Not seen, not heard: In slum evictions, children are some of the worst hit

“The first time a bulldozer came to our place, I was scared and kept sitting near our belongings that had been thrown out,” says Roshni, a ten year old whose family migrated from Bihar to Delhi looking for employment. Roshni and her family have been living in a slum in Yamuna Khadar’s Belagaon in the capital’s eastern region. The settlement is right behind Rajghat, the memorial dedicated to Mahatma Gandhi. Between 2011 and 2018, the houses and the small farms of the dwellers had to face frequent eviction drives by the Delhi Development Authority (DDA).

Children in these fragile communities are amongst the worst hit by slum demolitions. They miss out on education, dropping out of school due to homelessness, uncertainty, and the stigma they face in schools as “slum children”. Caught in a cycle of poverty and growing up with the violence of forced displacement, their future is one of unemployment or poorly paid jobs, not to mention underage labour.

Lakshya Aakriti Foundation (LAF), a not-for-profit, runs informal schools for them in Belagaon because often having to shift from one place to another severely hampers schooling. Diptesh Singh of LAF explains, “We have been associated with this place since 2012. The area faces around four demolitions per year. One demolition takes place in a staggered manner over several days. So for the entire period the families, including the children, stay around their homes in case the bulldozers return. And it is not as if children’s school calendar is taken into consideration when homes are demolished. Children end up missing many days of school at a stretch or dropping out altogether.”

Children of Belagaon attending a school run by LAF

This year Roshni saw DDA officials in her area again. But this time she was quick to act: “I carefully dismantled our makeshift home, carried the lighter things outside the house with my younger brother, called up my older brother, and waited for him to come and take the heavy stuff out.”

Despite the trauma associated with demolitions, some children feel it is better to stay on and claim their rights to the land their ancestors have lived on since before Independence. Being close to the Yamuna river, the area is different from most urban slums in its greenery and fertility, and many residents depend on farming for their livelihood. Abdul and Rohit, both about 13 years old, are friends reluctant to shift to another locality. Abdul explains: “There is open space for us to play cricket. Neighbours share fresh vegetables they grow.” But he rues the fact that it takes months for families to get back to farming after bulldozers have run over their crops.

When the JCB machines come to raze the houses to the ground, Abbas, 14, feels like “hitting those people till they run away”. “It would be so good if we can retain this land. Anywhere else we will have to pay rent, and buy cooking gas, while here we can use the wood available around.”

Abbas’s father, Shafiq, has an elder son who works in another city as a shop assistant. With the family facing either homelessness or the threat of it, the son had given up on education years ago. Being illiterate himself, Shafiq wants that at least Abbas should study well. In answer to a question about the line of work he wants to pursue later in life, Abbas replies with a blank eyed stare, “I’ll become whatever is written in my destiny.” Constant displacement has made him lose faith in the surety of anything and he believes that fate would decide his future.

With their right to housing taken away, children lose out on the right to education too

Sunayna Wadhwan has been an activist with organisations like Hazards Centre and Mobile Creches. In her experience of working with communities in slum clusters, she noticed many families don’t send children to schools so the kids can call and inform the parents if a demolition drive seems imminent: “When we conducted meetings, children would join and try to learn about what the future of their homes would be. Those who go to schools are often discriminated against. The school authorities feel these children won’t be able to stay in one area consistently and are reluctant to take them in. Once admitted, they have to face social stigma, like being made to sit on the last seats of the bus, because of living in slums. The proportion of students in higher education from such localities is low. A common trend for those who do study is to get enrolled for open or correspondence courses once they reach the college level. They realise that a college degree can be helpful in getting them jobs, especially through NGOs active in their area.”

Working with the Centre for Policy Research (CPR), Mukta Naik is an urban planner and architect. Remembering an incident of relocation of a community, she says, “The shifting took place close to children's board exams [considered a crucial test in an Indian child's school life]. Some children ended up losing the documents needed to appear for the examination.”

Resettlement also affects livelihood. Women working as domestic workers within the city are not able to find opportunities in the far flung areas where they are resettled. This affects the amount of spending on children's education, whether it’s about admission to a new school or traveling to attend the old one. The minute it becomes a question of a long commute, girls are made to drop out even quicker because of safety concerns. Sometimes they stay back to take care of the house or siblings, without being safe themselves in the cut-off areas they have been moved to.

Evictions also lead to absenteeism because there is so much damage to property that every member pitches in to put the household together. Children lose uniforms, bags and books. At a time when they have been rendered homeless, parents find it difficult to buy these things.

