Our trio stood to greet a new familiar face, and I braced myself for the inevitable chill that arrived each night shortly after the sun sunk below the horizon line. Dominik, Bremley, and I had spent this early December day at the Shad Nongkrem Festival, an ancient annual Khasi festival to give thanks to the Almighty God for a good harvest, peace in the community, and appreciated prosperity. For five hours, dozens of virgins (a detail that was never neglected before, at, and after the ceremony, but not the center of this particular article) danced in glistening silver, mulberry silks, and regal orange wraps fashioned as they have been for hundreds of years. The dancers did not seem to take breaks: their movements were slow, sustained, and rhythmic, with the young women– ranging from toddlers to teens– shuffling in small cohorts within the center of the dusty dirt arena, while the young men of the same age range cantered more boldly around them brandishing white yak-hair whips. All of the girls were bare-footed, while the boys’ feet sported anything from nothing to Converse to Crocs. Even watching this unrelenting effort caused fatigue: all three of us had taken turns napping upright as the hours passed and the lowering afternoon sun caused us to squint, nod off, then come to as we were greeted by a public figure or distant family member who recognized Bremley sitting next to these two fair-skinned observers alongside the arena.
The dancers had finally retired at sunset, and the king, chiefs, and other figures of importance were gathered in the ceremonial Iing Sad (central house) for prayer before the day’s grand finale: Pomblang, which literally translates to “cutting of goats” or as we were to expect, the swift beheading of twelve sacrificial white goats. While we waited for this ritual to begin, we spoke with a man of my own height wearing an ill-fitting bowler hat and a plastic flower pinned to his lapel. I always did my best to remember names and titles of individuals, but the conversation that ensued sent a shock through my brain that shook loose those frail fragments of memory. As was customary, Dominik, the tall, well-spoken Londoner, and myself, a poised, cheery New Yorker, were introduced, this time to this man who once held some important civic office but now teaches history at the local university. As everyone did, he asked what we were doing in the area: even mainland Indians asked why I ventured to this seemingly extraneous region of their country.
He looked at Dominik while asking this, and I heard for the 100th time about Dominik’s background as a social entrepreneur, his local interests in economic development with organic agriculture, and the viability study he is conducting; the description of his efforts still lifted my cheeks with a genuine smile, as I greatly admired both the goals and strategies of my brother-from-another-mother-country. After a time, the stranger turned to me and asked if I was Dominik’s girlfriend. I had developed a questionably appropriate– though unquestionably cheeky– comeback to this assumption, responding with a grin, “Oh, no, we just happen to both be white,” before clarifying that I’d only known Dominik for a number of days. The quip landed very well three out of four times, but unfailingly helped the new acquaintance to ask the more appropriate question: what, then, was I doing there?
Since I did not arrive in Meghalaya with a business plan, a thesis, or any concrete goal, my little interviews often flowed less smoothly than Dominik’s. I explained, with increasing confidence as the days went on, that I was there to immerse myself in and learn about Meghalaya’s communities, focusing on the women and youth, and their relationship to the environment. From there, I rationalized, I would see where efforts were needed most and utilize my skills as a community organizer to assist however possible. I often cited a recent meeting or discussion to illustrate my interests and mode of examination, so I told this man about the previous afternoon spent sat on the banks of a winding stream with a woman who had a long history of serving the community through education and women’s empowerment groups. We had spent hours comparing and contrasting actualities and perceptions of each others’ cultures, and brainstorming ideas for projects that could connect and benefit youth in Meghalaya and New York.
Through the softly illuminated vapor escaping my mouth as I spoke, I saw that he was no longer smiling and nodding as he had been in his first ten minutes within our huddle. He raised his hand between our faces and extended his pointer finger. “I can smell what you’re about,” he stated in an accusatory, almost threatening manner, “and we don’t need any of that here.” He proceeded to describe the matrilineal base of their society, in a way that suggested that I – despite my specific interests– had not heard about it prior to arriving or within my first week in Meghalaya. I can’t remember at what point he lowered his hand, but the tone did not relax. “Men and women are completely equal. This is one of the only places in the world where it is so.” There was a pause. I felt Dominik’s eyes straining to hide his anticipation of my reaction, for by this time, Dominik knew two things about me: according to him, I was “the most diplomatic person that [he] had ever, ever met in [his] life” as we traversed Meghalaya’s vast social landscape; and when deeming diplomacy unnecessary in a sociable situation, I cherished every chance to untangle this very topic and this very condescending, conclusive disposition.
