A Story in Search of an Audience

Hanging off the fence at the edge of the village, a cluster of children waited expectantly. As the fleet of white jeeps peeked over the brow of the hill in the distance, their faces twinkled with excitement. Turning instantly, they dashed the half-a-kilometre into the tiny settlement of Pahad Lugeg, their tiny shoeless feet kicking up a cloud of dust in the sprint. In the haze of an early summer’s day our tyres ground to a halt. Men and women gathered, informed by their children of the oncoming party. For the first time in two years Ekta Parishad had come to visit. The celebration began.

It is difficult to understand what impact the arrival of a people’s movement has in the isolated reaches of rural India. But from village to village this welcome was overwhelmingly common. The passion each community has, how much spirit they display is breathtaking in the face of such inexplicable poverty.

Ekta Parishad, meaning Unity Forum, works mainly with India’s indigenous peoples, or adivasis as they are known. These primitive tribal people have been pushed to the fringes of society, drowning in a tide of globalisation and development. In the treadmill of industrialisation they are perceived by the state and business interests as dispensable, their homes and land removable, along with the forest that so much of their livelihood depends upon. Headed by the charismatic Rajgopal Puthan Veetil (PV), Ekta Parishad aims to give such people a voice.

As the political climate in India lurched past independence, the gulf between rich and poor has become an abyss. Throughout, Ekta Parishad has stayed constant in listening to the rural workers of India. They build their ideas and structure around the direct needs of those marginalised by society, and by change. In the words of Rajgopal, ‘In this country people don’t survive because of the state, they survive in spite of the state.’

In England, Action Village India (AVI) has just started supporting Ekta Parishad. As well as through international solidarity, funds raised will help village-level workers, media work and training camps for young people. Most of these volunteers are from the villages, and as new activists they return to take up issues affecting their communities.

Many of the problems the marginalised face centre around land-grabbing by powerful interests, but there are also brutal and systematic evictions taking place to facilitate the expansion of industrialisation, international business interests and tourism. To tackle these, Ekta Parishad has revitalised the Gandhian philosophy of Satyagraha (non-violent struggle) as a method of civil disobedience, patience and negotiation that leaves onlookers spellbound by its quiet force. As part of this action Ekta undertakes padyatras (foot-marches) throughout the worst affected areas of the sprawling continent. During this time the organisation conducts rallies to reaffirm its presence, bring people together, energise them, and collect material that supports their claims for change.

In January 2003 photographer Simon Williams and I joined a month-long padyatra through the newly formed state of Chhattisgarh. Simon had come across Ekta Parishad in Bihar state in the spring of 2002 whilst visiting another AVI partner group. Intrigued by the organisation and the protest, he wanted to return and travel with them on their next journey. I wanted to represent the month through writing, the experience all the more inspiring having been my first time India. The result is a collection of stories and images documenting some of the issues we went to investigate, and the situations we unexpectedly found ourselves covering. It tells the tales of everyday lives, of a people rich in culture who are fighting for their survival, and portrays a collection of activists fiercely dedicated to their cause.

The six pieces in this booklet aim to reflect how the West has historically perceived India, how the programmes we support in the name of democracy actually affect India’s people and how, in many cases, we endorse the policies that perpetuate poverty. It is also about how life in rural Chhattisgarh is filled with both despair and unshakeable faith, turbulence and colour, and how small pockets of change can be achieved through peaceable action.

In developing societies it is women who are often the most disadvantaged. Living in communities where the government and the locally powerful promotes alcohol consumption as a disturbing method of subduing voices; where healthcare is often non-existent, they not only struggle against the state, but also struggle in their insular, domestic lives. The women of Chhattisgarh, however, are an exclamation of hope. Their power to speak and ability to mobilise is phenomenal. So much so that the material surrounding them is, in itself, enough to cover another booklet. I decided, therefore, to wait until a time when I can tell their stories with the justice they deserve.

While for a photographer a portrait is captured in a moment; for a writer it is a question of piecing together a myriad of conversations, reports, tapes and cuttings. In Chhattisgarh I yearned to speak even a little Hindi let alone the local tribal dialects. In an effort to represent lost voices fully it was frustrating at times that sentences so wealthy in expression and immediacy had to be, for our benefit, twice removed from the original. For their invaluable knowledge and time spent in helping us to understand, Simon and I would very much like to thank Rajgopal, Jill, Ramesh, Goldy and Babu, and at the Ekta Raipur office Leonore, Lakshmi and Salilesh.

