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Phejin is of the Konyak Naga tribe herself. The Konyaks reside in what today is referred to as Mon District, in the northeast corner of Nagaland, tucked up against Assam and Arunachal Pradesh to the north, and Myanmar to the east. Mostly unadministered in the days of the British Raj, the Konyaks held onto their traditional customs longer than any other Naga tribe. However, as with many other tribal communities across the globe, these customs are under threat.
In 2017, along with Peter Bos, a professional portrait photographer from Eindhoven, Phejin published her book: The Konyaks: Last of the Tattooed Headhunters. Phejin is herself the great-granddaughter of tattooed headhunter Ahon, a prominent member of the Konyak tribe who acted as interpreter to British ethnographer J.H. Hutton, when Hutton travelled into the Konyak area of the Naga Hills in 1918.
Phejin’s book brings together the most extensive research and documentation ever conducted on Konyak tattoo art. The book preserves this unique and fast-disappearing cultural practice by recording tattoo motifs, their meanings, and the oral traditions that accompany them: folktales, songs and poems. The book won the Silver Award at the London Book Fair in 2018, and was awarded Illustrated Book of the Year in India in 2019.
In 1918, when Hutton travelled with Phejin’s great grandfather, the Konyak communities residing in this area of the Naga Hills were illiterate, 95 per cent animist, polygamous and enthusiastically headhunting.
In those days, headhunting was an institutionalised aspect of Naga life. A man’s graduation into adulthood was marked by taking a head. It was the ultimate test of a man’s virility. Moreover, the capture of human heads was believed to bring for a village a good harvest and prosperity.
Konyak warriors would receive tattoos for heads captured, and these tattoos would allow safe passage in the afterlife. But, as Phejin’s book shows, tattoos meant much more than just the capture of human head. For women, tattoos would mark significant stages of their life cycle. For both men and women, tattoos signified “the life story of a person”.
With the arrival of Christianity in the Konyak Hills in the 1950s, headhunting, and tattooing began to die out. Although this may be welcome, what concerned Phejin was that the stories that accompanied the tattoos were being forgotten. The last shaman of Phejin’s village died in 2003 – and with her was lost the ability to commune with the dead. The last traditional tattoo artist of the Konyak died a decade later – though not before inking the forearm of Phejin herself.
Armed with the quest to record this information before it was too late, Phejin initiated the research that resulted in her and Peter’s book. In the village of Chen Loishu, one tattooed elder – whose portrait adorns the cover of Phejin’s book – handed to her cash he had earned from selling his cardamon crop, so to help fund their research. With tears in his eyes, he told Phejin how appreciative he was of the work she was doing in trying to document the dying traditions of the Konyak people. Phejin and Peter declined the donation – and requested his blessing instead.
For two days in May 2025, Bertie and Eddie from the Sampan Team stayed with Phejin at her Tea Estate, just outside of the village of Shiyong, in Mon District. Phejin lives in a farmhouse that she designed and built herself. There she has a small team that help her run the estate. Two puppies – Raja and Rani – had arrived the day before us. There is also a cat with no name. Phejin told us that he is only there to catch mice. And he doesn’t catch very many of those.
On our first evening together, with the sun low in the sky Phejin took us around Shiyong. This is where Phejin grew up and where most of her family still live. It retains the atmosphere of a traditional Naga village. The smell of fermented soya beans, a staple of Naga cuisine. Small one storey houses built from bamboo and thatched with palm leaves lined the street. Outside of these, men sat and smoked, wide-eyed children peered at us behind their legs and scruffy puppies tottered up to sniff us.
We stopped at a broad ficus tree looming over one of the village’s morungs – this is the “men’s club” where boys were once taught all they needed to know to survive in and thrive in a Naga village. Although, this morung was in good condition, other morungs we visited in Mon District had graffiti scratched on to the walls. Love hearts were eligible amongst the scrawl. Once, Phejin told us, boys and girls would meet in the paddy fields or at village festivals. Today, WhatsApp and Facebook have taken over as preferred channels for courtship.