Rights groups say slum evictions make children vulnerable to violence, trauma and neglect

For the teacher in the school run by LAF in Belagaon, absenteeism is a regular concern. Once evictions/demolitions start occurring at regular intervals, children start dropping out. He says, “These children have to live in the constant fear of getting uprooted.” Shivani Chaudhry of Housing and Land Rights' Network, an NGO, recalls meeting a boy who broke down and started crying each time he saw a bulldozer. Demolition drives in Delhi’s slums have led to some children getting injured and others getting killed.

“The city sees adolescents in slums as potential abusers. But what about the tacit violence these children live with?” asks Enakshi Ganguly of HAQ Centre for Child Rights. “They grow up seeing their parents getting beaten up for fighting for their rights. The threat of children getting abused increases when resettlement takes place in remote areas and the jobs parents get closer to the city keep them out all day. Children are left to fend for themselves.”

Nazdeek is an NGO fighting for the rights of communities in slums. Jayshree Satpute, Nazdeek’s co-founder and lawyer, talks about litigation’s role in helping eviction affected people, “When the court comes up with a favourable order, like ordering authorities to make anganwadis (day care centres) for children, it happens after a year or so but also with results like two centres being close to each other, rather than in different localities.” 

The staff of these anganwadis are also not motivated. They have been fighting for better wages and recognition as government employees, and not volunteers. Working in slums is not lucrative because they get incentives if children have regular attendance. “In an area facing forced migration, this regularity takes a toll,” Jayshree adds.

Bipin Rai is a member of the Delhi Urban Shelter Improvement Board (DUSIB), a government body in charge of looking after slum clusters and their resettlement. He says, “Evictions are not legal. That is why we resettle and rehabilitate. But DDA and the Central Public Works Department do not cooperate or partner with us when it comes to land under them.”

However, like Rai admits, DUSIB too is not directly engaged with looking after the social aspects but is involved more in the infrastructure of resettlement colonies. Sudeshna Chhatterjee is the CEO of a trust called Action for Children’s Environments. In her paper ‘Children’s Role in Humanizing Forced Evictions and Resettlements in Delhi’, she describes the active participation of children in resisting the Gautampuri evictions in the year 2000. It had brought to attention children’s problems and gained them greater participatory space. But to look after the complete social, educational and psychological well being of children facing displacement, special focus on children in city planning for changes to be made at the policy level is something urban planners, researchers and activists continue to advocate for.

India has ratified the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. But in the current Draft National Child Protection Policy framed by the Ministry of Women and Child Development, the mention of children in vulnerable circumstances, like those exposed to evictions or forced migration, remains missing. This gap reaffirms lawyer-activist Jayshree Satpute’s statement, “The elite classes want every opportunity for their children. But they don’t extend the same principles to other classes.” CPR’s Mukta Naik has something similar to say, “The Delhi Development Authority's perception of the city is elitist . . . and slum children have no place in this vision.”

(Names of children have been changed to protect identities.)

Firs published in Beyond Headlines, 31 Jan 2019.

बूझो तो जानें

बस्तर 

बद से बद्तर 

आदिवासी = नक्सलवादी 

गाँधीवादी = नक्सलवादी 

डॉक्टर = नक्सलवादी 

वकील = नक्सलवादी 

पत्रकार  = नक्सलवादी 

शोधकर्ता = नक्सलवादी 

फिल्म निर्माता = नक्सलवादी 

नक्सलों की इतनी आबादी?

या राज्य = अवसरवादी?

First published in Yuddhrat Aam Aadmi, 2018.

Chhattisgarh Farmers Protest on Rail Tracks Demanding Jobs Promised by Railways

Even as thousands of farmers from Maharashtra head towards Mumbai, their compatriots in Chhattisgarh have also been protesting since March 5, demanding jobs in lieu of their land acquired by the Railways.

In Bhanupratappur, situated in Kanker district in the North Bastar region, farmers whose land had been acquired for the Dallirajhara-Rowghat-Jagdalpur rail project have been sitting on the railway tracks since the past week demand jobs promised to them. Resolved to stay put till they get job appointments,  hundreds of protesters have spread tarpaulin and durries over stones on the tracks.

The rail line project would be carrying iron ore from Rowghat mines to the Bhilai Steel Plant (BSP). Rowghat had also been in news earlier because of the local resistance to the mines.

