A student embarks on a quest to learn about and reconnect with her Khasi heritage.
Cana Nongkhlaw
The Khasi Hills, Meghalaya — my Ri Khasi, “land of the Khasi,” home. Photo: Cana Nongkhlaw
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The shadows of colonialism still loom, casting a grimy veil upon those who suffered at its vile hands. People may question how a past era should have any significance, arguing that dwelling on history is irrelevant to present or future generations. Perhaps, we ought to move on or move forward. But what do we move forward with, if most of our culture suffers loss? As James Baldwin astutely expresses, “History is not the past. History is the present. We carry our history with us. To think otherwise is criminal.” As I ponder Baldwin’s statement, I wonder — What history am I to carry? Is there a history of the Khasi people? How could I have missed being educated about my own people and culture?
I am shaken by the stark realization that I am estranged from my Khasi roots. I grew up in the hills of Shillong of Northeast India, a geopolitical reconfiguration shaped primarily by colonialism and the Instrument of Accession in 1947. Under coercion, each Khasi state ultimately signed this agreement, which joined them with the rest of India. These actions, compelled by circumstance and pressure, have reshaped my homeland, eroding our traditional governance and cultural identity.
Never once was I given the opportunity to express my Khasi identity or embrace my cultural heritage.
I have been taught in my society, and more particularly in educational institutions, to use English and Hindi — languages that are not my own. I remember reciting anthems on Indian national identity and swearing pledges of devotion to the nation in both English and Hindi. Upon reflection, I now recognize that in my childhood days, I felt a repressed sense of alienation. Never once was I given the opportunity to express my Khasi identity or embrace my cultural heritage. I am confronted by the stark irony of my reality: here I am, a member of the Khasi tribe, yet I find myself almost entirely aloof from my own cultural identity and homeland.
Me admiring the nature in the hills of Shillong, Meghalaya, where I grew up. Photo: Pynbiang Kharkongor
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Reflecting on my years of education, a sense of disillusionment grows within me. Our school curriculum spanned the vast expanses of history, geography, economics, sociology, and literature. Yet, within this expansive education, the knowledge of my people was conspicuously absent.
Now that I’m older, I realize that my people’s history not only is buried in the past but also has been obscured from us — creating a chasm between me and my heritage. I am overwhelmed with a myriad of unanswered questions and feel a profound sense of betrayal. I seek to reclaim and decolonize what has been conditioned in me — narratives and beliefs that are not mine — in the hope that I may connect, understand, and know my history and cultural identity; by bringing it to light, I may celebrate it and ensure that it is never lost, forgotten, or overshadowed.
My people’s history not only is buried in the past but also has been obscured from us — creating a chasm between me and my heritage.
I first realized that I felt alienated from my roots when I started university in Australia. When I was asked about my background, I had very little to say. It was difficult to confront the fact that I lacked understanding of who I am, and even more so that the knowledge of my tribe has been pushed to the periphery. This realization marked the beginning of my decolonization process.
Visiting my home in Shillong after I returned from Australia where I currently attend university. Photo: Shivangi Jain
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With this yearning to connect with and reclaim my roots, I embarked on a journey of self-discovery. I conversed with community members and Elders in my tribe to learn more about our oral tradition, delving into tribal stories woven in folklore, folktales, songs, and poetry. So much of our history, culture, values, philosophy, and identity is embedded in our language, and so I began to consciously speak Khasi among friends and family members whenever I came home to Shillong.
So much of our history, culture, values, philosophy, and identity is embedded in our language.
I did research about my people’s culture and history. The Khasi people, I learned, have ancestral ties to the Mon-Khmer lineage from Southeast Asia and speak the Khasi language of the Austroasiatic family. One of the distinct features of the Khasi culture is the practice of matrilineality, whereby lineage and inheritance are determined from the mother’s line.
The Khasi people reside in our beloved Khasi Hills, Meghalaya, which are nestled within the territorial bounds of current Northeast India. The Khasis enjoyed their own sovereign existence until the British colonizers set foot on Khasi soil in 1823. Colonialism had a huge effect on Khasi cultural identity: language shifts, a lack of Indigenous knowledge in educational institutions, colorism, the domination of Western values and culture, the adoption of anglicized names, and the predominance of the English language. Colonialism not only altered the course of history for the Khasi people but also sowed seeds of colonial ideologies that continue to pervade the sociocultural fabric of Khasi society to this day.
Colonialism not only altered the course of history for the Khasi people but sowed seeds of colonial ideologies that continue to pervade the sociocultural fabric of Khasi society to this day.
A rainbow over the hills of Shillong outside my home. Photo: Cana Nongkhlaw
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British colonization introduced shifts in Khasi culture and society mainly through the perpetuation of the English language. Consequently, English has been firmly established in the most important domains of Khasi life: public administration, business, higher education and science, armed forces, and international communication. This has significantly impacted the vernacular Khasi languages.