Phejin pointed out over the wide horizon. Rolling down the hills the paddy disappeared into mist. But on clear days, Phejin told us, it was possible to see the plains of Assam and the gleam of the mighty Brahmaputra. Sometimes in winter, it was even possible to squint the blue hills of Arunachal Pradesh and the snow-capped peaks of the eastern Himalayas.
On our final afternoon with Phejin, she took us out the back of her estate, through the tea fields and along a ridge. Outside a farmer’s hut, we sat as the sun set, the tea bushes glistening around us. We could just make out the Tanang River below, as well as Phejin’s small teak forest. The mountains that make up the India-Myanmar divide were visible to our left. Tea fields gave way to paddy, peppered with small huts and a thin dirt track made its way through and up the hills towards a village in the distance, upon which a church spire silhouetted against the dusk. Beyond that, the mountains began to smudge into the mauve of approaching storm clouds.
“This is headhunting territory!” Phejin shouted out jubilantly. Then added: “Of course, in those days there was no time to admire the view.”
We began our walk back to Phejin’s house. As we approached, she apprehended four young boys skulking in the bushes and reprimanded them for playing too close to a swampy pond. Dressed in shorts and football shirts they listen to her in sullen obeisance, until a flutter of small wings over our heads triggered a yelp from one of the boys and they were off, slingshots in hand, leaping through the tea bushes, whooping in hot pursuit of their quarry.
Back at Phejin’s farmhouse, we settled down with cups of chai. With the A5 sketch that Hutton made of her great-grandfather Ahon behind her, and with Peter’s large posters portraits of that tattooed Konyaks on the walls, we embarked upon the conversation which is recorded below, edited for clarity.
We started by asking how she came to publish her book …
It was by chance that I visited the National Museum in Kolkata in August 2014. I was looking at the objects in the museum and I saw only artefacts from mainland India. I had an appointment with the Director of the Museum because a friend knew him. I spoke to him in detail about having Naga or tribal artefacts in the Museum so that the mainland Indians are also aware about our culture. He said that there is a whole section of Naga artefacts [in the Museum] but that section was under renovation so not on display for the public. We stated talking about the tattoo culture of the Konyak tribe and how unique it is. After listening to me he paused and asked: “Why don’t you give a lecture here at the museum?”
What are you crazy? I am not an academic! I was so surprised that he would ask me to speak. I am not the right person to speak. He said: “No, we want to hear. Times have changed. You are so passionate about the way you speak about your culture. People will want to listen to you. People are fed up of power point presentations.” That is what he told me. I took this as a challenge.
I went back to Nagaland but I was busy with the house construction so I didn’t really think about it. But after I finished the house I needed something to stimulate my mind. So I said OK, let me take this forward. Let me prepare for the lecture. It was not a book; I was preparing to give a talk at the Museum. So I went from village to village meeting the old women and men listening to their stories, listening to their songs. Then I realised: Wow, it is not just the markings that you see on the surface, but the whole life of Konyak person revolves around the tattoo. It has so much meaning and history and that is when I realised this can be recorded into a book.
I didn’t know much at all. My eyes were not opened to the tattooing. It was always there. My grandparents were all tattooed. I grew up in the presence of tattooed elders. I saw it as a unique marking of Konyak people, but I didn’t think there was a whole lifestyle, and culture centred [around them.] My eyes were not opened until the idea of the lecture.
It was compulsory for every Konyak individual to have tattoo markings on their body, for a person without a tattoo would not be able to enter the afterlife. The tattoo markings identify an individual’s belonging to a certain age group, a certain clan, certain achievements in their life. It signified the life story of a person.
Tattooing for Konyak men and women was different. For Konyak women it was the cycle of life, from childhood to childbirth. Different tattoos have different meanings.