Chandrashekhar Yadu, one of the protesters, said those whose land ownership is covered by the Forest Rights Act have not got any compensation or even the application forms for jobs. “The few farmers with revenue land who have jobs have got meagre amounts in the name of compensation. More than 400 farmers are waiting to get jobs. When we met officials from the Railways, the local administration and BSP on March 8, 2018, in the office of the sub-divisional magistrate, we were told that in 2012 there was a change in the 2011 policy, which now covers only those whose 75-100% land was impacted by the project. But the public wasn’t informed of any such change. We would believe the papers we have in our hands right now, which talk of jobs and compensation for all whose land was affected to any extent. Amendments can keep taking place.”

The farmers are against the provision, as listed in the notification issued by South East Central Railway on April 8, 2011, of jobs being granted only to the landowner, the spouse or their sons/daughters. People of the 28 affected villages feel it excludes those who don’t have children but may want jobs for other family members.

The 2011 notification also doesn’t take into account the fact that many elders own the land so it would be their grandchildren, and not their sons and daughters, who would be in the right age group for jobs. The prescribed age bracket is 18-33 years, relaxed by five years’ for scheduled castes and scheduled tribes, and for three years’ for other backward classes.

The farmers are demanding that the affected people should get appointment letters first and then should be sent for the technical training required. They do not want the candidates to be first sent to pass the training in an industrial training institute (ITI) and then kept under training again in BSP as they say the actual appointment in this case takes years.

Nandlal Jaiswal, a participant in the protest, said, “The government talks of sabka sath, sabka vikas. But how is this development for all? It is only for the government. It is also unfair that the Dalli-Rajhara farmers in Balod district were given jobs and we have been discriminated against.”

First published in The Wire, 11 Mar 2018.

This is not that home

We were told
“Go back where you had come from,
Go home.”

When we returned 
We found we had the right address
But the wrong home.

They were already there,
Saying it was as much their home
As anyone else’s 
And because, you know, their home 
Therefore, you see, their rules.

If any of us dared to object,
They said,
We could go elsewhere

Seeking refuge.

First published in Hakara, 15 Jan 2018.

Understanding Uranium Mining in Meghalaya: Perils, Pushbacks and Politics

When asked about their views on uranium mining in Meghalaya, most local people started with, ‘You know it is a very sensitive issue here’, and they were not exaggerating. The Atomic Minerals Directorate (AMD) found uranium in Domiasiat, Meghalaya, in 1984, and in 1991, the Uranium Council of India Limited (UCIL) first started drilling in the area. But during the next couple of years the project faced a roadblock. Many name the late Hoping Stone Lyngdoh, a legislator in the Hill State People’s Democratic Party (HSPDP) of Meghalaya, as one of the first to have started studying about uranium mining and its possible adverse effects, and then rallying people to oppose it. Khasi Students Union (KSU) was another resistance group at the forefront. Since then UCIL has been constantly trying to resume operations full throttle and, after a lot of back and forth, earlier this year the Khasi Hills Autonomous District Council (KHADC), which represents the region’s autonomy per the Sixth Schedule to the Constitution, withdrew the No Objection Certificate issued to the company.

I visited Meghalaya in May 2017 to understand the situation better, and most people I spoke to vehemently opposed the project. But there were also some who felt mining would have brought development to the State and contributed to nation building. Such people said that because elections were approaching, those who opposed the project were doing so to gain political mileage. I heard about a journalist who spoke in favour of mining and got assaulted. HS Shylla, ex-chief executive member (CEM) of KHADC, had also supported the project at one point. Having initially agreed to a meeting with me, he changed his mind later and sent a statement, ‘Rightly or wrongly, I don’t know for sure, but the people of Meghalaya in general and Khasi and Jaintia hills in particular have been made to accept that mining of uranium will cause deadly health hazard. People, especially youth, are ever ready to die for this’. I tried to contact UCIL and AMD for interviews but I was told the UCIL chief was travelling, and AMD did not respond.

There is one part of the project which interests even many of those who are staunchly against mining. This is the 68 km Nongstoin-Pambriew-Wahkaji-Mawthabah stretch, which UCIL was to make into a two lane road. Many among the general public had waited eagerly for this as it would have connected remote areas to the more developed ones. With the company currently out of the picture, this too has come to a standstill though the council has now taken up the task.

Ground Realities

Laitduh village, Sohra

In Laitduh, a village around 60 km away from Shillong in Sohra, UCIL had first made its presence felt around 2003. I travelled from Shillong to Sohra where a couple of KSU members accompanied me to Laitduh. The Khasi Students Union has been in Meghalaya for a long time now, and has a strong hold in the villages as well. The village secretary, Jingkyrmenlang Lyngdoh, met us in the village and showed us the old drilling holes, some of whose locations he remembered.

