[…]. The Mizo community feels insecure. No one can foretell what the inhabitants would be like in future, what will the religion be and whether Mizo community would survive and exist for the next generation (Government of Mizoram 1984: 13).

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Attempting to learn lessons from the others, he further observes: Recently, […] I found out that in Meghalaya, no house site can be allotted to any Mizo. Similarly, Government post can no longer be allotted to a Mizo[…]. In Tripura also, […] they reserve everything for sons of the soil. Therefore, it is time that we opened our eyes to see that everything from Government service to trade and commerce were solely reserved for the sons of the soil. In a land where a bigger tribe assimilates the lesser one, integration cannot be expected at all (Government of Mizoram 1985: 170).

Conscious of the exploitation at the hands of the non-Mizo, he continues: when you go to Silchar and you go to the bazaar for shopping, a shopkeeper will charge double the amount which he charges from his fellow non-Mizo. If you purchase an article at a price he charges, he will never say, ‘This Mizo is an upright man that he pays whatever price I charge’. Rather, he will say ‘what a fool he is[…]. I will cheat him to death. As such, when making any demand to the Government of India, we must deal with them with an air of superiority […]. In order that there is national integration, the first necessity is survival of our tribe (Government of Mizoram 1985: 174).

In 1994, there was a proposal to revoke the ILR by the Government of India. An emergency session of the Third Mizoram State Assembly was held on 26 August 1994. The session is significant as it brings to the fore not only the meaning attributed to ‘national integration’ by the Mizos but also their fears and anxieties. For instance, one of the members remarks: In spite of the enforcement of the Inner Line Regulation, there are unemployment problems, many graduates and master degree holders remain jobless. The superiority of plains people is revealed in many cases in education, trading and employment. It is impossible to compete with them[…]. Our strong opposition to the lifting of Inner Line Regulation does not mean that we have a dislike or hatred for plains people. It is rather that we, the Mizo are not yet developed and experienced to compete with them as they are more advanced and experienced than us in every walk of life (Government of Mizoram 1994).

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It is now appropriate to delve into the factors which prompted the Mizos to oppose the lifting of the ILR. First, the rate of population growth in Mizoram was 22 per cent between 1981–91. This was in spite of the ILR. The rapid population growth resulted in an awareness about the danger of assimilation. Second, the members felt that it was essential to project Mizo society as distinctive. Third, it was realised that the new economic policy would attract outsiders who would tap the natural resources of Mizoram such as paper pulp, hydel resources and the Mizos would have ‘no chance of survival’. Fourth, it was felt that the ILR not only safeguards the interests of the Mizos, but also restricts free entry to Mizoram which in turn prevents ethnic violence, providing a peaceful atmosphere which is important for national integration. Fifth, the ILR was projected as the ‘will of God’ and any idea of lifting it was said ‘to destroy the handiworks of God’. Sixth, it was emphasised that had it not been for the ILR, Bengal ‘would have trodden us’ and ‘tapped all our resources’ and that ‘we were saved from being given scripts based on the Bengali scripts like Manipur and Tripura’,4 and finally that if the Inner Line Permit was lifted, ‘We, the minorities could be assimilated even by the beggars from Cachar (Silchar)’. Therefore, the regulation was considered imperative to check internal migration. It was finally noted: True, national integration is having contentment in ourselves, territorially, psychologically, politically, and socially with a confidence in the administration of the Government of India (Government of Mizoram 1994).

This sums up the essence of the meaning of national integration given to it by the Mizos. It was also declared that the common goal, was ‘to preserve Mizoram for the Mizo people’ (Government of Mizoram 1994: 43). Apparently, the ideas and the worldviews of the student organisations in Mizoram appear to be aggressive. However, examine the views about the nation vis-a-vis the region articulated in the Mizoram Legislative Assembly Debates, the initial misconceptions that the reader may have developed start giving way to a better and deeper understanding of the notions that Mizos have about national integration. Driven by the threat of assimilation, the church, the state and the civil society of which MZP is an example, send the message across to their society that the Mizo people, their religion

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and their state is in danger. Therefore, one finds the frequent and insular references to Christianity in the textbooks analysed in Chapter 4, wherein not only the normative interpretations, but also the cognitive interpretations are not drawn from any other religion. Of course, the State on its part is bound to follow the directives of the National Policy on Education. Hence, it follows from this that it necessarily has to include selections on national integration, secularism, national personalities, and symbols. But education being in the Concurrent List of the Constitution of India, each state has ample liberty, to determine ‘what is to be taught’ and ‘what is not to be taught’ through the curriculum (Apple 1986, 2000; Scrase 1993). Scrase has rightly remarked in his study of the textbooks of West Bengal: ‘Essentially […] textbooks contain an explicit ideology (in, for example, the fostering of national goals), but also an implicit ideology, or set of ideologies, that either complement these national goals and ideals or, more often than not, are in contradiction’ (1993: 17). The students in Mizoram do not imbibe the values of nationalism as enshrined in the school textbooks (discussed in Chapter 4) as there exists a wide gap between their lived experiences and the values contained in and transmitted through the school curriculum. Since the values transmitted through the secondary socialisation of the school are in contradiction to those transmitted through their primary socialisation and community knowledge, the latter attains more salience than the former as it comes much closer to the life of the students than the remote messages about national buildings, national symbols, etc., conveyed through the curriculum. At the core of the threat of assimilation as perceived by the Mizos are the issues of development and ethnicity as is evident in the Mizoram Legislative Assembly Debates. The significant among them being population influx, scarcity of government jobs for the sons of the soil and the exploitation of natural resources. The emphasis on Christianity in the curriculum is not incidental too. Education in general, of which curriculum is a part, must be seen as a part of larger economic and ideological configuration, as M. W. Apple (1982) tells us. Khullar is right when she points out in the context of the study of moral education of school children in Markapur, Delhi that: Although there have been efforts to secularise education in India, religion enters from the back door. Text books written by state bodies

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have been noted to be biased in the representation of religions in India (1990: 158).

Though harmonious co-existence of people from different religions is mentioned at the manifest level in the school textbooks that have been examined, the normative interpretations and most of the cognitive interpretation are drawn from Christianity alone. In order to draw a linkage between education and the broader cultural apparatus of society and the role of the State, I draw attention to the following statement made by the then President of the Mizoram Board of Secondary Education (MBSE), Lalchungnunga, as part of a speech: Though education is in the Concurrent List, the states have been granted freedom in a large measure to frame the educational policy for themselves. Therefore, our system of education can always be reorganised and reoriented to meet the needs and requirements of Mizoram. Education in Mizoram as initiated by the missionaries with the highest of objectives was crowned with great success and it is in the fitness of things that the education we are having today also be geared towards the same objectives[…]. If we dare to admit that we the Mizo people are the chosen people of God to be instrumental for His work, it implies that our educational system should also be moulded in conformity with Christian ethics and mode of life[…]. It is Christian education based on the life and teaching of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ[…]. We accept this or we fail in our endeavour to teach Moral Education[…]. In this beautiful land of ours, where Christianity claims 86 per cent of the entire population or about 99 per cent of the Mizo community, is […] it not our responsibility to evolve and impart Christian education?.5

What is being emphasised upon here is the relevance of education. Relevance simply put means to relate the work of the school more closely to the life and work of the local community. It includes within its purview both values and skills. Undoubtedly, education and learning also occurs outside the pale of formal education. A curriculum that matches, confirms, replicates or draws upon the culture of the community is considered to be relevant or suitable (Young 1971; Krishna Kumar 1989; Khullar 1990). It is generally believed that if there is continuity between the two, it contributes to the formal educational knowledge acquiring a greater semblance of reality.

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In anthropological and sociological literature, the concept of relevance has been extended to counter narrow ethnocentrism. Clifford Geertz (1973) has argued that in order to make sense of any culture, it has to be understood from its own vantage point rather than from an externally applied yardstick. In Mizoram, Christianity has been treated as a symbol of Mizo nationhood and has been juxtaposed against Hindu India. Apart from the exploitative historical experiences of Mizos at the hands of the Assamese and the Bengalis in creating the feeling of alienation, Christianity also sets them apart from the others (Downs 1983). From the start, the Mizos became apprehensive of losing their newly acquired faith if they came close to the dominant religion of Hinduism in India. Conversion to Christianity created a favourable attitude towards westernisation which was accompanied by contempt for the thought, ways and mores of Indian society. The Mizos admired the sapvakvai (the Britishers) for their trustworthy nature. The non-English vai (the outsiders) were considered inferior and were looked at with suspicion. The feeling of religious alienation accompanied that of political alienation. Though the church has never preached it directly, it did propagate that Mizos should not be assimilated by non-Christians. Later, a feeling developed among the Mizos that they were unsafe at the hands of non-Christians unless they formed an independent Christian state. In this respect and with regard to the distinct notions of the Mizos about nationalism, the role of the elite fraction of the Mizo middle class has been significant not merely as the creator of ideologies but also as their prominent articulator and transmitter. In the present times, although the church does not directly participate in the political activities, it plays a prominent role in Mizo society and politics through general guidelines and broad principles. Through the curriculum and also the ‘expressive order’, the school tends to institutionalise the Christian ethos and demarcates the ‘Christian land’ of the Mizos from the ‘Hindu mainland’. The emphasis on Christianity also gives a strong sense of identity to the Mizos.6 As the textbooks analysed have been prescribed by the state-run MBSE, they bring into sharper focus the role of the school as an Ideological State Apparatus when interpreted in conjunction with the statement of the then President of MBSE.

