What does it mean to be a Khasi today? The question is not academic; it is existential. Identity, once taken for granted, is now contested—by religion, politics, colonial legacies, and the ever-present borders that cut across our history.
The recent screening of Wanphrang K. Diengdoh’s documentary The Blood and the Border–The Rituals of Hima Khyrim has reignited this debate. The film, the final part of his trilogy, is not merely a work of art—it is a provocation, forcing us to confront uncomfortable truths about who we are, how we got here, and what it means to belong.
QUESTIONS AND MORE QUESTIONS…
Many Khasi clans—particularly those carrying the prefix ‘khar’—trace their lineage to mixed marriages, where the husband was Khasi and the wife a non-Khasi. Oral traditions suggest that many of these women came from the region that is today part of Bangladesh. But here lies the complexity: in those days, there were no rigid national boundaries. It was only later, when a British officer drew a line on a map, that lands were split and communities divided—often on the basis of religion.
So what does it mean for the Khasi people whose lives straddle artificial national borders—are they Khasi first or Indian first?
This question goes beyond personal history. It exposes the limits of modern nation-states in accommodating identities that predate them. The Khasi community is not an appendage of India or Bangladesh. We are a people whose existence challenges the rigidity of political maps. To acknowledge this is not to deny nationality but to affirm that culture, language, and kinship cannot be contained by barbed wire.
FORGOTTEN HISTORIES, UNLEARNED LESSONS
One of the film’s most striking revelations is the story of Khasi labourers in World War I. These men were taken to the theatres of the WW1, which broke out in 1914 in Europe between the Allied powers and Germany, as porters to aid the fighting Allied forces.
The promises of adventure? Indeed, it was – an adventure that changed the way they perceive the world after being subjected to the brutal reality of trench warfare, the “antithesis of what it means to be civilised.”
Yet from this trauma arose something unexpected: political consciousness. Returning home, these men began to question colonial taxation and injustice. They enriched the Khasi language with new words to describe the modern world. They helped embed traditions like the Christian temperance movement.
The lesson is clear. Encounters with the outside world can be devastating, but they also expand us. The tragedy lies not in contact, but in exploitation. And the warning is timeless: the same fear-mongering and manipulation that lured young Khasis into foreign wars a century ago still threatens our youth today.
A CONFLICT MANY KHASI FAMILIES KNOW TOO WELL
The tension between Christianity and traditional belief is rooted in our society and the identity struggle among many Khasis stems from this tension. Wanphrang’s trilogy reminds us that Khasi identity cannot be reduced to a binary: Christian or non-Christian. To insist on such a division is to erase half of ourselves. The challenge is not to choose but to reconcile.
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INCLUSIVENESS AS RESISTANCE
This is where history offers guidance. Columnist Pastor Kyrsoibor Pyrtuh reminded us that inclusiveness is not alien to Khasi society—it is our inheritance. In the early 1900s, Hima Khyrim welcomed Christian organisations; its Chieftain even contributed to a school fund and spoke “more than a pastor” at a service.
Such openness should not be mistaken for weakness. In today’s climate, where majoritarian ideologies seek to flatten difference, reclaiming Khasi inclusiveness is an act of resistance. Our strength lies in our ability to absorb without losing ourselves.
LAND AS IDENTITY
But identity is not only about belief. It is rooted in land. Academician Dr. Mebada Wanka Lyngdoh Nongbri observed that for Khasis, land is not a commodity to be bought and sold; it is the soil of memory, the proof of existence.
When land is encroached upon—whether by settlers from Assam or migrants from across the border—it is not just territory we lose. We lose a piece of ourselves. The commodification of land, introduced by colonial rulers and deepened by modern markets, threatens to sever identity from its most tangible foundation.
THE DANGER OF SILENCE
Veteran Journalist Patricia Mukhim argued, our greatest danger is silence. If we do not document our oral traditions, rituals, and music, others will. And when others narrate us, they inevitably distort us. To write our own story is not a luxury; it is survival.
This is not merely about culture. It is about power. Whoever controls the narrative controls how a people are seen—and how they see themselves. If Khasi traditions are left undocumented, they risk being appropriated, misrepresented, or erased altogether.
An Unfinished Story
Khasi identity is not static. It is woven from contradictions—between Christianity and tradition, colonial disruption and ancestral continuity, borders imposed and bonds that resist them.
To be Khasi is not to arrive at a fixed definition. It is to embrace the plurality rather than fear it. The danger is not complexity—the danger is letting others simplify us into something we are not.
So, what does it mean to be Khasi today? It means recognising that our identity is older than the nation-state, broader than any single religion, and deeper than land deeds. It means resisting attempts to homogenise us—whether from within or without.
Most of all, it means taking responsibility for our own narrative. To document, to debate, to disagree, but always to speak for ourselves. Because if we stop asking the question of who we are, others will answer it for us.
And their answer will not be ours.