Some of the rusted metallic pipes in the ground had their mouths open. This was a cause for concern for the villagers. They feared such places might still be radioactive and could then contaminate the air and the water. Some others were just holes in the ground. At places they had been partially covered with big stones or cement lids, bearing the initials of the village. There were also spots which looked as if they were well covered by these lids but they could easily be lifted, exposing the holes.

I started talking to a group of construction workers and some villagers also gathered around. Richmond Kharmalki said that if mining took place in their area it would turn out to be another Jaduguda (in Jharkhand) where UCIL’s mining of the ore is known to have caused serious health hazards for the people. Golden Star Kharchandy added, ‘Since we have not been told by the government about what exactly the effects of the mining could be, people are scared’. To the development question, Apilattues Kharchandy’s answer was, ‘First people have to know what sort of development is being talked about’.

Apilattues continued, ‘In 2003, the company had taken the village’s permission only for a survey but they also conducted drilling. Around 15-17 people went with the survey team’. One of the men present remembered carrying a machine for the team as a teenager. At that time the company had taken the village headman’s permission. The company officials were seen taking some rock samples. But none of the villagers recalled any official having spoken about what exactly they were doing.

In the year 2015, Damil Bynnud, the district KSU President, had read in the papers about the AMD’s plan to come to the area and had told local people about it. They had a meeting attended by about 300 people and had decided that they would approach the CEM of KHADC to prevent the AMD from coming.

The local residents believed that after UCIL’s initial work in the area, even though it had not continued, some villagers had developed cancer and tuberculosis. I asked if such diseases did not happen earlier. ‘No, but we think in these cases it was the air from the open drilling holes’.

In a tea shop nearby, some women shared their thoughts. Bullina Kharchandy, now retired, used to teach in the lower primary school in Lummawshken village nearby. ‘When UCIL came, nobody knew it was for uranium. We learnt about this only after the drilling. We did not want it to continue because we want health, not wealth’. She laughed, proud of her knowledge of the proverb, and repeated the phrase. ‘Even if the government promises us safety, response from other elders, surrounding villages and NGOs has to be taken into account’.

Another woman in the group, S. Skhembill, said, ‘We do not want development if it comes only with uranium mining. It would affect our health. We are farmers; we cannot afford for our animals to fall sick either. And we have heard they would build nuclear weapons with the energy produced. We are not in its favour’. This concern for ‘all things both great and small’ is also found in traditional Khasi stories that begin with ‘When man and beasts and stones and trees spoke as one . . .’

I asked the shop owner for water and KSU members queried with a half smile if I would drink the water of this region. I asked KSU if they would. ‘We have to live here. What option do we have?’ I talked a bit about Amitav Ghosh’s book Countdown which mentions how government officials did not have the local water around Pokhran (Rajasthan), the site of India’s second nuclear test. The union people wanted to know if Ghosh had it. I didn’t remember that bit but I added that the author had also not been claiming that the water was safe to drink.

......

Domiasiat village, Ranikor

KSU members agreed to accompany me to Domiasiat in West Khasi Hills, around 130 km from Shillong, and help me with the Khasi to English translation. I expected one or two members but on the day there were two jeeps full of them. Though nobody else I had met had mentioned this, KSU said they found it safer to go in big groups as the area has insurgents and there had been some recent kidnappings.

The road to Domiasiat is a long and arduous one and the students carried whatever they thought they would need, an auxiliary cable, to begin with. When it started working, there was a jubilant cry in the car. The soft hum that began to play made me think it was a Khasi love song. A student member, Phulchand, explained what it said, ‘Before it is too late, let us stand up to defend what is ours’. KSU has a group of people with whose help they compose such patriotic songs and sell the CDs. Even if the sales just cover the costs, they are happy to get the message across to people.

Once we reached Mowronong view point, the road started disintegrating. The conversation inevitably turned to the subject at hand. Pulljohn Wannianj was clear, ‘Constructing a two-lane here can mean one thing and one thing only: mining. If it's repair and proper road building for the sake of development, we would have been ok with that’.

As we neared Domiasiat, we came across the abandoned buildings where workers employed at the mining sites would have stayed. Near the entrance, a sign warned against leaving the campus after 9 pm, deforestation, alcohol, noise, bringing wives and children, and marrying indigenous people. The last bit reminded me of how some of the people interviewed had said that the main fear of the people (including KSU who have also been against railways) opposing mining was that of outsiders coming in. Starfing Pdahkasiej, editor of SP News Agency, who had told me his uncle Dominic Pdahkasiej was the first person to have been deputed for drilling, had also mentioned similar concerns among local people, “There is a limited number of government jobs available. People with MA degrees are applying to be peons. When companies like UCIL come, there is talk of employment generation but they always keep the locals in the lower rungs, not in decision making positions.”