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Students, Social Identity and the School The notions of self-concept and ‘identity’ are rapidly becoming the dominant concerns within sociology and social psychology. This trend can be seen as part of a general intellectual shift from behavioural to phenomenological orientation in these disciplines. In this section, I attempt to focus my attention on the issue of social identity among the middle and high school students in the two schools of my study — School A and School B. This acquires significance in order to undersand the ethnic relations between the different communities in Mizoram. It enables us to delineate the processes whereby the notions of social identity get fixed in the adolescents. The general connotation of the term ‘social identity’ refers to a person’s self-definition in relation to others. Broadly speaking, it derives from the idea of self-concept. It must be noted that the idea of self-concept, in turn, is based on the human capacity for reflexivity. Reflexivity or the process of self-awareness can be defined as the ability of human beings to be both subjects and objects to themselves. At the core, it involves a dialogue between the ‘I’ and the ‘me’, i.e., between the self-as-knower and the self-asknown. G. H. Mead (1934) calls reflexivity an internal conversation which emerges with the emergence of language. He argues that language requires us to take the role of the other with whom we are communicating and in the process enables us to see ourselves from the other’s perspective. The two aspects of self-concept are ‘identities’ and ‘self-evaluations’. Identity means ‘who’ or ‘what’ one is. Mead, emphasing a social conception of the self, observes that individuals experience themselves ‘from the standpoint of the social group as a whole’ to which they belong. Self-evaluation is also known as the process of reflected appraisals. It is based on Charles H. Cooley’s (1902) influential concept of ‘the looking glass self’ and Mead’s (1934) theory of ‘roletaking’ as a product of symbolic interactionism. The concept of symbolic interaction has always occupied a central place in both socio-psychological theorising and in sociological theory. In the psychoanalytic tradition, the work of Erikson on identity conflicts and identity diffusion in an individual’s life cycle is noteworthy. In sociological theory, Talcott Parsons defines identity as a sub-system of personality. He assigns a major role to identity in determining a person’s participation in the social system.

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Studies have been conducted on the different components of identity. These have focused on such aspects of personal identity like self-esteem, locus of control and level of aspirations. Sociologists have found a causal link between social identity and various forms of intergroup behaviour. In recent times, we find a resurgence of the concept of ‘culture’ and the related concept of ‘community’ and ‘identity’. The new conception of culture is significantly different from its conventional counterpart. Along with ‘community’ and ‘identity’, culture has acquired the status of a paradigm and as Jodhka puts it, it provides ‘a framework within which debates are carried out on the most compelling questions of contemporary politics’ (2001: 13). As has been mentioned earlier, the renewed interest in ‘identity’ can be traced to the influence of post-modernist and post-structuralist theories during the 1980s and the 1990s beginning with the Foucaldian engagement with Enlightenment, where traditional sanctions on behaviour end. It involves self-awareness and constant questioning of the world. We find these concerns in the work of Anthony Giddens (1991). He views the self as a knowledgeable agent. He considers the concept of self-reflexivity important to grasp the production of personal and social life. In his ‘Structuration Theory’, Giddens has provided a theoretical analysis of the relationship between self and society. Pierre Bourdieu too maintains a position of constant reflexivity in his work. The debate on identity can therefore be understood in this broad context of reflexivity or self-awareness. Identity involves two ideas — one of ‘sameness’ and the other of ‘distinctiveness’ (for instance, ‘I am a woman’ and ‘I am not a man’). Conventional sociology focused on sameness whereas post-modernist sociologists focus on differences (Craib 1998). Richard Jenkins (1996) in his work Social Identity uses identity and social identity interchangeably. The former is merged in the latter as ‘all human identities are in some sense and usually stronger rather than a weaker sense social identities’ (ibid.). Coming to the field situation, 50 students each from the middle school sections and the high school sections of both the schools were posed questions on different aspects of social identity. What follows here are the responses that I received both from group discussions and the interview schedules.

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To a question, ‘Are you a Mizo?’, all the middle schools students in School B replied ‘We are not Mizos?’. The middle school respondents of School A and the high school respondents of both the schools variously replied, ‘We are Mara’, ‘We are Mara and are different and separate from the Mizo’, and some were so categorical as to say, ‘We are Tlosai Mara’ (i.e., a particular sub-group of the Mara). To a further question, the middle school students replied that Maras are not Mizos. Among the high school students at School B, almost 77 per cent felt, ‘We are not Mizos, even if we live in Mizoram’. The middle school students in School A replied, ‘Though we live in Mizoram, it is not our land — Maraland is our land’. The same was reiterated by the high school students of the school. Thirty-eight out of 50 middle school students, i.e., 76 per cent of the students of School B said that the Mara are superior than the Mizos. The reason given was ‘because we are much richer than them in language’. Eight of them, i.e., 16 per cent felt that Mara and Mizos are equal. The reason given was ‘because we are all human beings’. Four out of 50, i.e., 8 per cent of the students observed, ‘we are lower than the Mizos’ as ‘in education, they are more superior than us’. Among the middle school students of School A, all, i.e., 100 per cent were of the view that the Maras are superior than the Mizos and said ‘because we have preserved our mother tongue, cultural heritage and spirit, though we cannot compete with them in other spheres’. However, 87 per cent of the students of the high school section of School B remarked, ‘We are inferior than the Mizos in matters of education and wealth’. About 13 per cent of them considered themselves equal. The high school students of School A shared their views with their counterparts in School B and stated that, ‘Maras are inferior than the Mizos’. In another related question, 45 out of 50 middle school students (90 per cent) in School B observed that the Mizos looked down upon the Maras. They stated, ‘We know this because they call us Kherchhia or the “dirty Lakhers” and also because ‘they consider us a little different in every respect’. Barely five out of 50 students, i.e., 10 per cent were of the view that ‘Mizos do not look down upon us’. Almost all stated that ‘Mizos are jealous of us as we have preserved our customs and they are trying to take them away. Since they have not been able to do it, they feel jealous’. All the middle school students in School A gave the same response. The high school

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students in both the schools were also unanimous in their response. The reason they gave were, ‘because we are under them’, ‘because we are economically weaker’, ‘because all important political leaders are Mizos’ and ‘because we are few in member’. Though 90 per cent of the middle school students of School B said that the Mizos and Maras are not like brothers, 98 per cent of them wanted to be friends with them in order ‘to learn Mizo tawng’ (language), ‘because we are all Christians’, ‘because we want to know about them’ and ‘because we are living in the same land’. Asked by which name do the members of the other tribes like Mizo and Lai called them, 90 per cent students of both the levels were aware that the former called them as Lakher in an insulting tone. They would themselves like to be called Mara as ‘Lakher is a foreign word’. When asked, ‘which do you think is your country?’ 35 out of 50 students (i.e., 70 per cent) in middle sections of both the schools replied, ‘Mara rah’ (Maraland); 10 of them (constituting 20 per cent) considered India as their country while only five students (i.e., 10 per cent of the respondents) considered Mizoram as their country. It is notable that the region takes precedence over the nation state as a defining aspect of ‘identity’. Also significant is the revelation that some of the students, despite being in Mizoram, did not feel a sense of belonging to it. The students were also asked to give their opinion on whether they thought that the Mizos looked down upon the Lai tribal community. All the students at both the levels in both the schools replied, ‘Though Mizos look down upon Mara, they do not look down upon the people of the Lai Community’. The reasons given were ‘because Py (Pawi or Lai) are staying in their land’ and ‘because, majority of the Py (Pawi) speak their language’. Questions were also posed on awareness about voluntary organisations in Mizoram. It must be mentioned that in Mizoram, voluntary organisations such as the YMA, Mizo Hmeichhe Insuikhawm Pawl (MHIP), MSO, MTP, and MZP are very effective mediating institutions between the State and the society and are also crucial as the markers of identity. All Mara students of both the levels in both schools were aware about the YMA but considered it only for the Mizos. All students were not only aware of the MSO and MTP but were also their members. The reasons given for being members of MSO and MTP are ‘We want to preserve our