In all my years of education at Pine Mount School, Shillong, the teachers staunchly imposed speaking English with a British accent. I recall moments when I was told to leave the school because I spoke Khasi or was subjected to scornful remarks by teachers and students for merely uttering my mother tongue. A sense of shame, inferiority, and low social status was associated with speaking Khasi and being a Khasi. Most of my daily communication with peers and friends has been in English as I was always encouraged to speak English rather than Khasi.
Growing up in an environment that glorified English discouraged me from speaking my mother tongue and led me to question my cultural identity.
Growing up in an environment that glorified English discouraged me from speaking my mother tongue and led me to question my cultural identity. Today, the Khasi people accept English as one of the region’s official languages. It is widely spoken in schools, universities, social events, and public administration. The emergence of “Kha-lish,” a linguistic amalgamation of Khasi and English, signals a drift from Khasi vernacular language under the shadow of linguistic imperialism.
The anglicization of surnames is another colonial legacy that impacts my community today. There have been alterations of Khasi surnames to anglicized versions: “Khongwir” became “Cunvill,” “Manar” became “Manners,” “Dkhar” became “Dykes.” This shift results in the erasure of Khasi etymology. Khasi surnames signify clan affiliations, embodying stories, lineage, and traditions that have been passed down through generations. As such, they stand at the very heart of tribal identity, marking the most essential aspect of our heritage.
Colorism is another colonial legacy prevailing in Khasi society that fosters a discriminatory and privileged system based on skin color. The idea that beauty is tied to whiteness stigmatizes individuals with darker skin tones as unattractive by not meeting a socially established standard of beauty. Growing up, I have been unfavorably compared to individuals with fairer skin tones. I received comments that suggested I was not as beautiful as people with fairer tones. This differential treatment, only based on my darker skin tone, followed me in my school life and led me to feel shame in my Khasi identity.
As I began my process of decolonization, I understood the profound impact that cultural, linguistic, and racial marginalization can have on an individual’s sense of identity and self-esteem. Feeling that essential parts of myself, such as my language, appearance, and cultural heritage, are perceived as less valuable has led to a deep-seated sense of self-disapproval and a shattering of my voice and confidence.
As I began my process of decolonization, I understood the profound impact that cultural, linguistic, and racial marginalization can have on an individual’s sense of identity and self-esteem.
Now as a young adult, I realized how deeply I had internalized colonial narratives. They are not easy to unlearn, especially if they have molded most of one’s life and perception of self and the world. These narratives, reinforced over years and sometimes decades, can cast long shadows over one’s self-esteem and sense of identity.
Indeed, the impact of colonialism on the Khasi community is deeply entrenched and has left a society grappling with a skewed linguistic and cultural hierarchy, which continues to influence contemporary societal structures. These narratives, however, do not define our identity and place in this world.
Through decolonization, I have come to realize for the first time what it is like to be a person — to have agency and voice. The journey of decolonization and deconstruction involves navigating both pain and hope. Untangling loss of identity and cultural pride can be painful; however, it is knowing that our identities are not fixed by these colonial narratives that springs a little hope.
I seek to reclaim and decolonize what has been conditioned in me in the hope that I may connect, understand, and know my history and cultural identity.
My friend Rila Kurbah and I dressed in traditional Khasi attire. The headgear is called ka phong jaiñshad, “the dancing attire.” Although this attire is usually worn during festivals, we dressed up as part of my decolonization journey of reconnecting with and reclaiming my cultural heritage. Photo: Ethan Umwi
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Although I am taking steps to reconnect with my culture and Indigenous identity, I grieve that the knowledge of my own culture was taken away from me. How many others, especially young people, could be grappling with the same loss? How many have been crushed by the construct of whiteness that defines beauty and self-worth? My sense of loss extends beyond my own personal life and reveals a far more serious and deeper issue affecting colonized peoples — the gradual erosion of culture that has been silently unfolding over time.
My quest is not only about my personal awakening: it is a call to action that echoes a larger global movement.
My quest is not only about my personal awakening: it is a call to action that echoes a larger global movement. It aims to dismantle colonial legacies, reclaim Indigenous identities, and foster a renewed sense of cultural pride and belonging. I hope for a reconnection to, and revival of, Indigenous practices and knowledge among the Khasi people and other similarly impacted communities across the colonized world.
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Cana Nongkhlaw hails from the city of Shillong, Meghalaya. Belonging to the Khasi tribe, Cana cherishes Indigenous heritage and is steadfast in promoting cultural preservation. Beyond academics, Cana is an artist and expresses herself through creative arts. Cana shares personal experiences related to Indigeneity and connects with people through stories of the human experience.