Going further into Wahkaji, another abandoned construction is the primary health centre that was supposed to function while UCIL conducted its operations.

I was informed that after one point cars cannot go in and we would have to trek through the forest for about thirty-forty minutes to reach the site. The jeep almost miraculously made its way through the rugged terrain to the point where the forest began. The small plate of rice and meat the others had in the morning seemed like an old story at this point, everyone getting even more exhausted with the hot sun. With some reluctance, they agreed to share the packet of biscuits I had. With the renewed energy brought by four biscuits each, we started walking, trying not to be slowed down too much by mossy stones and brambles covering our way.

The now closed drilling sites shown to me seemed like big water tanks almost at ground level, now cemented and covered. What bothered people were the many cracks that had appeared. Where repairs had been undertaken to fix them, after people’s protests, they had not been to people’s satisfaction. Phulchand said, ‘If there are cracks there would be a leak. I've read that concrete can't stop radioactivity. Only lead can’. The other thing that made them uncomfortable were open pipes that apparently had been installed to release effluents. KSU people took care not to fill water in their empty bottles from streams around this area and kept insisting I cover my face with a mask even in the heat. For a long time after, we made do with the half a bottle of water that I, after a moment of hesitation about whether I’d be left with any and subsequent shame about the inadvertent thought, invited them to share.

Not far from the site is Nongtynger village, where UCIL’s engraved stone talks of its ‘donation’ of something like a small, open water tank-well. Covered on three sides, the opening showed water on the surface which two girls were using to the wash their hair and utensils. We filled our bottles with the water.

Our next stop was the house of Spleity Langrin, an elderly matriarch, around 90, who has become the face of the anti-mining resistance. The early evening light was still clear as it fell on the green fields around but inside the hut it was almost completely dark. Kong Spleity was not too well and we decided not to disturb her but she said she would like to meet us considering we had come all the way. I was wary of asking the usual questions about her opposition to the project, feeling she must have already narrated the same story to so many people. But she said, ‘If it is about asserting my right over my land, I can do it any number of times. We belong here and we won’t give up our land till death’. Of her experience with people involved in the project, she said, ‘The people who had come were very rude. They did not interact with the people here’.

Her daughter Silnola Langrin describes the various health effects due to mining that people, especially women and children, of the area had to endure. ‘One of them died at childbirth. My sister suffered too’. However, there are still people who are willing to sell their land to the company. KSU admits that in the Nongjri area many people did not want to talk to them because they were upset with KSU for opposing mining. KSU said in these families too there were children born with deformities but the parents were not ready to see uranium mining as the cause. But such people did not change Silnola Langrin’s opinion, ‘I know because I have seen the effects first hand’.

Silnola’s brother, Flavour Langrin, was happy to welcome anyone who came to meet them to offer support. With reference to their dark hut, he said electricity had reached them but after the first two months it never returned and complaining to the electricity board did not help.

Karmel Thongni, 45, is another resident of the Wahkaji area. ‘We definitely oppose mining, though people in villages supporting it are upset with us’. This area is so cut-off. What kind of development would be most helpful for people here? Karmel laughed, ‘There is so much we need. I don’t even know where to begin’.

The dhaba in Wahkaji where we stopped for dinner was run by the family of a traditional musician. His nephew, Ehbok Langrin, worked in Shillong and was visiting. About uranium mining, he said, ‘Some say it is good and others oppose it. But what we do know is we don't want to get displaced and leave our home. I am an engineer and I was getting paid better in Mumbai. Yet I came to Shillong to stay close to home’.

The Council

In an interview, the CEM of KHADC, P.N. Syiem, asserted, ‘Land is a state subject so how can the state pass a law against people’s wishes? The MoU we had with UCIL was only for the road. In 1993, they had been allowed some construction. But some paragraph in it talked about mining which we missed. Anyway now the MoU has been withdrawn’.

What happens now to the two-lane project proposed by UCIL? ‘At times there are so many complications. The outgoing CEM had opened a joint account for KHADC with UCIL for this project. First we had to close the account’.

The CEM was perplexed that despite the council’s supposed autonomy so many nods still have to come from the State government before decisions can be taken. ‘We have asked the government for an NOC to repair the road as 18 kms of work has already been done by UCIL of a total of about 70 kms. Once it comes through work would be resumed’.