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culture and heritage’ and that ‘we want to bring up our language’. The Lai students in School A were not only aware of Lai Students Association but were members of it too. The students were also asked questions on the issue of the medium of instruction and syllabus. At the time of fieldwork, the primary schools were under the respective District Councils in Chhimtuipui district. In the rest of Mizoram, primary schools were under the MBSE with Mizo as the medium of instruction. The primary schools under the MADC had Mara as the medium of instruction, and those under the Chakma Autonomous District Council had Bengali as the medium of instruction. However, those under the LADC had Mizo as the medium of instruction. Besides these primary schools, there were private institutions too which had English as the medium of instruction. All middle and the high schools in Mizoram were under the MBSE with Mizo and English as the medium of instruction respectively. There was a move during my fieldwork to shift the middle schools too under the District Council with their respective languages as medium of instruction. All middle school students in School B found the shift from Mara medium in primary school to Mizo medium in middle school difficult as they felt ‘that the pattern of teaching changed with Mizo’. However, the middle school students of School A initially found Mizo medium of instruction slightly difficult but after a few weeks found it easy as they had studied Mizo as ‘one of the subjects in primary school’, and also that ‘Mizo is a common language’. To another related question, majority (65 per cent) of the middle school students in School B preferred the Mizo medium in middle school if given a choice. Some did not give any reason and a few replied ‘in order to know more Mizo’. Others said, ‘We are Mara, we already know our language, hence we should know Mizo’. But the middle school students in School A showed a preference for Mara medium if given a choice. The reason given was ‘because it is our language’. Among the high school students in School B, 30 per cent preferred Mizo medium of instruction due to wider opportunities it offers. It was expressed thus, ‘because if we are being taught only in Mara, and we happen to go till Lawngtlai, there will be no way for us’. Almost 70 per cent showed a preference for Mara medium of instruction if given a choice, saying ‘because we will be safeguarding and preserving our language’. In School A, almost

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all students preferred Mara as the medium of instruction and the reasons given were ‘to preserve and develop our language’ and ‘to show that we also have a separate language’. All students at both the levels in the two schools under study were of the opinion that the school syllabus represented only the Mizo culture and did not include the culture and customs of the other tribal groups in Mizoram.7 About the reasons for the predominance of Mizo culture in the school syllabus, the respondents stated, ‘They (Mizos) want to keep their status high and also because it serves their own interests’ and ‘they want to propagate their own culture and customs only’. The students were unhappy about it and said, ‘After all, Mizoram is a State — there must be equal representation of all groups — their culture, their history, etc.’ Several conclusions can be drawn from the foregoing data. The middle school and the high school students of both the schools exhibit considerable reflexivity, involving self-awareness and questioning of the world. The middle school students of the School B denied their identity with the Mizos and stated, ‘We are not Mizos’. On the other hand, the middle school students of School A and the high school students of both the schools had a much more clear sense of identity when they expressed ‘what they actually are’ and not merely ‘what they are not’, when they stated, ‘we are Mara’. Some were so categorical as to say, ‘We are Tlosai Mara’ (a sub-group of the Mara), while others declared, ‘We are Mara and are different and separate from the Mizo’. The fact of occupying the same territory does not make a difference either. They considered themselves Mara even though they may be living in Mizoram and stated, ‘Mara rah is our land’. Majority of the middle school students in School B and School A observed that the Maras are superior to the Mizos in culture and language. However, we find a complete reversal of this positive self-concept when we analyse the responses of the students of the high school section. The students here consider themselves inferior than the Mizos mainly in matters of education and wealth. Almost all were unanimous in declaring that the Mizos looked down upon the Mara due to the latter being a minority under the supremacy of the Mizos. However, all were eager to be friends with the Mizos and saw them as a positive reference group. The common faith and sharing the same land were the significant binding factors to some extent. It is significant to note that the students observed that

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though the Mizos looked down upon the Mara as they are jealous of the latter, they do not look down upon the Lai community as the Lais do not have their separate language and speak Mizo tawng. Their church services are also conducted in Mizo and they have, therefore lost their identity as a tribe. In this context, Béteille comments incisively: When the loss of language is accompanied by a loss of other cultural traits, a sort of invisible threshold is crossed, and the tribe ceases to function as a tribe although, it does not thereby lose its identity as a community (1992: 64).

The separate language, denomination and distinct customs give Mara a separate identity. During the time of fieldwork, there were efforts among the Lai to revive their language. The Bible was being translated in the Lai language and a separate denomination the ‘Lairam Baptist Church’ was formed. These were efforts to retain the autonomy that the Lais had achieved in the form of the District Council. There have been similar efforts by the Hmars in northern Mizoram who, having merged their identity with the Mizos for a long time, have been attempting to achieve a District Council for themselves of late. The Mara are one among almost 15 ethnic groups in Mizoram. Though different from the dominant tribal community of the Mizos, they share the commonality of faith with them. Certain other minorities such as the Chakmas who profess Hinayana Buddhism have a separate language and culture. Given this situation, what is purported to be taught in the school through the curriculum, namely: Hum Hum Hum Hum

Kaun Hain? Mizo hain. Mizoram mein hain. sab Mizo hain.

and the predominance of the Mizo legendary heroes, and an emphasis on teaching hymns and Bible stories in the curriculum, when viewed from the perspective of the minority tribes such as the Mara and Chakma, is symbolic violence in Bourdieu’s terms. Besides, the omission of the ‘Palak dil’ from the chapter on Rih Dil (Rih lake) and other such omissions or merely paying lip-service

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to the themes relating to the minority tribes is an example of the hegemony of Mizo culture, not as abstract but as a concrete lived dominance of some and the subordination of the others (Apple 1982). In an article, Rajesh Dev (2004) has argued that the definition of the minority/majority should be relative and contextual, as those described as minorities at the all-India level may be the dominant communities in their particular states. Further, he states that these communities can be oppressive and discriminatory in their disposition towards other minority communities living in that state. The significant features of the northeastern states are ethnicity and identity politics. Therefore, the members of the minority communities such as Mara, Chakmas, Bru and Pang in Mizoram consider that they are like second-grade citizens at the mercy of the dominant ethnic communities controlling the wheels of power directly or indirectly. The boundaries between the collective ‘self’ and the collective ‘others’ in the northeastern region are so strong that these have resulted in a process of ‘the inequalisation of ethnic others’ in the region. Education as a major ideological state apparatus in the hands of the dominant, middle-class Mizo elite serves to institutionalise the ‘pan-Mizo identity’. As the responses of the middle and high school students of School A and School B indicate, this message of the panMizo identity is opposed and even rejected by the minorities such as the Mara. Further, the school syllabus which glorifies only the Mizo customs, historical heroes, legends and stories is also considered by the Maras as skewed. In this sense, a curriculum which arbitrarily imposes and inculcates certain meanings (necessarily requiring the delimitation by ‘selection of meanings’ and also a corresponding ‘exclusion of meanings’) is ‘la violence symbolique’ as Bourdieu puts it. According to Bourdieu, ‘power relations between the groups or classes making up a social formation are the basis of the arbitrary power’. This is a pre-condition for the establishment of a relation of pedagogic communication. The pedagogic communication involves the imposition and inculcation of a cultural arbitrary by an arbitrary mode of imposition and inculcation, i.e., the education system.

Conclusion To conclude, this chapter examined the school in the context of its linkages with the wider society. The case studies of the students from

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both School A and School B have shown that school and home do interact in very significant ways which can have wide implications for the reproduction of inequalities in society. The case studies also reflect the inequitable distribution of cultural capital in society. The students, who come from the salaried or professional middle class backgrounds with a certain level of education, receive not only encouragement and exhortation as far as their school work is concerned but also an ethos of getting on in society and an ambition to achieve from their parents. Bourdeiu has argued that the initial accumulation of cultural capital is the basis of the fast and easy accumulation of every kind of cultural capital. As mentioned above, the accumulation of cultural capital begins early for these students, covering the entire period of the socialisation process. Their early start is an advantage that makes it more likely that these students will continue in the school system for longer than the others. The students who come from families with less cultural capital such as T. Eunisi, H. C. Beingiachhisa and Hmangaihzuali get from their families merely an ‘undefined enthusiasm’ as according to Bernstein ‘the procedures of the school are often a closed book’ for the members of their families. The pathos of the situation of children such as those mentioned above has been succinctly captured by Bernstein when he remarks almost poetically: What must it be like to be a parent if you are insulated from your child in this way? What must it be like to be a child unable to share his school experience with his family? (1977: 42).