For the men, it was social status. When a boy enters puberty (at the age of thirteen, fourteen or fifteen … when they start forming their body hair) he becomes a member of the paan, the morung or “men’s club”. It is compulsory for every man to become a member of the club. Each village would have different paan, some village have two, some village five, some village have ten. Each boy joins the men’s club according to where his parents reside in the village.
Here the boys are taught social skills like how to sharpen the machete, how to make a basket, how to trap animals, how to shoot, how to make arrows. They are taught life skills. It was the foundation of a Konyak male. Of course, I am talking about before Christianity. [In those days] there was no school. [The Morung] was the school.
For five years they are the junior most batch. Like the freshers in a dormitory. They would go and fetch water for the elders. At that time the men’s club, the paan, was like the social club. It was the most happening place because they would be guarding the village from enemy attacks. These young boys were ordered to bring firewood, to light up the fire, to keep guard. And then only when they finish the term of five years they are taken on their first head hunt.
Headhunting is a form of purification. It is like a skill of valour. So you have to go on a headhunt but it doesn’t mean every person goes to decapitate a human head. Also, it was not randomly going to kill the enemy. It was a planned attack. Shamans were called upon to conduct rituals, and they would foresee or foretell the future. If the omen was bad they would postpone the headhunt. If it was feasible, if it looked good, they would go on the headhunt. It does not mean that everyone who is tattooed has taken a head. It was some brave warriors, we call them naomei. To take someone’s life is not everyone’s karma. There are a few people who are fearless. These are the warriors. Because they had participated in the headhunting raid, these boys can get the tattoo marks. The person who took a head would get a neck tattoo.
Headhunting was officially ended by the Government of India act of 1935, but our people continued headhunting until the ‘60s. In some pockets, until the ‘70s.
At first, I was very embarrassed to write about headhunting. Actually, that was the last chapter of the book I wrote. I had finished the whole book, but I could not write my introduction to headhunting because I was ashamed of what the outsiders would perceive the Konyaks to be. I was very embarrassed and ashamed even in my talks. I would get angry when people asked me about headhunting. I would be very defensive. Peter noticed and he told me, “You are here to explain about your work. People are asking you because they don’t know.”
There was a battle inside me: shame, guilt, embarrassment. I felt that for a long time. Then, I was writing the book very late at night and I said: OK, I have to get over it because one way or other I have to explain about it nicely. This is history. Headhunting for our people was like the Western duel. It was a way of life. Nothing about how I personally felt was going to change the Konyak history.
[In that chapter] I write about how I was bullied at school. Konyaks were called “cannibals”, by other Naga tribes. We were bullied a lot. I became very angry and defensive.
Not for as long as us. Konyaks were the last.
For a man they were interconnected. It’s a ritual: headhunting therefore tattooing; tattooing therefore headhunting. Whereas for a woman [tattoos] are about the cycle of life. But then in 1960 a law was passed by the Konyak Students Union. Before we were isolated. But because out interactions gradually became more and more with the outside world, our people would look weird with a tattoo marking on their body and on their face. So we wanted to be normal. [Secondly,] it was really painful. Individuals did not have a choice. It was compulsory. Why would we practice this painful habit, this painful cultural practice? And then also, Christianity thinks that it is a heathen practice.
People now do not spend the night in the morung. Young men used to use it as a dormitory. Like a barracks for the military. The fresher boys would sleep there. But because headhunting was stopped there was no use because no one would come and attack. So now we use it for social functions; every time there is a meeting. The law of the morung is still the law of the land. Doesn’t matter if you are a rich person or a poor person. Even if I am the minister’s son, I don’t have a say in the morung. My elders will say everything and I will obey.
Christianity and the morung are parallel. They do not interfere with each other.
I have received the highest honour by the Konyak people. The Konyak Union gave me an award for writing this book.
They are also very appreciative that someone from their own community has written about us.
