Reports about the tragic killing of two innocent students during the Naga Students’ Federation (NSF) protest against extension of the Disturbed Area Act, stirred deep memories within me.
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The recent news item published in local dailies in Nagaland, reporting on the tragic killing of two innocent students during a peaceful protest led by the Naga Students’ Federation (NSF), stirred deep memories within me. The protest, held decades ago, was against the extension of the Disturbed Area Act and the introduction of the IPS cadre in Nagaland. In the same edition, another report mentioned the visit of Honourable MLA and Advisor, Shri K.T. Sukhalu, to his alma mater, the Government Higher Secondary School in Zunheboto.
At first glance, these two reports appear unrelated. Yet, for me, they are inseparably linked by memory. They transported me back to a fateful day nearly four decades ago, March 20 1986, when my friend K.T. Sukhalu, the protesting students, and I found ourselves bound together in a moment of history.
The day was overcast, with a light drizzle in the air. I was on duty, invigilating an examination at Kohima College, which at that time stood in the heart of the town, near the northern end of the local ground, Khouchezhie. Just before noon, the sound of gunshots shattered the stillness, seemingly from the southern end of the ground.
Looking out from the examination hall towards Razhü Point, I saw an unusually large deployment of police personnel. The atmosphere was tense. A crowd had gathered, attempting to move towards the area where the firing had taken place.
Compelled by concern, I rushed to the scene. What I witnessed was alarming. The police stood ready, holding their firearms at a 45-degree angle; an unmistakable indication that they were prepared to open fire at any moment.
Initially, I hesitated to involve myself. But then I noticed that the magistrate on duty was none other than my friend, K.T. Sukhalu, then serving as an Extra Assistant Commissioner posted at Chiephobozou. Seeing a familiar face gave me the courage to approach him. I urged him to restrain the police from firing.
By then, several hundred people had gathered on the northern side of Razhü Point, below the North Police Station. Many among them were Angamis from Kohima village and Chakhesangs from Chotobosti, faces I knew well.
With the police behind me and the threat of gunfire looming, I walked towards the crowd. With folded hands and a raised voice, I pleaded with them not to advance any further. I warned them that the situation was volatile and that even a minor provocation could trigger firing.
By what I can only describe as divine intervention, the crowd heeded to my appeal. They remained calm, displayed unexpected restraint, and gradually dispersed.
What struck me deeply, however, was the composition of the police force deployed that day. Many of them were from the 3rd Battalion based in Tuensang; strangers to Kohima, unfamiliar with its people. There was an evident lack of emotional connection, no sense of shared community. This, perhaps, reflected a deliberate policy of the administration at the time: to deploy forces from distant regions so that they would act without hesitation or emotional restraint. And indeed, that very day, such detachment had devastating consequences. A peaceful student protest near the then Legislative Assembly was fired upon, resulting in the death of two young students, aged just 14 and 19.
The tragedy did not end there for me.
The following day, I was invited to serve as one of the mediators between the student community and the government. Along with a few others, I went to the Deputy Commissioner’s office. While we waited in the conference hall, the Deputy Commissioner entered abruptly. Upon seeing us, he immediately ordered his Extra Assistant Commissioner (EAC) to arrest us.
We were taken into custody without explanation and transported in a police truck to the Dimapur Central Jail. In a strange twist of fate, the EAC who carried out the arrest was a former student of mine from Kohima College. I hold no resentment towards her; she was merely executing orders under immense pressure. Yet, the irony of that moment remains unforgettable: a teacher arrested by his own former student, without any fault of his own.
Nearly four decades have passed, yet the significance of that day endures.
For the people of Nagaland, February 20 stands as a solemn reminder, a Martyrs’ Day for the student community, marking the price paid by young lives in the pursuit of justice and dignity.
For me, it is also a deeply personal memory, a day when fate placed me between a crowd and a line of rifles; a day when a familiar face in authority gave me the courage to act; and a day when events could so easily have taken a far darker turn.
History is often told in dates and documents. But sometimes, it lives on in the quiet recollections of those who stood close enough to hear the gunshots, and survived to remember.
K. Puroh