Students like Eunisi, Beingiachhisa and others in the absence of any meaningful feedback from their families, are likely to nurture high expectations from the school for upward social mobility and acquisition of culture. The school on the contrary, as we saw in the Chapter 4, rewards the ‘academic docility’ of students who belong to the first kind of family background. Their docility is expressed through such pupil strategies as ‘appeasing’ the teacher and conforming behaviour in the classroom as their ascension most directly depends on the school. The school ‘manipulates aspirations’, to use Bourdieu’s expression, as it awards qualifications and entitlements and thus confers aspirations. However, the symbolic domination of the school in terms of its ‘process and experience’ is never complete. It co-exists with its contestation as we saw in Chapter 4. The acts of routine resistance in the classroom, largely

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by the bulk of students who come from the less privileged family backgrounds, serve to convey the message that education system must not be allowed to ‘manipulate aspirations’ and that it must change to take cognisance of their aspirations too. Another question which the chapter posed was whether learning takes place only in the school or outside it as well. Is what is learnt outside in consonance or in conflict with what is learnt inside the classroom? We discovered that indeed learning takes place outside the school too. The non-school community knowledge, in the context of the activities and worldview of the student organisations, transmits messages which run counter to the dominant messages conveyed by the school, especially with regard to the values of nationalism. Though apparently aggressive, these messages when examined in depth through the perusal of other important documents reveal the genuine anxieties of the people — about vital issues of development, unemployment, identity and the threat of assimilation. The discontinuities in the ferment of society reflected in the incidents of ‘collective defiance’ (as James Scott calls them) involving student organisations are the acts of resistance to the hegemonic curriculum which does not validate the voices of dissent. Finally, the chapter sought to examine the views of the middle and high school students about their identity and their perceptions about the curriculum. The responses of the students indicates that minority ethnic groups in Mizoram feel that their voices are not heard and that they have been silenced considerably in order that the dominant Mizo voice reverberates. Nevertheless, these well articulated responses of the students about the immense pride they take in their separate identity point to the optimism, hope and the realisation that the pathways to a ‘discourse of possibility’ are open.

Notes 1. Literate: The Census of India 2001 defines a literate as a person who can both read and write with understanding in any language. All children below the age of 6 years or less are to be treated as illiterate. 2. Mohammad Talib (2003) is of the view that the school ignores the social and cultural world of the child. On the basis of his fieldwork in a school on the outskirts of Delhi, Talib underlines the need for lifesensitive education and emphasises the learning potential of the labour itself. He notes, ‘Perhaps, the existing heavily centralised education

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system would strike more relevance if the pedagogy and curriculum undergo a massive devolution of meaning in favour of the local context of the learner’s life settings along with labour as the basis of learning and livelihood’ (Talib 2003: 161). The National Curricular Framework (NCF)-2005 does address these concerns significantly. 3. In the context of citizenship education, Bertrand Russell, in Education and the Social Order notes: Unfortunately, the elements of good citizenship which are emphasised in schools and universities are the worst elements not the best. What is emphasised most of all is patriotism in a somewhat militant form: that is to say a narrow devotion to the persons living in a certain area, as opposed to those living elsewhere (1932: 15).

4.

5.

6. 7.

Russell’s assertions point to the fact that education for citizenship needs to be recast in a broader mould. Sanjib Baruah too makes similar observations in the case of Assam. Underlining the cultural politics of language, he writes that in 1836, it was officially decided that the language of rule in Assam would be Bengali and ‘the earliest assertions of Assamese cultural pride-well before it could be termed nationalism, grew as a reaction to that decision’ (1999: 71) In 1852, A. D. Phukan petitioned against ‘instruction being imparted in a foreign language’, i.e., Bengali. This points to the crucial role of language in the society of the northeastern region. Address by Lalchunnunga, then President, MBSE, at the Centenary celebrations of Aizawl Theological College, 1994. Ronald Dworkin (2006) in his recent work has provided two models in this regard — tolerant religious model and tolerant secular model. He holds that those adhering to the first model cannot separate their religious convictions from their political principles while a tolerant secular society should not allow its institutions such as public schools to be used for practising, as distinct from studying, religion. For a detailed discussion on the subject, see Bhatia (forthcoming). Nambissan (see Kabeer, Nambissan and Subramanian 2003) draws attention to the fact that the content of school knowledge is seen as alien by the lower castes and dalits. She quotes Kancha Illiah, who remarks, ‘the textbooks taught us stories which we had never heard in our families’ and that ‘the linguistic skills or knowledge of the lower castes have no place in the education system’ (1996: 56). R. Govinda (see Kabeer, Nambissan and Subramanian 2003) too considers schools as sites of selective inclusion and exclusion.


6


Conclusion In this study, I set out to understand the complex reality of the school in its relationship with the wider society. In the course of doing so, it has made forays into the arena of culture, state and politics. In its effort to go beyond what meets the eye and to understand what lies beneath the surface, this work has shown up the charades, pageants and masquerades, the play-acting that marks education. I have tried to link education with various aspects of Mizo culture and identity politics in Mizoram manifestly expressed in the activities of the student organisations and the role of the State. This has been a neglected field so far.

Education as an Ideological State Apparatus The study has analysed education as an ideological state apparatus at two levels. At one level, the ideal of pan-Indian nationalism as enshrined in the National Policy of Education is being emphasised. This may be accepted or rejected by the different components forming the nation. As far as the Mizos are concerned, it was clear that they reject these messages of pan-Indian nationalism, while taking pride in being Mizo. At another level, education is in the hands of the dominant Mizo elite who convey messages of pan-Mizo identity which may or may not be accepted by the other ethnic minorities in the state. The projection of a monolithic Mizo identity has been a cultural trend since the days of the Mizo National Front (MNF) movement when such an identity was sought to be created due to the presence of the external other in the form of the Governments of Assam and of India. The study has therefore substantiated the view of the contemporary theorists of education who have argued that the roots of what goes on in schools, in the microprocesses of the classroom and curricular knowledge, lie in the broader societal context (Woods 1983; Scrase 1993). The study also shows that all knowledge is socially constructed and, therefore, if any knowledge is considered as superior, it is because those with power have defined it as such and have somehow imposed their

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definition on the others. Besides, the role of the emerging middle class in the Mizo society in constructing ethnicity as an ideology and using this as a strategy was also significant. The study has thus been able to take the symbolic interactionist perspective of the school to the second stage by moving beyond ‘the first rough mappings of the hitherto dark unknown of the black box interior of the school’ to ‘the further rough mappings of uncharted areas of school life, formal theory and macro links’ (Woods 1983: 181). Through the analysis of the process and experience of schooling, the aim was firstly to observe the school as an externally observable reality and secondly, to restore the voices of the chief dramatis personae — the teachers and pupils — to unfold how schooling is experienced by them. It was realised that schooling itself builds on the primary habitus acquired in the family, even though it may deny this in principle and practice by making ‘school career a history with no pre-history’, as Bourdieu puts it (1990: 42). The case studies of the students and the classroom observations provided concrete evidence to Bourdieu’s argument that ‘[…] the habitus acquired in the family underlies the structuring of school experiences (in particular the reception and assimilation of specifically pedagogic message) and the habitus transformed by schooling in turn underlies the structuring of all subsequent experiences’ (ibid.: 87; Bourdieu and Passeron 1990: 4). Both in terms of ‘how it is taught’ which is ‘the arbitrariness of the imposition’ in Bourdieu’s words, and also in terms of ‘what is taught’ (the cultural arbitrary), the school serves to reproduce the asymmetrical and inequitable distribution of the cultural capital. It was evident that the school is favourably inclined towards certain kinds of students who receive encouragement and motivation from their families which enables them to work their way through schooling. These students have a head start in the process of accumulating cultural capital, while for the other students the process starts late. The latter enter the school with hopes for upward social mobility, but on the contrary the school shatters their hopes and aspirations as it rewards the former for their ‘academic docility’ (ibid.) while penalising the latter. Weber terms this as an ‘arousing pedagogy’ as it stimulates the ‘gifts’ hidden in certain individuals treating them as natural, whereas in reality they have been acquired through primary habitus in the course of everyday life. It is in this sense that the school is ‘a vehicle for privileges’ (Bourdieu 1993: 98–99).

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Identities and Resistance Nevertheless, the study also brought to the fore that just as domination is an ongoing, continuous process, so is its contestation. The two go hand in hand and must be perceived in concrete practices. It was realised that the pupils through their subtle oppositional behaviour in the classroom show that they are not supine victims of the unjust classroom practices and the hegemonic curriculum. The oppositional student culture manifested in the activities of the student organisations and also the routine resistance in the classroom, especially with regard to the transmission of the values of nationalism and national integration, indicate that school education in Mizoram, with its emphasis on monolithic messages, is ‘cultural enslavement’, as argued by Paulo Freire in so far as it ‘inflexibly negates the right to dream differently’ (1977, 1998). Therefore, as perceived by the students, the education imparted to them is an act of domination with the ideological intent of indoctrinating them. The active rejection by the students of certain messages on nationalism in the curriculum and the simultaneous acceptance of certain messages about the pride in being a Mizo has unfortunately been termed as sub-nationalism by the Indian mainstream. Actually, the worldview generated by the activities of student organisations is an effort towards contesting the marginality to which the northeastern region has been subjected to by mainstream India, advertently or inadvertently. The Mizoram Legislative Assembly debates indicated that the Mizos have their own distinct notions about nationalism. These need to be respected by the school curriculum and instead of articulating the ideas on national integration in a monolithic way, the complexities need to be brought in as an integral aspect of the curriculum. Giroux, the most notable advocate of critical pedagogy, has pointed out that a nation must take account of its fragments. He asserts: ‘National identity can no longer be written through the lens of cultural uniformity or enforced through the discourse of assimilation’ (2000: 178). One can see the relevance of Giroux’s assertion with reference to the people of northeastern India in general and Mizoram in particular, who constantly live under the fear of assimilation. Nation building is undoubtedly important but care and caution must be exercised that the nation building project does not take the form of ‘internal colonialism’.1