What the Experts Say

Professor Om Prakash Singh teaches in the department of environmental studies in the North-Eastern Hill University, Shillong. When I raised the point of people’s concern over open drilling holes, he said, ‘That is a genuine point. When it rains, the same uranium goes downstream and during drilling the chances of leaching (which could release toxic effluents in the environment) increase’. Another issue that had come up in my discussion with NGOs was that there was only a small percentage of uranium in Meghalaya and the quality was not that good either. Singh shrugged, ‘UCIL seems to believe differently’. Responding to reports of deformities and diseases found in people living around mining sites, he said nothing had been proved.

In 2004, Singh was part of an environment impact assessment (EIA) group and had visited the concerned areas in Meghalaya. ‘The area-the flora and the fauna-seemed normal. The method involves generating baseline data which is later compared to the data of that place after mining is done. We can predict possible adverse effects and the mining company has to follow guidelines on the basis of which clearance is given’.

Do companies adhere to these guidelines and is there a strict check on them? ‘The state pollution board is supposed to get regular reports from them but, yes, I would say that implementation is not done properly’. What about the safety measures for the workers on the site? ‘Those too have been neglected in our country in the past; it’s true’.

Over email, I invited the views of some other academics on the subject. Craig Hart, associate professor in the Department of Earth, Ocean and Atmospheric Sciences at the University of British Columbia (UBC), shared, ‘Generally, open drill holes are not a problem. The only issue would be if there was water coming out from it, as it could cause an adjustment in the water table. In these cases, concrete could be used to fill them’.

Bern Klein is an associate professor of Mining Engineering in the same institution. He was of the opinion that ‘the risk would also depend on the concentration of uranium at depth.‎ However, drill holes can fill in over time so I really don't believe there is a radiation issue. To test, you could measure radioactivity near the drill holes and some distance away’.

Another mining engineering assistant professor, Marcello Veiga, UBC, said, ‘The main concern of uranium is not in the mining step but in the nuclear energy plants’.

The problem with scientific takes is that both in India and outside, the community has often been divided about the mining of uranium. Not enough has been done to break down this information in a layperson’s terms for people to understand. NGOs and unions are accused of propaganda but they are the ones who succeed in having conversations with people while companies share information mostly with selected urban, educated groups and officials.

Where do the Tribal Chiefs Stand?

An 1853 report on the Khasi and Jaintia Hills by AJM Mills, sent on deputation to the Northeast frontier by the British government, documents treaties between the then government and the ‘Khasia chieftains’. While the chiefs agreed to accede to the Company in a lot of matters, they also put up a fight to retain their autonomy wherever possible. The very first clause of one such treaty reads, ‘We (the chiefs), in conjunction with those who reside and trade in our territory, shall continue to conduct the business of our territories, keeping the ryots contented, in conformity to the former rules and customs. This country will have no concern with any of the courts of Government . . .’

Today too the tribal chiefs continue their efforts to assert their independence. The chair of the grand council of chiefs of Meghalaya (Federation of Khasi States), John F Kharshiing, isn’t one to mince words, ‘Kashmir was lucky to have article 370 grant it autonomous status. We had nobody to speak for us when these decisions were being taken’.

But isn’t the KHADC precisely there for this purpose, to protect the autonomy of the Khasis? Kharshiing rejects this claim, ‘Our chiefs are not represented by KHADC. The council is a political body’.

Kharshiing has been active in mobilising support against mining activities. Around 2007-08, he travelled to rural Mawkyrwat, taking a television set and a copy of the film Buddha Weeps in Jaduguda. ‘We should focus more on other advanced technology rather than atomic power. Look at the cyber attack on Russia; everything happened through computers’.

Coming back to the uranium rich areas in question, he recalled a British map that shows the presence of thick forests and special birds in the region that could get endangered. He also mentioned proximity to international borders and the requirement of huge amounts of water in the process of mining. ‘If the centre tries to forcibly do anything here, they would have a Kashmir like situation at hand’.

...............

In India where companies are granted EIA waivers and penalties are not paid even upon proof of violations, scientific studies and their results have not been the only basis of whether a company gets to launch operations that might impact the environment. In Meghalaya too, the issue of uranium mining is fraught with the apprehensions of student bodies and NGOs; the tensions between the State, the district council and the tribal chiefs; and the concerns of the people about land ownership and displacement, health, environment, the true purpose of nuclear energy, and whether mining is the mandatory cost they have to pay in order to be the benefactors of some much needed development, including the basic services of roads and electricity.