Travelling for a month with Ekta Parishad is no holiday. Activists work around the clock: during breakfast at early morning and huddled over firelight in the evening. They sleep, eat, work and breathe together. They have no concept of a weekend. For their inspiration, motivation and constant chai-making we would like to thank Mritunjay, Sitaram and Shastriji. Thanks also to our loyal driver Santosh.

Over lunch one day we asked the media team how many people were adivasi in one particular village. ‘One hundred percent adivasi,’ came the reply. ‘No,’ another voice interrupted, ‘Everybody here is adivasi.’ For continual confusion, warmth and humour, thanks to Bablu, Jagat, Anil and Pilaram.

The entertainment provided by Ekta’s cultural team is still reverberating around our ears. Thanks to Gokoran, the wonderfully talented Parvati, the impish Shaboudin, Mishra, Sohan, Roshan and Santkumar, and to the musicians Kamlesh and Shivbrasad.

Many activists joined us on different parts of the journey. For their hospitality thanks to Pushpa, Bhanu, Rashmi, Prashant, Sabita, Sharda, Shamwati, and Natulal. Above all, we are eternally grateful to all the communities who provided food and shelter for us, often with little notice.

At home we are indebted to the support of Ivan Nutbrown, Co-ordinator at Action Village India, and to Olly and Anna for designing so well and in such a short time. Thanks also to Elaine, Jennie, Jane, Ian, Jenny and Charley for helping along the way.

Helena Drakakis, June 2003

One Tree, One Life

In the copper streams of afternoon sunlight Birju Baiga lay dying. His legs sprawled motionless. His sinewy frame stretched out across the scorched clearing. Only his damaged head twisted from side to side, cradled by the strong, trembling arm of his wife. Their youngest daughter stared on. Through heavy breath his soft cries lost themselves in the surrounding panic. In Baigani tongue the name Birju means bold.

It so happened that on Sunday 9^th February, we sat in a press conference. Agitated journalists sat opposite each other in a queue of mismatched tables, sweeping aside mosquitoes. The overhead fans stuttered while chai was delivered by bearers in starched white overalls. Past the rear door, a beginner’s orchestra of rickshaws sounded through the haze of Bilaspur streets. Silvery tones of Hindi filled the room as reporters strained to hear Rajgopal PV. ‘Disappointment is spreading in this state,’ he warned calmly. ‘We cannot let the land issue reach a level of violence; we cannot let communities vanish like ghosts.’

Rajgopal, National Convener of the people’s movement Ekta Parishad, is an old stranger in Chhattisgarh. His feet have seldom brushed the soil here for three years, but along roadsides women and children stand, waiting for his convoy to pass. They run saffron marigolds and flamed hibiscus through their fingers, ready to cast the petal garlands across his slight shoulders. For them he represents the articulation of their silence, the resolute voice of shattered lives.

Eight years ago Birju Baiga, his wife Jugri Bai and their family looked towards the promise of a new future. Under the veneer of rehabilitation, their tribal community had been displaced by the Forestry Department from the hills surrounding Kawardha and resettled on plains near Pandaria. But the plot offered to the eleven families was barely cultivable. Through Chambal to Chhattisgarh the land rights march of 2000, organised by Ekta Parishad, had encouraged those on the borders of society to reclaim their hereditary land. Ready to fight, the families had moved from the resettled land and performed the symbolic Bhoomi Puja on a fresh stretch of soil, two kilometres from the small hamlet of Putputa, called Dharipara. With handfuls of rice and burning incense, they auspiciously cracked the husk of a coconut to bless the fertile earth. To feed all eleven families they started planting on one acre of land.