At the forefront of my mind were the sensitive dialogues that I was honored to be brought into by so many Khasi women. They spoke to me about the regularity of unplanned teenage pregnancy, girls’ inferior education expectations versus those of village boys, rampant alcoholism among men with subsequent domestic violence and broken homes, marital rape, birth control of any kind being met with religious contempt resulting in too many children to feed in the single-parent or broken homes, and the ways in which the women of the villages banned together to see each other through, because that was the only system they could trust for support. In my meeting by the river the day before, I had adjusted my sunglasses to better see the woven basket of a nearby fisherwoman and my fingers felt how furrowed by brow had become while listening to a seasoned advocate for Khasi women describe their difficulties. I had caught us both off guard when I unintentionally prompted a laugh, telling her that the problems sound as similar to American issues as they might be different, but after following this logic for some time, the laughter faded to a shared sigh; we were left silently regarding the brown froth drifting along water, realizing that we both had naively assumed that the others’ issues were slighter, but the struggles we faced were very much the same, and very sizable indeed. This man who stood before me, like many others, was actively dismissing these struggles.
In this unpleasant moment, I did not allow for a terribly long pause. This man had just shared with me more than he meant to communicate by becoming so hostile: he had warmly welcomed Dominik’s economic endeavors but was shunning my potential efforts to support his community’s women. I had to be grateful for that honest interaction, as shutting out sources of conflicting opinions will leave a problem-solver completely inaccurate in her assessments. On the other hand, if this individual is never met with defiance, he will carry on with this mindset indefinitely; confronting him would not likely change his mind, but saying nothing is only a few degrees away from agreement. I quickly calculated that this was a time and place for diplomacy, not for challenging this man’s core values, as I tightened my jaw and lips, forcing a smile while I remembered my present goal: “I am here to learn,” I reiterated pointedly, “and I am learning so much every day.” His grin returned now, seemingly satisfied with my short, tame answer, and he turned to continue conversing with Dominik until an unnerving ceremonial song signaled for quiet in the crowd.
Steeping in my reflections after this unsettling interaction, I shivered in the darkness while feeling momentarily removed from the thousands of strangers and my two friends enveloping the arena, but spotting the group of dignitaries descending from the Iing Sad brought me back from my pondering and focused my attention instead on each of the ritual’s unhurried, deliberate moments. Soon, as I had been forewarned, they were beheading a number of roosters, one by one, and pulling skyward their intestines to examine whether a part representative of God was longer than the part representative of man– “as it should be.” (The consequence of discovering the opposite was never made entirely clear to me.) Coming from my own subset of agricultural experiences, the removal of a bird’s head is no less a loss of life than that of another living thing, but in my mind, it had become more normalized than what I was to see next.
After the roosters were all retired, the glint from a silver saber caught thousands of eyes as the king bowed, blessing the totem. From the side of the arena, the first white goat was led. The crowd’s low hum leapt to a booming cacophony. The goat staggered. I did, too. I involuntarily clutched Dominik’s adjacent arm, while his other was raised to film the scene on his iPhone. I suddenly felt sick and scared. I wanted to go. But it wasn’t because of what I knew was about to happen to this goat, who was now kicking up the afternoon dancers’ dirt as he struggled against a noose held taught on one end and a man’s insistent hands on the other. My long-gone flight instinct had been recalled as a reaction to the bloodlust that overtook the crowd as soon as they saw that animal.
We had all been promised blood– beheadings, no less– and I foolishly hadn’t expected this reaction from the congregation, as I had prepared my own mindset for the day with respect for ancient, sacred religious and cultural ceremony, as well as a practical omnivore’s notion that these animals are to be eaten the next day at the closing of Nongkrem, and this method of execution is likely more painless than that in a typical factory farm. With my never having attended such a ceremony before (Dominik had, he shrugged) I anticipated from myself an unexpected reaction. Would my own bloodlust finally emerge from some unexplored or repressed depth of my psyche? Does everyone truly have a manner of that beast inside, and perhaps it would take witnessing such a dramatic display to entice the instinct? I was prepared to feel excited, and to talk myself down from judging myself for feeling so, but this was not my emotional experience that night.