First published in EclecticNorthEast, July 2017. Subsequently published in The aPolitical, 15 Aug 2017, and DiaNuke.org, 17 Aug 2017.

Tibetans in Delhi: Of Living in Exile and Finding Second Homes

The people of Tibet first started coming to India around 1960, after the Tibetan uprising against the Chinese rule in 1959. Soon after they arrived, the government of India allotted the area of Majnu Ka Tila, in north Delhi, to them. The place has since become an attractive tourist spot and a regular adda for students of Delhi University close by. Along with cafes, shops, a Tibetan school and a monastery, it also has a clinic called Men Tsee Khang, where patients go to get Tibetan medicines, a huge number of Indians among them. Incense smoke wafts through the air as one crosses the busy courtyard of the monastery and passes by walls mapping Dalai Lama’s travels through newspaper clippings.

A cafe in Majnu Ka Tila

In 1964, the Tibetan Welfare Office was set up in Delhi to address the needs and concerns of the Tibetans living in India. When I go to this office in Majnu Ka Tila to know more, a perplexed Lekyi Dorjee Tsangla, the welfare officer, looks up from his files and tries his best to answer my questions: “You can ask me in Hindi. My English is not so good and I can only manage broken Hindi.” Tsangla is not from Delhi and looks back with wistfulness at his previous appointment in the state of Arunachal Pradesh, a place he knew much better than Delhi, where he got appointed in 2009. In his official capacity, he acts as the link between the Tibetans in Delhi and the Tibetan government in exile. “If a big religious ceremony is to be held, I receive instructions from the government about how it should be organised and pass them on to the people. After it is concluded, I have to prepare a report and send it back to the government.”

It is from this office that educational scholarships to Tibetans are given out, both government and non-government. “If someone wants to put up a shop and an agreement has to be made about space, they come to me. If a family is trying to get their child admitted in a school and don’t know how to go about it, they approach the welfare office. We also certify nurses so they can get jobs in private medical institutions, as without citizenship they can’t work in government organisations.”

The issue of citizenship of course is one which keeps cropping up because a citizen identification card becomes a mandatory document to avail of many services in town. Tsangla talks of how the Election Commission keeps saying Tibetans would get citizenship soon while the Ministry of Home Affairs maintains that no such rule has been framed yet. “There was a 2014 circular saying they would get regulation. Some people who arrived in 1962 have ration cards while most others do not, though electricity and water supply has been there.” So far, says Tsangla, there has not been a tussle over resources with neighbours either.

For Tibetans to be identified to their own government, there is something called a green card which serves as proof of identification. A charge of Rs 60 has to be paid for it per year and if a Tibetan national does not have a green card, they apply for one at the welfare office.

Children also get scholarship from nursery to class 12 to study in the Tibetan Children’s Village (TCV) school but expenses overall have been on the rise. “After passing out, if they do not get seats in colleges, they directly get into jobs like call centres or hotels,” adds the welfare officer.

Tibetan Children's Village School

There are a lot of small businesses run by Tibetans in Majnu Ka Tila. They also get loans up to a lakh from the Tibetan government to start their venture. The interest rate is one per cent and the loan has to be repaid in three months.

But running cafes and selling woollens are not all that Tibetans in Delhi do. Tashi Tsering came to Delhi from Dharmshala. When asked if he faced any discrimination in Delhi, he responds in the negative. “A lot depends on the individual. For example, if you get into a taxi and start talking to the driver, he will do the same. And if you sit quietly and give him tough looks, he will act in a similar manner. Our cultures are different and in the beginning misunderstanding might be there when people look at each other curiously. You should take this in a positive light.” He admits that at times people are deliberately insulting. Once when he was in Noida with a group of friends, a guy tried to bully him. Tashi and his friends did not react and then another guy, the first one’s friend, came and apologized on his behalf. 

Compared to other places, Tashi finds people in Delhi relatively more open-minded. “We had gone to Uttarakhand for a trip and some local people came and started asking us questions about who we were, where we have come from. They kept following us.”

But while looking for work in the field of web development or digital marketing, Tashi did not have to face any hassles because of his origin. “You have to be good at your work so nobody can point a finger at you.” Sometimes, even working with Tibetans could have challenges. Tashi gets projects from monasteries in India and some of the senior monks he has to deal with are often not flexible with their requirements, not being well versed with technology and its limitations themselves.