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At another level, this study has also shown that the subaltern has its own subaltern. In the existing studies in the sociology of education, the subaltern has been examined in its relation to the altern. The Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes have been studied in relation to the general society. The present work has endeavoured to bring out more complexities by examining the subaltern within the subaltern, ie., the sense of alienation and marginalisation experienced by the minority tribes in relation to the majority tribal communities of a region. I found that the messages of the pan-Mizo identity in the curriculum receive varied responses from different minority tribes. Some minority tribes respond with incorporation, some with accommodation and some with resistance. School education, from the point of view of those who respond with accommodation or with resistance, is ‘symbolic violence’. Education in Mizoram is symbolic violence in other ways too through the implicit religious ideology and the messages of nationalism. Analysed at different levels, the dominant groups who are the owners of cultural capital tend to appropriate it to their maximum possible advantage and symbolically define reality in a manner which best suits their interests. This perception of what counts as valid knowledge is inconsiderate and unsympathetic to the fact that the recipients of such knowledge may have an opinion different from and contrary to the mainstream view. Thereby, the existing structures are maintained by meconnaisance (misrecognition) as the injustices, inequality and discrimination are subtly hidden under the guise of ostensible fairness and neutrality of the education system.

Role of Critical Pedagogies In place of the passive, monolithic, stifling and ‘one-way monologue’ education, Freire has proposed a problem posing, dialogical education which responds to the essence of consciousness, rejects communiques, embodies communication, and reflects the aspirations of the people. Critical consciousness, or conscientizacao, is the basis of critical education. It strives to unmask the mythicised reality by praxis, i.e., a totality of reflection and action. Freire notes that each human being is capable of looking critically at the world in a dialogical encounter with others. He/she can perceive social, political and economic contradictions and make meaningful interventions so that ‘each individual wins back the right to say his or her own word, to name the world’ (1996: 38). In this sense, critical education

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is empowering as it is forged by the teacher and the learner in a mutual process. Here the teacher is not merely the transmitter of received knowledge but is a learner occupying a somewhat different space in an ongoing dialogue. Along with the student, the teacher comes to the learning situation as possessor of past knowledge and together they engage in producing new knowledge.2 Again, the teacher’s efforts must be directed towards marshalling the spirit of ‘rebelliousness’ so that the learners can take charge of their own destinies and the task of the educator is also ‘to encourage human agency, not mould it in the manner of Pygmalion’, as Aronowitz argues (1998: 10). In addition, teachers must be ethically grounded to combat any kind of discrimination. They must also respect the knowledge that the students bring with them to school. In other words, there must be an intimate connection between knowledge considered basic to any school curriculum and knowledge that is the fruit of the lived experience of the students (Freire, 1998; Giroux and Simon 2000). Giroux and Simon have also argued for making popular culture a part of pedagogy, though at an apparent level the relation between popular culture and classroom pedagogy is remote. While popular culture is in the terrain of everyday, is organised around fun and authorises the voices and experiences of students, classroom pedagogy is defined in instrumental terms and legitimates the language, codes and values of the dominant culture. These differences notwithstanding, both popular culture and pedagogy are ‘subordinate discourses’. Pedagogy is seen as that which is left after curriculum content has been determined as merely a transmitter of the course content. Similarly, popular culture is generally considered as the remainder of high culture. It is considered to be the trivial and the insignificant of everyday life, unworthy of academic legitimation. Giroux and Simon (2000) argue that popular culture and pedagogy are important terrains of cultural struggle through which one can rethink and remould schooling as an important form of cultural politics. Pedagogy transforms consciousness which takes place in the interaction of the teacher, the learner and the knowledge they produce together. Besides, we need an education that is rooted in human freedom, i.e., which makes the student understand the ‘why’ and ‘how’ of any situation in order ‘to make the familiar strange and the strange familiar’ (ibid.). According to Giroux, the starting point

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of critical pedagogy can be to consider popular culture as that terrain of images, knowledge, forms and affective investment defining the ground on which one’s voice becomes possible within a pedagogical encounter. Critical pedagogy also argues that the ‘givens’ or the received wisdom must be viewed as starting points of learning and not as eternal truths as they are themselves situated in historicity. Spaces for mutual engagement of lived difference are created through critical pedagogy that do not silence the multiplicity of voices by a single dominant discourse, argue McLaren (1986), Giroux (2000), and Giroux and Simon (2000). Further, it is a project of hope, possibility, an unfinished agenda which makes us educable and which incorporates student experience as official curriculum content. Critical pedagogy also draws on what Foucalt (1980) terms as the la savoir des gens — the local, regional and subjugated knowledge. It advocates for the politics of difference and empowerment as the basis for developing a critical pedagogy through the voices and for the voices of those who are often silenced. Elements of a discourse of empowerment can be found even in Bourdieu’s work, though he is a reproduction theorist of education. According to him, ‘People who see themselves on the fringe, outside the social space are situated in the social world like everyone else’ (1993: 47). In the case of Mizoram, critical pedagogies can play a key role in instilling a sense of confidence and trust among those who have for long sensed marginalisation, neglect and the consequent alienation. Educational innovations such as the conscientisation experiment in a Bangladesh village by the Bangladesh Rural Advancement Committee, BRAC, (Rafi 2003) and Eklavya in Madhya Pradesh, India, can provide valuable clues in this direction. The BRAC, through village meetings, formed village organisations and functional education was imparted to the members which aimed at basic conscientisation, awareness building and literacy. This was to be achieved through participatory learning when all members were supposed to develop creativity, dignity and strength. Popular theatre was also used to enliven and inspire the poor. One of the major strengths of Mizoram are its village institutions that have existed for long, much before the Panchayati Raj became a buzz word. Learning from the BRAC, these village institutions can be utilised for the purpose of critical pedagogy which recognises the local cultural practices and provides for pluralised public spaces recognising people in their marginality and contingency. Gaining from

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Eklavya’s Hoshangabad Science Teaching Programme (HSTP) which emphasised an enquiry-based discovery approach in which children conduct experiments, science education in Mizoram can be made more fun using local products. Learning from the Social Science Teaching Programme (SSTP), the focus of social science education can be on causality and not on facts and by making abstract concepts intelligible by linking them to the child’s local realities. Tribal communities have indigenous systems of knowledge which need to be encouraged, rich folklore that deserves respect and recognition and local products and practices which need to be harnessed. Pedagogy for change also necessitates taking pride in manual labour and agriculture to counter what McCall has termed as ‘black-coatism’ in Mizo society.3 The black-coatism has resulted from an over-emphasis on general education and has bred frustration and a general sense of directionless due to the increase in the number of educated unemployed. According to Sajal Nag (2002), historiography must also change to include the Khasi Rebellion, the Naga Movement and the Mizo Movement against the British as nationalist movements at par with Gandhi’s national movement. These movements must find a place in the school curriculum and pedagogy. The need is to reconcile the regional aspirations with the national objectives. The educational policy makers must take cues from the Centre’s ‘Look East’ policy. This policy assigns a transnational role to the northeastern India, lays emphasis on renewing cultural, political and trade ties with South-East Asia and respects not only geographical boundaries but ethnic boundaries too.4 The policy makers can explore the possibilities of bringing together the much contested history of Assam, themes of the integrated nation, the concrete aggressive reality of the student’s life in Mizoram and the themes from South-East Asia in the curriculum to see if any meaningful knowledge can be constructed in a mutual process. Some initiatives have already been taken in this direction. For instance, an international institute of languages has been set up in Aizawl in April 2007 that will train students in South-East Asian languages such as Philipino, Thai, etc., and go a long way in tackling educated unemployment and in improving cultural ties with South-East Asia. Besides, as the main problem confronting the northeastern region is its geographical isolation and the consequent socio-political isolation, more importance needs to be given to distance learning. Education industry linkages must also be promoted and there

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must be value addition to the local industrial, horticultural and forest produce such as the bamboo and orchids which are found in abundance in Mizoram and other parts of the region. Again, the occasional ruptures and conflictual events such as the activities of student organisations like the Mizo Zirlai Pawl, the Lai Students Association, etc, offer pedagogic moments that must be seized if a ‘discourse of possibility’ is to be ushered in. This has been indicated by scholars such as Giroux (1986), Krishna Kumar (1996) and Heredia (2003). Heredia points out that if the healing process is to begin, we must seize these moments to begin a dialogue in which ‘feelings can surface rather than be repressed, where confusions are sorted out and not left in strangulating tangles’ (2003: 47). He is of the view that silence at such critical moments may lead to the young being left to cope with the trauma alone. Education can serve a useful purpose to usher peace in the northeastern region. This can be done by a return to the folk — not just for the tribal folk — but as is being argued for the whole of South Asia. We need to return to the ‘folk tradition’ to heal the wounds inflicted in the past and the misgivings of the present times. The educational policy makers must tap, for instance, the Mizo code of conduct, the tlawmngaihna, which encompasses selfless service, discipline, courtesy, courage and industry.5 It is not merely a precept for the Mizos but is translated into practice in the everyday context — for instance, the care of crop, of the sick and infirm by those who are strong and able-bodied, rebuilding of houses accidently burnt, and providing a sense of security to the villagers. Tlawmngaihna is thus a codification of the spirit of goodwill and cooperation. Other tribes in the region have similar traditions too. The task of the empathetic educator is to harness the good that is inherent in tribal life and work through local institutions such as the village councils and civil society organisations such as the Young Mizo Association (YMA), Mizo Zirlai Pawl (MZP), etc., to nurture the appropriate qualities for good and active citizenship, rather than imposing messages from outside, which being construed as cultural aggression are liable to be contested by the tribals. Besides, if the students of the two schools in our study take such pride in their identity, surely this pride must get its due place in school knowledge. All these shall enable schooling to be an experience in cultural freedom and would be small but significant steps towards Paulo Freire’s dream of conscientizacao through dialogical education.