If you ask Ramesh Sharma where his home is, he playfully replies, ‘Indian Railways’. In his early thirties, he has been an activist with Ekta Parishad for four years. Gentle and passionately committed, the time to catch him is usually fleeting: between meetings; in transit; over lunch. But one evening, as we sat on the stone floors of a disused hall, his eager eyes had lit up. ‘You see, it’s a very complicated point that before independence, a lot of land was held by the Zamindars, the rich landowners. But after independence, the Government of India abolished this system. In protected areas whatever land was good for forestry the Forestry Department took.’ The candlelight danced around his glasses. ‘The land left over was given to the Revenue Department, but not any of this process was written in official records. Now the Forestry Department wants to claim all the land. It’s a very historical mistake.’

‘Look,’ he replied, waving his delicate hands through the air. ‘Forestry land is marked red; land owned by the Revenue Department is marked green. The land in dispute is in between: we call it orange land. Adivasis, the tribal peoples, are being evicted from orange land. Some of them have entitlement but the Forestry Department are claiming it is theirs. Ekta Parishad demands a re-survey.’

Outside, visible under the strobes of lightning, the wind buffeted villagers running over the sodden fields, desperately seeking cover. We prepared our makeshift dormitory and slept to the salvos of torrential rain that hit the corrugated roof.

On the 9th of February in Dharipara, the day had begun as any other. Birju Baiga had left the sparse settlement of jhompri (mud hut) houses and set off through fallen sal leaves towards Putputa with a group of workers. Drought had destroyed the small crop of kutki (millet) last year, and men were forced into neighbouring villages to collect wood. With lives as uncertain as rain, their families watched them disappear through the cinnamon-dried trees. Children huddled in circles between the bamboo pillars of brushwood porches. Women laid patchworks of homespun chitras to bask on rooftops, enveloped with the smoke from perpetually lit hearths.

In a meeting with the district collector in Kawardha fourteen days earlier, the families had, once again, listened to promises. Birju Baiga, the elected Ekta Parishad representative for the village, was already mobilising support for the forthcoming rally in Pandaria when the news came. On a late January morning in 2003 in the presence of forest and police officials he was informed that new land would be offered them. It would be official. Entitlement papers would be issued and they could again start fresh cultivation. ‘Don’t worry,’ he had told a fellow activist. ‘Support for us is strong here.’

But at around midday on that Sunday, children darted barefoot along the empty stream into the centre of the village. Pointing excitedly, they pulled at the tight cotton sleeves of their mothers’ blouses. Placing down their water pots, the women gradually congregated, expectantly watching the strides of the approaching party.

Jugri Bai recognised the uniforms immediately. She also recognised the men. Behind the thick metal belts and khaki shirts of the forestry officials straggled the five members of the Forest Protection Committee. They shouted, ‘Why are you standing here? Why do you cultivate land and build up your houses?’ As the accusations spiralled, she tapped her friend and whispered to fetch her husband quickly.

In the days that followed it became very difficult to unravel the exact sequence of events at Dharipara. By the time we arrived two days later, at a strip of waste-ground in nearby Pandaria town, around a hundred people had assembled. Two men cowered awkwardly clasping their hands, their faces buckled. They began to describe in detail everything that had happened, but the restless gathering fractured the air. Snatches of their own versions flew, layer upon layer. Babies suckled, wrapped in tattered cloth as women wiped rolling tears from their cheeks. In the midst of the anxious outpouring, Rajgopal sat unflinching, his fist pressed against his lips. His head bowed under the weight of their stories. In the pockets of translation we understood that one man had died. Four more had been badly beaten, and their homes destroyed. But interspersed between the panicky crowds the camouflage of official waistcoats stared out. A message was brought to Rajgopal. The police would start caning people if anger spilled over. We were asked to leave.

In the nearby government rest-house, where we waited, information reached us like pieces of a jigsaw. Birju Baiga’s family, along with the others, were Baiga adivasis who had encroached upon disputed land. The Forest Protection Committee, made up of members of the Gonds, another adivasi tribe, had arrived with the intention of evicting them. An argument had ensued. The Central Chronicle reported the view of the district administration: there had been a simple inter-tribal dispute, Gond against Baiga.

