Imaginary Lines in the Himalayas

At 12,000 feet in the eastern Himalayas, where dirt roads and the occasional jeep gives way to precipitous rocky trails and yak caravans, the notion of an international border assumes a much different meaning.

[...Kangchenjunga is the world's third highest mountain at 28,169 feet...]

Trudging along through the mist and the towering purple and red rhododendron trees, the clouds have blocked my view of Mt. Everest to the west, as well as Kangchenjunga, which at sunrise loomed over the steep ridges and deep valleys. I push on toward the small wooden hut just a few more yards above me, eager to dump the weight of my backpack. Ducking through an open doorway, I see a small family sitting around an open cooking fire, chatting amid the heavy smoke.

[...my trekking guide, Milan, warms himself next to the kitchen fire...]

A weathered older man and a young boy arrive and drop a squawking sack of chickens on the floor. They exchange a few words, leave the chickens, and take a couple liters of kerosene in trade.

I don’t know if I’m still in India or have, once again, crossed over into Nepal.

The family doesn’t care. They know they are Gorkha, they speak Nepalese, yaks are better at this altitude than cows, you can make liquor from rhododendron blossoms, and that the foreigner who just walked into their crude kitchen will pay them 5 rupees for a cup of hot milk tea.

What do they care about an arbitrary, colonial-era line on a map?

[...on a 12,000-foot peak, prayer flags and a shrine overlooks Nepal and Mt. Everest to the west...]

This is a place too remote for politicians to argue over, where short of building a wall, no one will recognize any externally-imposed boundary. There are no barbed-wire fences. There is no agricultural inspection checkpoint. No metal detectors, no heat-sensitive machines to monitor for Swine Flu, no visa checks. There are no vigilante militias watching the border for illegal aliens.

The only sign of the border are the small Indian army outposts every 10 miles or so, manned by a soldier bundled in camouflage fatigues with an assault rifle slung over his shoulder, who is only interested in glancing at the passports of white foreigners who may pass by on the trail. Anyone else (non-whites) move between the outposts with little more than a wave.

The entire area is inhabited by Ghorkhas (or Gurkhas), and culture, language, and traditions are shared across international borders. It’s only the British colonial legacy that left divisions between people, from an age when Europeans deemed themselves most apt to create imaginary lines on a map based on the balance of power in the West.

But people here only care about the lines they can see.

While the Indian state of West Bengal shares an international border with Nepal in the northwest, it is their northern domestic border with the state of Sikkim where the difference is noticeable. This internal border marks whether roads are paved or not, and whether there is electricity or not. This line is not imaginary.

In West Bengal, a small (and dangerous) dirt road, rife with potholes, landslides, sinkholes, and hairpin turns, drops 6,000 feet from Darjeeling to the Sikkim checkpoint in a Himalayan valley on the banks of the Rangeet River. The short distance takes more than two white-knuckle, vertigo-inducing hours in an over-crowded Tata-wanna-be-LandRover.

Yet instantly upon crossing the river into the state of Sikkim, I find myself on a paved road – one of the best I’ve seen in India. Another 34 miles north (and back up 7,000 feet), the road is still paved – and wide enough to allow two jeeps to pass. At night, the steep hills of Sikkim – geographically identical to the same hills of West Bengal just to the south – are littered with electric lights from the small villages and homes. Plastic bags are banned, propane tanks are regularly refilled and distributed along accessible roads, hydroelectric projects are under construction, and public historical parks are well-maintained.

The former Buddhist kingdom of Sikkim initially refused to accede to the Indian republic at partition in 1947, and was named a protectorate until 1975 when they decided to join India as a separate state. China’s unwillingness to relinquish claim to the small piece of land (tucked between Bhutan, China-occupied Tibet, and Nepal) meant New Delhi had an interest in earning Sikkimese loyalty. The small state (India’s least populous) is tax-exempt, but receives an over-abundance of help via infrastructure projects and development assistance.

Meanwhile, back in West Bengal, the hills are black at night, and Darjeeling’s 100,000+ inhabitants experience regular power cuts, despite being a popular tourist destination for Bengalis from Calcutta. Roads are in poor shape, and many are so narrow only pedestrians can use them. Many villages are completely cut off from modern transportation, with all food supplies and building materials brought in via horseback, yak, or humped in on the backs of villagers.

[...despite being one of the better sections of Himalayan road in West Bengal, our jeep got a flat...]

West Bengal’s ethnic majority – Bengalis (perhaps as many as 60-70 million) – may be the reason for the central government’s partiality. During elections, Calcutta’s 10+ million people easily outmaneuver the mountainous Gorkha community of 1.5 million.

This year, the Indian right-wing political party, the BJP, declared their support for the long-sought after Gorkhaland, a proposed state in carved out of northern Bengal that would allow the minority Gorkhas to gain some political sway in Delhi. Despite widespread support in Darjeeling and other Ghorka areas, the BJP did not win a single West Bengal parliamentary seat in last month’s national elections.

Calls for Gorkhaland did not subside after the elections. Nearly every storefront in Darjeeling is plastered with the sign GORKHALAND or the emblematic Gorkha logo of two crossed khukuri swords.

A rally last week in Darjeeling called for the community to take their demands for autonomy to the ruling Congress party. Yet despite setbacks and disappointment, there is no move toward outright independence, much less violent resistance. In fact, many speakers at the rally followed their calls of Jai Gorkha, Jai Gorkhaland! (Victory to Ghorkas, Victory to Ghorkaland!) with Jai Hind! (Victory to India!).

The Gorkhas in West Bengal have seen the benefits of political favoritism in the neighboring state of Sikkim, and now wonder why they are left with dilapidated roads and daily power cuts. They share culture and traditions more with their ethnic brethren in Nepal than with fellow Indian citizens in Calcutta. If their peaceful calls for Gorkhaland – as a part of India – are not heard now, India risks violent demands for an independent Gorkhaland in the future.

Contemporary India is a country created by 19th century colonialism and the era’s arbitrarily drawn lines and imaginary borders. The major task for India since independence in 1947 has been to reverse the divisions that Britain left behind. But reversing arbitrary divisions doesn’t always mean enforcing arbitrary unity. Sixty years after independence, India is left with the unfinished and difficult task of redrawing those lines with regards to race, religion, ethnicity, democracy, and common sense.

Yet in spite of the tragedy that followed Partition in 1947, a tragedy largely caused by imaginary borders, India is repeating the mistake and drawing new lines of division – this time within its own country.

Back at 12,000 feet, on grassy ridges where chickens and kerosene can act as currency, there is little that divides India and Nepal. On both sides of the ridge that supposedly mark the border, the same lush, forested mountains soar between warm valleys. In both regions, meat is scarce, but eggs, peas, and potatoes are plentiful. People from both countries happily give up seats next to the cooking fire for a stranger coming in from the cold.

Warming my numb fingers next to the coals, I contemplate how long places like this in the world can last, where the influence of politics, power, and technology have yet to impact society.

My thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone in a dark corner of the wooden hut and the subsequent Nepalese chatter of a young man with his girlfriend.

I’m still wondering which side of the mountain he was talking to.

Wil Robinson
AWOP International Contributing Editor
Author of International Political Will Blog

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Peace Y'all