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Some General Observations In addition, a comprehensive education policy is needed for the northeastern region as a whole. Such a policy must take as its starting point the citizens of India in the mainland most of whom are ignorant about the tribal way of life, fail to appreciate it and come to have a condescending attitude to the tribals and their customs. Perhaps we need to go back to what Nehru asserted in his Foreword to Verrier Elwin’s A Philosophy for NEFA: Our people all over India should know more about this problem and should develop affection and respect for these fine people. Above all, I hope there will be no attempt made to impose ways of life on them in a hurry (1958: iv)

The National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT) must take the initiative to include tribal component in the school curriculum at the national level such as folktales, songs and dances of the North-East region. The masses in India need to be sensitised about the tribal way of life in the northeastern region (and other parts of India). Given that the conventional ‘law and order approach’ has failed to bring about lasting peace in the northeastern region, education could play a key role in tackling some problems at the root. The education system could inculcate a sense of belonging to the nation, not as an imposition but by taking people’s perceptions into account. Education policy must also address the cultural diversity of the region. For instance, the hill areas in the region are distinctly different from the plain areas and indeed hill states such as Nagaland, Meghalaya and Mizoram have broken away from their parent state of Assam, fearing cultural onslaught.6 Therefore any education policy for the region must address these diversities and learn lessons from the past. However, we must refrain both from neglecting culture and cultural determinism. The need is to integrate culture in a wider picture as one significant influence over many others, to pay attention to cultural heterogeneity, interdependencies and also to the positive role cultural influences can play across borders (Sen 2004). Besides, travel must be made an essential component of school education. Travel is a great eye-opener and a potent educator as it erodes ethnocentrism and paves way for better understanding and tolerance of differences. Such educative travel must not be limited to elite schools alone but to all schools. We also need to adopt a

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multi-pronged strategy for education, especially in the hilly tribal areas, which acknowledges that a certain wrong has been done and needs to be corrected. Evolving strategies to create a sense of security and thus bring the alienated and estranged community back into the mainstream shall help to restore its self-worth. The civil society must be assigned a key role in this endeavour and two major roles must be played by it, viz, of vigilance and education to inculcate human values of ‘secular spirituality’; and to draw from history, not the legacy of wounding but of healing and peace. The northeastern region has for long simmered in discontent, has posed and continues to pose a serious challenge for mainstream India. Ethnicity, underdevelopment and unemployment are major issues for the people of the region. It is acknowledged that the ‘law and order’ approach has done more harm than good, as is evident from the naked protest of the Manipuri women in June 2004 and the continuing silent protest of Irom Sharmila of Manipur, who has been on an indefinite fast for the last 10 years for the withdrawal of the Armed Forces Special Protection Act (AFSPA), 1958. Any solution to the Naga problem also seems distant. Though apparently peaceful, Mizoram does have its own problems. There are occasional ruptures in Assam too. What then is the solution? What can bring lasting peace in the region? Some of the answers lie in an appropriate education linked to the surroundings; promoting peace; emphasising skill upgradation using local products and expertise; and respecting manual labour including agricultural labour. What is needed is an education that does not convey the message of imposition, overt or covert, but promotes the emotional integration of the people, rather than mere political unity; and respecting ethnic boundaries as much as the political boundaries. What is required is an education that is not just a degree collecting mechanism but where the youth play a more proactive role through organisations such as the Young Mizo Association (YMA). Such an education would seek to validate the voices of dissent and use conflict for pedagogic purposes. Finally, it is worthwhile to return to the past, learn from history and address ourselves once again to the questions posed by Verrier Elwin (1958) who was instrumental in shaping the first tribal policy in independent India. Elwin notes that any developmental scheme for the North East Frontier Agency (NEFA), now known as Arunachal Pradesh, applicable to other tribal areas too, must address itself

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to questions such as will the scheme help the tribesmen to grow according to their own genius and tradition or will it attempt to merely shape them according to our own image and impose on them our particular way of living? Will it tend to make the tribesmen a second-rate copy of ourselves? Will it uproot the tribal people from their surroundings? Have we approached the tribesmen with an air of superiority telling them what to do and what not to do? Is the pace of change too fast? Is there a multiplicity of projects which impose a heavy burden on the tribesmen? By these criteria, the education system for the northeastern region has not met with much success, the good and noble intentions of the planners and policy makers notwithstanding. The reasons are many. In our eagerness, we have expected too much too soon from the tribesmen — whether it be in the imagining of the nation, or neglecting their ethnic aspirations, or in the influx of disinterested vai (outsider) teachers who have contempt for tribal way of life. For the development of the northeastern region, the first prerequisite is peace. Experience bears testimony to the fact that sporadic state interventions or repressive measures at critical junctures or doling of funds have not led to lasting peace in the region. Indeed, the impact of conflict, both armed and unarmed, is deep and traumatic on women and children compared to other segments of society and results in the negation of the very essence of childhood, of denial of the right to education and a gruesome killing of innocence. In the strife-torn times of today, the need for peace education — rooted in and nurturing the qualities of compassion, humility, tolerance and respect for difference from childhood itself — is immense. As civil society organisations such as the Meira Paibis in Manipur, Naga Hoho in Nagaland, and Mizo Hmeichhe Insuikhawm Pawl and YMA in Mizoram have played a key role in the resolution of conflicts, they must be entrusted with imparting peace education as they work in close association with people at the grass roots. A transition from political to social democracy also necessitates the treatment of each human life as equally and intrinsically valuable (Dworkin 2006) and a broader conception of human security that entails freedom from poverty, unemployment and underdevelopment as opposed to the present narrow one. Only with such measures can we ensure not just a higher growth rate but a higher rate of gross national happiness too.

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Notes 1. R. Govinda (2003) too argues for more investment in human development and context-specific, micro-level solutions in place of pan-national, macro-level solutions. Ayesha Jalal (1995) in the case of Pakistan, and Sanjib Baruah (1999), reiterate the same. 2. The National Curricular Framework-2005 which provides a blueprint for education policy at the national level in India does significantly address these issues. Among other thrusts, it assigns salience to constructivist education and critical pedagogies. 3. To address some of these problems, the North-Eastern Regional Education Council (NEREC) was constituted in July 2005. Some initiatives being taken by it are improvement of science and mathematics education, teacher training as the northeastern region has the largest backlog of untrained teachers, emphasis on vocational education with 90 per cent central aid, and integration of the vocational stream with the general academic stream. Earlier, the North Eastern Council (NEC) could not make much dent in the primary sector, the secondary sector was almost non–existent while the tertiary sector was over emphasised which resulted in black-coatism and undue significance given to general education. This poverty of public education has, in turn, been responsible for many problems besetting the youth of the region. The North East Vision 2020, made public in April 2008 does recognise these limitations of overdependence and saturation in the government sector and argues for more emphasis on education that trains the young for manufacturing and non–government service sector such as hospitality industry, civil aviation and travel and tourism. 4. In this context, it is worthwhile to note that Ashis Nandy in his recent work Talking India argues, ‘civilisations are living entities and are still a powerful presence. A civilisation can destroy a nation-state within it, if its principles clash with those of the state’ (Nandy and Jahanbegloo 2006: 77). In the light of foregoing assertions therefore, more attention needs to be paid to the civilisational aspect while formulating any policy (including education policy) for the northeastern region. 5. These are precisely the qualities that the sociologist Émile Durkheim prescribed for moral education (1961). Other tribes also have similar codes of selfless service. These are generally practised through civil society organisations which have replaced the youth dormitories of the past. 6. See for instance, the Mizoram Legislative Assembly Debates which note that had it not been for the Inner Line Regulation (ILR), ‘Bengal would have trodden us’ and ‘tapped all our resources’ and that ‘we were saved from being given scripts based on the Bengali script like Manipur and Tripura’ and finally, that if the Inner Line Permit was lifted, ‘We, the minorities could be assimilated even by the beggars from Cachar (Silchar)’ (Government of Mizoram 1994).