There were previously many concepts that I never comprehended entirely: gladiators and matadors as entertainers; public executions; mobs lynching innocent bystanders. Standing amongst this deafening crowd, listening to the spike of volume each time the sword swung swiftly– instantaneously leaving two twitching portions of a goat where there had moments ago been one whole animal– these concepts and others gelled in a way that they never had before. It wasn’t because I was caught up in the frenzy myself; rather, I was consumed by a yearning to slip silently into a shadow until everyone had left. It was my perception that this collection of people, who I had so comfortably spent the day with, who I genuinely believe to be generally moral, peaceful people, were now caught up in the phenomenon commonly referred to as mob mentality, which historically converts any respectable group of men, women, or children into a dangerously senseless assemblage. Feeling the unification of so many people in the name of bloodlust helped me to understand why mankind is capable of its most horrific feats: it’s a primal state where no one seems to be thinking.
Why do they cheer to
see the shed of blood when theirs
spills as easily?
(12.8.16)
I cannot explain what prevented me from synchronizing with the masses. I gave myself the opportunity. It wasn’t some feat of moral strength. Perhaps my hackles were up from having a finger brandished in my face just a quarter hour before, and I was already feeling targeted and vulnerable when the heads began to roll. I skipped a breath as another goat fell sideways, with eerie pipes and percussion still supplementing the ovations, and I suddenly imagined being dragged into the center of the ring like one of the white goats: was the bloodlust and mob mentality blinding enough to allow for my own neck to be at risk? I held tighter onto Dominik’s arm as the last goat was sacrificed, and hoped that the Gods were sated.
As rapid as the saber’s final decent, the crowd rushed out of the arena. We were swept into the tide of bodies. The communal vapor of volatility floated almost visibly over the crowd. My breath was shallow and quick, and I’ve never clutched to anything with more intensity than the way in which I gripped Dominik’s forearm during those three minutes. My other hand was diverted, relentlessly removing unidentified hands from every part of my body. I tried to tell Dominik that people were grabbing me. He laughed. I told myself that he must not have heard me properly. The hands did not stop. As we shoved through the poorly lit fairgrounds with the masses, I shouted again, clarifying where I was being grabbed, holding back angry tears. He glanced backwards to find my terrified eyes, and we began to move more swiftly, his rugby experience suddenly proving enormously valuable. We reached the Bolero. Bremley was there waiting for us, somehow. I entered with great haste. I locked the doors. “Rock and roll! Want to pick some music, DJ?” Bremley asked me with his usual enthusiasm. “No,” I replied faintly, watching the crowds moving in and out of view through our headlights. “I’d prefer quiet until we get on the road.” Dominik’s hand landed softly on my shoulder.
Inclusive of this experience, I assert that the people of Meghalaya are by no means exceptionally threatening or barbaric, certainly no more so than any given group of Americans. Shad Nongkrem is a religious ceremony with an ancient tradition of animal sacrifice, which is perceived as intense by a westerner, but in my weeks touring Meghalaya, I experienced countless displays of the rich Khasi culture, passed through the centuries, breathing still today, and it is something to be envied. I acknowledged, even in the moment, that I did not experience alarming emotional and moral phenomena because I was in northeast India. To be sure, P.E.T.A. would not allow for Pomblang in the United States, but as we silently passed through the unlit hills back to Shillong, I thought of the crowds’ violent turmoil at my own nation’s political rallies earlier that year, amongst other violent and sexual American mob-mentality-driven transgressions. I thought of all of the men– and women– back home who neglect or deny the need for women’s empowerment. I thought again and again: different details, same dilemmas.
I glanced sideways at Bremley, who was driving, grinning, and humming along to the soulful gypsy-swing music that I had finally felt ready for. I wasn’t equipped with my own words yet, so I turned to the back seat and thanked Dominik with a sigh through an exhausted half-smile. We all sung along to the refrains in Swing Low, Sweet Chariot and my chill finally subsided. I do admire and appreciate my companions’ comparably dull reactions to the intense situations we encountered, because even though I was not losing my cool, their manner undoubtedly provided some grounding. I, too, may become desensitized eventually, but I think I will do my best to avoid it: if my heart no longer changes its pace, how can I trust my ability to perceive?
Further reading:
An Ever-Opening Mind 