I get so worried that we are changing so fast. It’s a global world: what happens in the US we can know in five minutes. It’s got positives and negatives. But change is inevitable. We cannot remain isolated. Everybody can wear denim jean pants. Everyone can have a Samsung or iPhone. Everyone can go and speak in English. But in this sea of people, if we hold onto a little bit of our culture, that is our identity. Otherwise, we will become a nameless, faceless people. Why follow Korean culture? Appreciate it, but we are not Koreans. We are not Chinese. I am a Konyak first. I have to learn my language. We have to know how our elders make baskets, how we prepare vegetables, how we smoke meat. It is part of our tangible and intangible heritage. It is very important as a tribal person to know this.
Yeah. It’s happening. Everyone wants a comfortable life in the end. Many years ago, when I was living at my parents’ house, there was this elderly Austrian couple that came with a tour agency, around the year 2003 or 2004. They said: “We are so disappointed that you are not all living with thatched roofs anymore.” What do you mean by that? We should be jumping from one tree branch to another? You expect that? We are also people. We want change. We want the comforts of modern life.
In Konyak, our village identity is very strong. We are still very strong in our culture in the Konyak tribe. I think the Phom [Naga tribe] in eastern Nagaland are also like that. Yes, we are very strong in our culture in the Konyak villages.
There are certain cultural similarities. Certain practices. But the word “Konyak” was a name given by the British. Not even given, it happened by mistake. There is a lot of debate about how the term “Konyak” came to be. We had no word “Konyak”. Konyak is a phrase like “black hair”. And “kazak” means human being. So, it’s like, an outsider came [into the area] and asked a man from the village: “Who are you?” And they answer: “I am Konyak. I am a human being!”
What I am saying is that [in those days] every village was a universe in itself. Minimal interaction even with the neighbouring villages. There were hardly any intermarriages. The whole community existed only in the village at that time. There was no concept of tribe at that time.
They do now. They marry from Chakhesang [Naga tribe], Assam, British, American, they marry Punjabis … It’s up to them.
Over the years the language is changing. Youngsters are mixing [their indigenous language] with other village words, or Nagamese, or English or Hindi. Also, many of the old poetic songs are sung in an old Konyak language. There is a totally different language for songs and sayings. I learnt this during my research. I also learnt old expressions, sayings and songs of many villages. So when people sing in their old dialect I will understand. But this is not understood by the generation of my parents. And if these tattooed old men and women die, these expressions will die with them.
They are like living libraries. I wish more people will try to trap this information and knowledge before the old people pass away. That is my concern. I am very scared that we are losing this heritage. Both tangible and intangible. Tangible in the form of the tattoo culture, the tattoo markings on their bodies cannot be seen anymore. Intangible in the songs that accompany the markings [that] will be lost. That is my greatest concern.
On the positive side, we are trying to match up with the outside world. We are trying to make more money. Another language!
I have finished a children’s book based on the folk lore narrated to me by these old men: about human beings, our love, our passion, our greed, envy, jealously. If you look at these old men and women they look like relics. They look like pieces of art. But they were also young people once. They were also a child in their mother’s arms. And they have the same feelings that we do: jealously, love, hate. They narrated so many of their personal stories to me which are not in the book. I have them in my notebook.
The most special part was they started to cry when they were speaking about their childhood. Because they miss their parents. These old men and women, they started narrating and they cry because no one had ever been interested in their lives, not even their family. Because they have always been seen as just an old person. So, they start crying when they speak to me and they remember their father or mother on their tattooing day. They remember exactly who was sitting where, who sang that song on that day, what cattle was killed, how many chicken pieces were there, who ate the most.
So, my second book is a children’s illustrated book. It is a collection of twenty-three stories: how man was expelled from the forest; how man and tiger became enemies; why the owl is blind in the daytime; how the dog came to serve the master in the house and the pig was left in the pigsty; why no man can serve two masters … There is a love story between a fish and a bird. About how the dog lost his horns to the goat; how grief destroys a person. These kind of stories … So [my research] is not only about tattoos. It opened the door to so many other topics.
Find out more information about Phejin’s book here.