About the Author Lakshmi Bhatia is Associate Professor, Department of Sociology, Aditi Mahavidyalaya, University of Delhi. Having obtained her Ph.D. in sociology from the University of Delhi, she was earlier associated with the Centre for Women’s Development Studies, Delhi. She is currently engaged in the study of the middle class in India’s North-East.

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Index AASU see All Assam Students’ Union (AASU) ABMS see American Baptist Missionary Society (ABMS) aborigines lii adivasis lii, 140 adult literacy 77 African Political Systems (Fortes and Evans-Pritchard) xlviii AFSPA see Armed Forces Special Protection Act (AFSPA) Ahom tribe l, 65 Aizawl Saiha Teachers Union 104 All Assam Students’ Union (AASU) 163 Althusser, Louis xxxix American Baptist Missionary Society (ABMS) 66, 118 apiapa (wrestling) 62 Armed Forces Special Protection Act (AFSPA) 192 Arthington Mission 21, 66 Asiatic Society of Bengal li Assam mission 65 Asylums (Goffman) 79 bachnawpa (game) 62 Bailey, F. G. li Bangladesh Rural Advancement Committee (BRAC) 188 banking education 85 Baptist Missionary Society (BMS) 21, 66 Baruah, Sanjib 182, 194 Bernstein, Basil xlii, xliii, lvii, lx 80–82, 93, 94, 96, 98, 99, 141, 142, 144–47, 149, 150, 152, 153, 156, 158, 160, 161, 165, 180

Béteille, André xxxvi, xlvii, li, lii, liv, 122, 133, 137, 143, 178 Bhattacharya, S. K. 4, 5 ‘black-coatism’ in Mizo society 189 BMS see Baptist Missionary Society (BMS) Bose, N. K. li Boudon, R. xlii, xliii Bourdieu, Pierre xliii, lvii, lviii, lx, 93, 94, 101, 138, 139, 142, 144, 145, 149, 150, 160, 173, 179, 180, 184, 188 Bowles, Samuel xxxix BRAC see Bangladesh Rural Advancement Committee (BRAC) Bru Students Organisation 161 capitalist system xxxix, xl Chakma Autonomous District Council 176 Charter Act (1813) 64 chholothyupa (game) 63 child labour xlvii Chin–Lushai expedition 17 Chithiku 10 Chitnis, Suma xlv Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) 16 Christian Mission 22, 24, 38, 57, 78 CHT see Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) Church of South India (CSI) 107 College for Teachers Education (CTE) 116, 118, 140 colonial citizen 71, 77, 78 colonialism 185; education during 77, 137; ideology and institution of xlvi

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community, state and school 160–72 Comprehensive School Scheme lxi Concurrent List 126, 169, 170 containment policy 17 Cooley, Charles H. 172 counter-school culture 91, 96 CSI see Church of South India (CSI) CTE see College for Teachers Education (CTE) cultural deprivation theories xli, xlii, xliii cultural politics xxxv, 182, 187 curriculum 74, 80, 82, 86, 126, 129, 139, 141, 142, 169–71, 178–82, 185–89, 191; and classroom interaction 122; for nationalism and national integration 126; new themes 131–32 dalits 140, 182 Danda, Ajit K. xxxvi Delamont, S. 86 DEO see District Education Officer (DEO) Desai, I. P. xlv Deschooling Society xl deviance-insulative teacher 85, 88 deviance-provocative teacher 85, 115 Dev, Rajesh 179 District Education Officer (DEO) lxiii, 97, 100 divorce: among Mara community 43; kinds of 48–49 Durkheim, Émile xxv, xxxviii, xliv, xlviii, liv, lvii, lx, 99, 100, 101, 133, 156, 157, 194 Dworkin, Ronald 182, 193 East India Company 64 ECM see Evangelical Church of Maraland (ECM)

economy, of Mara community 50–53 education: administration of 24–25; during British India xlvi, 77, 137; Christian missions 78; critical consciousness and 186; emergence and development of formal 63–66; fledgling start (1908–1914) 66–73; middle phase (1915–1930) 73–75; phase of consolidation (1931–1948) 75–79; as ideological state apparatus 183–84; in Indian context xlv–xlvii; ‘Look East’ policy 189; ‘mahajani’ system of xlvi; moral education of children 129; National Policy of Education 126; rights of child vs. economic needs of family xlvii; role in social change in India lx; role of State in xlvii; science and mathematics 132–37; and society xxxviii–xlv; vocational 194 educational knowledge: values in 121–22; gender values 127–30; nationalism, democracy and citizenship 122–27; new curricular themes 131–32; religious values 130–31 educational reforms xl Education Commission 121 Eklavya 188, 189 Elwin, Verrier 191, 192 ethnic minorities lii, 183 Evangelical Church of Maraland (ECM) 102, 107, 118, 148, 152, 154 The Fly on the Wheel 17 folklore, of Mara tribal community 10–11; dog and goat 11–12; girl who married a monkey 14; Pala Tipa (Pala lake) 13–14; tortoise

Index

and monkey 12; widow’s son 12– 13; wild cat, hen and egg 11 forest tribe li, liii forward policy 15, 17 Foxall, A. Bruce Lorrain 77 framing, concept of 94 Freire, Paulo xli, xliv, 85, 185, 186, 187, 190 Fried, Morton H. xlviii, xlix, l games and amusements 60–63 Geertz, Clifford 171 GHSS see Government Higher Secondary School (GHSS) Giddens, Anthony 173 Gintis, Herbert xxxix, xl, xli Giroux, H. A. xliv, lix, 96, 185, 187, 188, 190 Godelier, Maurice xlviii, xlix, l Goswami, B. B. xxxvi Grierson, Sir George 2 Halsey, A. H. xl Hargreaves, D. H. 87, 89, 91 Hazopano (Pentecostal Day) 10 High School Leaving Certificate (HSLC) 100, 101, 113, 133, 143, 146, 147, 153 The Hill Tracts of Chittagong and the Dwellers therein 16 Hindi Schools 126 Hindi Teachers Association 127 home and school 142–60 Hoshangabad Science Teaching Programme (HSTP) 189 HSLC see High School Leaving Certificate (HSLC) HSTP see Hoshangabad Science Teaching Programme (HSTP) Ia ceremony 8, 18, 36 ICM see Independent Church of Maraland (ICM)

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ICSSR see Indian Council for Social Science Research (ICSSR) IKK see Isua Krista Kohhran (IKK) Illich, Ivan xl, xli ILR see Inner Line Regulation (ILR) Independent Church of Maraland (ICM) 110, 112, 158 Indian Council for Social Science Research (ICSSR) xxxvi Inner Line Permit 162, 164, 168, 194 Inner Line Regulation (ILR) 163–64, 166, 167, 168, 194 International Year of the Indigenous People lii Isua Krista Kohhran (IKK) 113, 146, 154 jana l, liii jati l, liii Jenkins, Richard 173 jhum cultivation 2, 3, 6, 9–11, 14, 21, 27, 29, 30, 41, 47, 49–52, 56–58, 125, 152 Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal 15 Journal of Two Voyages Along the Coast of China (Gutzlaff) 64 Karabel, J. xl Keddie, Nell xliv Khasi Rebellion 189 Khasi Students’ Union (KSU) 163 Khazopano (Easter Sunday) 10, 56 Khrisma (Christmas) 10 Khullar, Mala 129, 170, 171 Knowledge and Control: New Directions for the Sociology of Education (Young) xliii–xliv Kristian Nu Pawl (Christian Women’s Association) 144, 157 Kristian Thalai Pawl (KTP) 155 Krizhypa Hla bu (hymn book) 21, 69

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KSU see Khasi Students’ Union (KSU) KTP see Kristian Thalai Pawl (KTP) Kuki–Chin tribes 2, 26, 56 Kumar, Krishna xlv, xlvi, xlvii, 71, 78, 95, 96, 171, 190 Lai Autonomous District Council (LADC) 114, 118, 154, 162, 164, 176 Lai community xxxvi, lxii, lxviii, 1, 81, 119, 175, 178 Lai Students Association (LSA) 118, 155, 161, 162, 164, 165, 176 Lakher Pioneer Mission 8, 9, 20, 21, 22, 58, 63, 66, 67, 69, 70, 72, 73 The Lakher Pioneer (newsletter) 8, 57 The Lakhers (Parry) xxxvi, 26 lapino-ma (form of divorce) 43, 48 Legislative Assembly Debates 161, 165, 166, 168, 169, 185, 194 Linguistic Survey of India (Grierson) 2 literacy rate, in Mizoram 25 ‘Look East’ policy 189 Lorrain, J. H. 8, 66 Lorrain, R. A. 8, 58, 60, 66, 69 LSA see Lai Students Association (LSA) The Lushai-Kuki Clans (Shakespear) xxxvi, 26 lyu mathawna ceremony 52 Mackenzie, A. 16, 17 ‘mahajani’, system of education xlvi maitano (dolls) 62 Mara Autonomous District Council (MADC) 1, 32, 53, 97, 118, 125, 150, 152, 176