It was not until Ramesh joined us the next evening that something far darker began to unfold. He had been the first person to visit Jugri Bai in Dharipara, two days after the incident. ‘You see,’ he said in staccato beats, ‘There are so many things that don’t make sense.’ Under the Indian Forest Act notification must be given before any eviction takes place. In Dharipara no notice had been served on the families. The Forestry Department were claiming the land as theirs, and the re-settlement papers Birju Baiga had been assured of on 26^th January had never been delivered. Besides, the Forest Protection Committee did not have the right to evict anyone, let alone destroy property. With his tall, slender body silhouetted against the faded colonial porch, Ramesh leant forward. His voice became more urgent. ‘How can people be abused like this? Corruption here is like an epidemic.’ The orders must have come from a higher authority, he suspected.

Dharipara is around forty-five minutes from Pandaria. Early on the morning of the 12^th a jeep had pulled up outside our rest-house, and hurriedly packing our notebooks and cameras we jumped in. Turning north as we left the small town, the road winds up across Chhattisgarh’s wild and open countryside. After a while electricity pylons disappear, tarmac becomes dirt-track and fields bordered with sunflowers transform to a sallow scrubland. Stopping in what seemed like the middle of nowhere we left the white taper of cars parked along an embankment. Dipping down into a grassy valley we crossed a cobbled pathway over a river. Accompanying us, Jugri Bai’s steely form was reflected in the stagnant water. She led the party on, through the charred forest to an empty, desolate clearing. In the pale silence, surrounded by strangers, she fearlessly narrated.

‘This was my home,’ she said, pointing her tiny muscular arm towards the mud hearth, now exposed to the searing midday sun. She shook her head, ‘They took everything. All our possessions. Everything.’ Within the skeletons of flattened walls not one dye of cloth, or pot, or tool could be seen. Instead, playing on the earth at the far end of the village, a small girl sat clothed in red floral print. Pretending to grind millet like her mother would, her miniature hands pounded a stick into a hole in the ground. It gradually dawned on us. The hole had been made when the front wooden pillars of her house had been ripped out.

By the time Birju Baiga had been told what was happening, everything he owned had already been thrown into waiting Forestry Department trucks. Dropping his axe, he immediately rounded up the workers and headed back across the fields, but the officials had already dragged the remaining women from their houses. ‘They started beating us and we tried to walk away, but they kept coming towards us,’ Jugri Bai said. ‘They kept shouting, “Why are you here? What are you still doing here?” But we didn’t answer. We were too frightened. Then my husband came with the other men.’

In the confusion that followed conflicting accounts of the event spread like rumours. The first report from the senior police officer said that Birju Baiga had struck the first blow. He had injured three members of the Protection Committee on the path between Putputa and Dharipara; they had acted out of self-defence.

But Jugri Bai had a different story. As she started her description her words slowly merged with actions. Without tears, she began to re-enact the scene. She walked, her red chitra (Baiga sari) slung across her strong shoulder, to the shade of the sal trees. ‘Our houses were broken,’ she said. ‘And the officers started to burn them. They rounded the men up here and asked them questions. At first, they beat my husband with rods. He ran, but they chased him. He ran around this tree, but they came at him with an axe. The police and forest officers just stood around. They watched the blows. He could hardly stand.’ Suddenly, Jugri Bai collapsed on the same spot her husband had only three days before. ‘He was on the ground here,’ she said. ‘They beat him three times across the head. I watched him lynched before my eyes. After the final hit I knew he would not live.’

‘How could she have done that?’ I asked Ramesh on the journey home, still numb at the sight of Jugri Bai’s reconstruction.

‘The Baiga stare at death all the time,’ he answered quietly. ‘They don’t want pity. They need justice. They need to survive.’

In fact there was one detail Jugri Bai had left out. When Ramesh had first visited Dharipara, he had found her knelt amongst the burnt ruins of her house. She was frantically scrambling amongst the twigs and leaves. There was no reply when he asked what she was looking for. Again she searched, her friends desperately helping. He asked a second time. At the heart of the splintered remains Jugri Bai stood up, raising her swollen eyes to meet his. ‘I had a bag,’ she said. ‘A small polythene bag. But I can’t find it.’

Inside was the three-hundred-and-sixty rupees (£5) Birju Baiga had earned that month.

Truth Force, is available from AVI for £4 (inc p&p).
Please send a cheque payable to AVI, 76 Wentworth Street, London E1 7SA.

Helena Drakakis, June 2003

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One Tree, One Life