Time moved inexorably forward. Much water had flowed down the Kolodyne and Saireng rivers, unceasing and indifferent. The armed campaign of Thu-Aya, Jitinga, Yangaya, and Rema flowed with it—sometimes raging like a monsoon torrent, sometimes meandering like a gentle winter stream.
For four long years, Rema had remained in the hills. Now, for the first time since the uprising began, he descended to the plains with two companions, entering the city of Silchar.
In the early days, Mizos in the plains walked in fear, often harassed by locals. But things had changed. As Rema walked toward the city center, he saw graffiti painted in bold red letters on a wall near the Zoram Hotel:
"We support the Mizo War of Liberation" "We support the armed struggle of the Mizo people"
Rema stared, surprised but gladdened. Gone were the days of student strikes demanding the rebels be crushed. But what did this support mean? Did these people truly understand that the Mizo path—the path of armed struggle—was the only way to break the chains of oppression? Or did they support the Mizos simply because they, too, were suffering?
The people of the plains faced their own crises. The ruling class squeezed them dry, acting as puppets of imperialism and feudalism. Perhaps they realized that the machinery oppressing the Mizos was the same machinery exploiting them. Perhaps this graffiti was not just support for the Mizos, but a projection of their own future struggles. Whatever the reason, the solidarity was a comfort.
That evening, Rema and his companions rested in a dilapidated hut in the upper city. The owner, Rolson, was a government employee—a “loyal Mizo” on paper. But when he returned from work, his welcome was warm and sincere. Fear had no place here, only respect.
Rolson pulled up a chair, looking weary but happy.
“When did you arrive?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes, Mrs. Rolson fed us well.”
Rolson chuckled. “Fed you well? With what? Tea and biscuits?”
“No, truly, she was very generous,” Rema insisted. “But tell me, what is the news here?”
“The news is good,” Rolson said, though his eyes betrayed a deep sadness. “My personal news is routine. I pass the days. I miss you all, of course.”
“It is natural to remember,” Rema said softly.
“Remembering is all I can do,” Rolson whispered, staring into the dim light of the hurricane lamp. “I cannot go further than that.”
The shadow on his face touched Rema. “You do what you can, Rolson. Do not be sad. Tell me, what do the people here think of us?”
Rolson brightened slightly. “I saw a report in the Hindustan Standard a few days ago.”
“What did it say?”
“It said a secret pamphlet is circulating in Cachar, calling the oppressed people to struggle. The reporter warned that if these ‘Extremists’ continue, they might link up with the Mizo rebels. He said peace and security are in danger.”
Rema absorbed this. Peace and security. Whose peace? Whose security?
The peace of the Mizo people had been shattered long ago. Now, the security of the peasants and workers in the plains was crumbling under economic crisis and feudal exploitation. When the people finally rise to secure their own survival, the ruling class cries that “peace is disturbed.” The journalist was merely warning his masters: crush them now, or there will be trouble later.
The narrative was shifting. Once, the papers claimed the rebels were puppets of Christian missionaries. Now, the bogeyman was China. Reports claimed Mizo rebels were training in Yunnan, or in Pakistan under Chinese supervision. They sensationalized Chinese markings on captured weapons, blaming foreign powers rather than admitting the incompetence of their own security forces.
Let them spin their stories, Rema thought. The people will find their own truth through struggle.
Mrs. Rolson broke the silence, joining them. “What of Rosangi?” she asked abruptly.
Rema blinked, pulled from his thoughts. “Rosangi? She is well. She works with the Medical Corps now. She treats the wounded better than a qualified doctor.”
“She is truly great,” Mrs. Rolson said, her voice tinged with envy. “We cannot dedicate ourselves as she does. A young Bengali colleague often asks me, ‘Why do you work for the government? Why don’t you join the struggle?’”
“What do you tell him?”
“I say I need the job. But… it hurts. He is right. Our boys and girls are fighting a life-and-death battle for freedom, and I am here, slaving for a paycheck.”
Rema listened but offered no platitudes. The choice was heavy, and everyone carried their own burden.
The next morning, the three Mizos left without saying where they were going. They walked to the motor stand and boarded a bus. It was empty at first but soon filled with the suffocating press of passengers.
Sitting by the window, Rema saw more posters plastered on the walls outside.
"Down with the Indira-Ne Win conspiracy to suppress the revolutionary people" "Long live the fighting people of Burma" "Long live the martyr Thakin Than Tun"
Rema’s mind raced. Indira-Ne Win conspiracy?
It made sense. Both India and Burma faced armed uprisings from ethnic groups along their shared border. The governments were likely collaborating to crush them. The posters supporting Thakin Than Tun, the slain leader of the Burmese Communist Party, would surely terrify the imperialists.
The newspapers were already hinting at this cross-border reality. They reported that the Eastern Naga Revolutionary Council (ENRC), the Kachin Independence Army (KIA), and the Mizo National Front (MNF) were collaborating, allegedly under the guidance of China.
They wrote of Naw Seng, the Kachin leader who returned from China to build the “North East Command of Free Kachins.” They wrote of the ENRC entering Nagaland from Burma, led by Chinese-trained commanders. They claimed that 500 Kukis, Chins, and Mizos had been taken to East Pakistan for training.
The strategic “Stilwell Road”—the old WWII supply line—was reportedly under pro-Chinese control, keeping the supply of weapons flowing. Reports even claimed that Indian Mizo rebels were crossing into Burma to attack Chin hills towns like Tiddim and Falam, looting treasuries to fund the movement.
A newspaper correspondent had warned:
"Greater cooperation and closer coordination between India and Burma... appear to be the imperative need of the hour. The coming months will undoubtedly pose greater difficulties for both nations..."
Yes, Rema thought as the bus rattled along. The situation was getting complicated. The ethnic groups were uniting, the borders were blurring, and the struggle was spreading.
“We have to get off here,” his colleague nudged him.
Rema stepped off the bus, leaving the city behind, his mind clear on the path ahead. The struggle was not just in the hills anymore; it was everywhere.