Mara community lxiv; administration of education 24–25; civil disobedience movement 22; early relations with British 15–20; economy 50–53; folklore of see folklore, of Mara tribe; food, general habits and festivals 6–10; games and amusements 60–63; inter-village cooperation among 30; marriage among 38–46; origin and migration 3–6; period of political awareness 22–24; position of women in 46–50; religion 53–56; as Scheduled Tribe under Article 342 of Indian Constitution 1; slavery among 35–38; social stratification 33–35; socio religious order 20–22; village administration and key functionaries 29–33; village life of 26–29 Mara Freedom Party 23 Mara Students Organisation (MSO) xxv, 118, 144, 161, 162, 175, 176 Mara Thalai Pawl (MTP) 158 Mara Thly Py (MTP) 112, 118, 144, 175 marriage among Mara tribal community 38–41; divorce 43; payments 41–42; widow remarriage 44–46 masia-a-cha (elephant hunting game) 62 MBSE see Mizoram Board of School Education (MBSE); Mizoram Board of Secondary Education (MBSE) McCall, A. G. 19, 21, 59, 189 McLaren, Peter xliv, lviii, lix, 96, 188 Mead, Margaret 57, 172 Meira Paibis (civil society organisation) 193

Index

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Merton, R. K. 135, 136, 137 MHIP see Mizo Hmeichhe Insuikhawm Pawl (MHIP) Middle School Leaving Certificate (MSLC) 113, 133, 134 Mizo Hmeichhe Insuikhawm Pawl (MHIP) 175, 193 Mizo Movement 189 Mizo National Front (MNF) 24, 154, 183 Mizo Peace Accord 163 Mizoram Board of School Education (MBSE) 25, 92, 126, 139 Mizoram Board of Secondary Education (MBSE) lxvi, 122, 170 Mizoram Legislative Assembly Debates 161, 165, 166, 168, 169, 185, 194 Mizo Students Union 161 Mizo tawng (Mizo language) lxiv, 92, 102, 118, 154, 175, 178 Mizo Union 23 The Mizo Unrest (Goswami) xxxvi Mizo Youth Convention (MYC) 161 Mizo Zirlai Pawl (MZP) 118, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 169, 175, 190, 192 MNF see Mizo National Front (MNF) moral education of children 129 Morgan, L. H. xlviii, xlix MSLC see Middle School Leaving Certificate (MSLC) MSO see Mara Students Organisation (MSO) MTP see Mara Thalai Pawl (MTP); Mara Thly Py (MTP) MYC see Mizo Youth Convention (MYC) MZP see Mizo Zirlai Pawl (MZP)

Naga Students’ Federation 163 Nag, Sajal 189 Nambissan, Geetha 140, 182 National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT) 191 National Curricular Framework (NCF) 182, 194 National Policy of Education 126, 169, 183 NCERT see National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT) NCF see National Curricular Framework (NCF) NEFA see North East Frontier Agency (NEFA) NEHU see North Eastern Hill University (NEHU) NEREC see North-Eastern Regional Education Council (NEREC) NESO see North East Students’ Organisation (NESO) New Land Use Policy (NLUP) 125 North Eastern Hill University (NEHU) 113, 163 North-Eastern Regional Education Council (NEREC) 194 North East Frontier Agency (NEFA) 191, 192 North East Students’ Organisation (NESO) 163 North-West Frontier Province (NWFP) l A Note on the Un-administered Lakher Tract (Whaleys) 18 The Nuer (Evans-Pritchard) xlviii NWFP see North-West Frontier Province (NWFP)

Naga Hoho (civil society organisation) 193 Naga Movement 189

Observations on the State of Society Among our Asiatic Subjects 78 Oesterheld, J. xlvii

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Education and Society

padhai (learning) xlvi Pakhtuns l pakhupila dance 51 Panchayati Raj 188 Parry, N. E. xxxvi, 2, 4, 5, 15, 16, 19, 20, 26, 34, 35, 38, 46, 58, 59, 71, 72, 73 Parsons, Talcott 173 Pathak, Avijit xlvi Pathak, R. D. 135 Pawi–Lakher Regional Council (PLRC) 23, 24, 25 Pedagogy of the Oppressed (Freire) xli People of India project xlvii A Philosophy for NEFA (Elwin) 191 PLRC see Pawi–Lakher Regional Council (PLRC) ‘poly-segmental’ society xlviii pupil culture 119–21 RAP see Restricted Area Permit (RAP) Rashtra Bhasha Vidyalayas 126 Ray, Niharranjan l Reproduction in Education, Society and Culture (Bourdieu) lviii Restricted Area Permit (RAP) 162 ria-lochhi ceremony 51 Roy-Burman, B. K. lii, liii Sachipachhua ceremony 51 Sahay, K. N. 165 Sahlins, Marshall xlviii, xlix, l Sahriaku 10 Saiha Teacher’s Union lxvi, 101, 104 Sarangapani, Padma xlvi, lvi sawn pakua (form of divorce) 43 sawta alapa (adoption) 46 Scheduled Castes 186 Scheduled Tribes li, 1, 186 school: classroom practices and curriculum 185; community, state and 160–72; home and

142–60; pupil culture in 119–21; relationship with society l, 131; rituals in 96–101; role as ideological state apparatus 172; students, social identity and 172–79; Sunday Schools lxvi, lxvii; system xxxv, xxxvi, xl, xli, xlii, xlvi; teacher-pupil interaction 82–96; temporal ruleframe 81; working day 81 Schooling in Capitalist America (Bowles and Gintis) xxxix schooling, political economy of xxxv science and mathematics education 132–37 Scott, James 96, 138, 181 Shakespear, J. xxxvi, 16, 17, 18, 21, 26, 58 Shan mission 64, 65 shifting cultivation, steps for 50–53 Shils, Edward 163 sialycha (bean game) 60 sikisa ceremony 52 Simon, R. I. 187, 188 SJAC see Students Joint Action Committee (SJAC) slaves: among Mara tribe 35–38; kinds of 36; sacrifice 37 social class speech codes xlii social identity 142, 172, 173, 174 Social Science Teaching Programme (SSTP) 189 Socio-political transformations xxxv speech codes xlii SSTP see Social Science Teaching Programme (SSTP) student organisations 142, 161, 163, 165, 168, 181, 183, 190; identities and resistance 185–86 Students Joint Action Committee (SJAC) 163 students, social identity and school 172–79 Sunday Schools lxvi, lxvii, 74, 112

Index

teacher–pupil interaction: classroom observation I 82–87, 89–92; classroom observation II 87–89, 92; classroom observation III 92–96 teachers: categories of 85; interaction and culture 101–7; staff meeting 104; strategy of ‘ritual and routine’ 91; training centre 25 Textbook Committee 126, 127, 140; meetings of MBSE lxvi Thapan, M. 80, 82, 84, 96, 99, 100, 110, 119, 120, 125 thlahual ceremony 44, 47 Thyuheino (Easter Saturday) 10 tlawmngaihna 58, 59, 137, 190 Tlosai Mara dialect 22 tribal society xlvii–l, 14, 19, 41, 57, 77, 78, 80, 137, 139, 140, 146, 160 tribe: administrative conception of l, lii; ‘ex-criminal’ and ‘criminal’ li; forest li; in Indian context l–liv; Marxist concept of xlix; modes of livelihood xlix, li; Morgan’s concept of xlviii; Sahlin’s definition of xlviii UMFO see United Mizo Freedom Organisation (UMFO) unconscious missionaries 38, 72 United Mizo Freedom Organisation (UMFO) 23 Verstehen (Weber) lv, lx village life, of Mara community 26–29 vocational education 194

L

215

Walsh, Judith E. 79 Weber, Max lv, 133, 135, 166, 184 widow remarriage 44–46, 49 Wild Races of South-Eastern India 16 Williams, Raymond 141 Willis, Paul lv, lx, 95 women, position in Mara community 46–50 Woods, Peter liv, lv, lvi, 80, 81, 84–89, 85, 91, 92, 103, 105, 106, 115, 137, 141, 183, 184 Xaxa, Virginius li Yandabo, Treaty of 64 YLA see Young Lai Association (YLA) YMA see Young Mizo Association (YMA) Young Lai Association (YLA) 118, 155 Young, M. F. D. xliii, lx, 171 Young Mizo Association (YMA) 143, 162, 175, 176, 190, 192, 193 Zachono, R. T. 1, 2, 22 zawlbuk 28, 31, 39, 58, 59, 63, 125, 126, 162 ZBC see Zomi Baptist Convention (ZBC) Zisuthno (Good Friday) 10 zizapuapa (swings) 62 Zomi Baptist Convention (ZBC) 118 Zomi Paite Students’ Federation 161