Tashi’s aim is to ultimately have his own start-up, a gaming company that targets mobile users, for which he finds India fertile ground. If it doesn’t work here, Tibet and the US would be his other options. “India is a free country and you can have your own business. And I don’t need to earn billions. Just enough to survive decently and time for family and friends.”

What makes for challenging logistics is the lack of documentation when one tries to set up a business or get into jobs. Tashi feels that where he lives right now, in East of Kailash, the requirements, say for taking a house on rent, are more relaxed than in a place like Laxmi Nagar. That is probably one reason why the colony houses a number of Tibetans.

There is an important difference to note between the two kinds of Tibetans currently living in India. The birthplace of some is Tibet while others were born in India. The latter find it easier to make cultural adjustments in their country of birth. But the Tibetan government takes care to ensure that all Tibetans stay connected to their culture. Children in Delhi are sent to a school called Tibetan Children’s Village where they learn the Tibetan language. The people I interviewed proudly recalled how Dalai Lama refused Nehru’s offer of sending these children to English medium schools in India but instead established TCV. In 1961 the Indian government established the Central Tibetan Schools Administration (CTSA), which has 28 schools, both day and boarding, under it in different places in India.

Tashi believes that while these platforms educate people in the Tibetan language, they miss out on learning other languages as fluently. Once he has set apart enough savings for the investment, Tashi plans to build translation tools for Tibetans. “People like Steve Jobs can never be my role model. What is the good of earning so much money for yourself? Once you have enough, it is more important to give back to society.” He also finds it limiting that for Tibetans direct political participation is often seen as the only way of contributing to their country. “Two years ago I started a social networking site which also became political, though I didn’t want it to be. Why does everything have to be like that? Or maybe I am selfish. I do understand that my family in Tibet may have to face pressures I am free of in Delhi. Still one cannot say that protesting is the only way to work for our people.”

He also admits that living away from home opens up new vistas. “You can try anything. You face problems on your own, become mature. You can take your own risks free from your family’s anxieties and expectations.” After coming to Delhi, Tashi did not do much for a year, then realised he needs to do something to stay financially independent, became a web developer, started taking freelance work. He also opened a cafe with a partner and later sold it when his other work became too demanding. “Sometimes I see other families and miss mine. I do have relatives in Nepal but don’t go there much as I have become too used to my own freedom. I tell myself that even if I am away from home at least I am not not wasting going to parties every day. I am trying to do something good for myself.”

He has a strong network of Tibetan friends around. “We regularly call each other, meet and hang out together during Tibetan festivals.” When in college, he first got to see Indian students his age at close quarters. “We were two Tibetans in class and most of the students there, in Punjab Technical University, were Punajbi. Punjabi guys are serious. They reply when you talk; they don’t initiate conversations. I observed that he had a group earlier but later we would mostly see him alone. When we asked him, he said the others had stopped hanging out with him because he had scored well in the exams. We tried to befriend him but he seemed tense and overburdened by his family’s expectations.”

Tashi remembers a student in class who would look down on others and pretend to know it all even when he didn’t, a quality he says he later observed in a lot of Indians. I become conscious of my own continuous nodding throughout the conversation and make it a point to stop and ask Tashi for more clarity later in the conversation on things that are new to me. “If I don’t know something, I’ll come out and say it. On the other hand, this one student who would always laugh at me had actually failed. It was only when I pointed it out in class did he stop being contemptuous.” Talking of cultural differences with Indians, he gives the example of marriage: “In our society, it is not a big deal if a rich person marries someone poor. We don't have restrictions imposed by our families. As for religions, I feel we should pick the best parts of all religions and practise those.”

Tashi feels impatient with some Tibetans of the older generation, because he has faced ageism from them. “I used to work in CTSA and nobody would listen to me over there. You have to have grey hair in order to be taken seriously in Tibetan society.” While working in Dharmashala with the education department in 2014-15, he was offered a permanent position but he refused because he felt he would not get enough exposure there.

Learning new things is something that most excites Tashi. “I would get the fourth or the fifth rank in school but I was quite good in sports, painting and computers. After graduation, I was going to pursue fine arts and become a cartoonist.” But he eventually got interested in web development and self-taught himself a lot of the relevant things even before he went for a professional course. “I recently met an old man in Nepal who was a musician and had just started a soya sauce making ‘factory’ in his small room and was selling the products himself on the streets to earn money. No skill goes waste.”

In Jawaharlal Nehru University, another Tibetan is brushing up on a skill. Tsering Tharchin is studying the Chinese language. He feels that in the days to come Tibetans would need more and more resource people who understand Chinese, especially with regard to political matters. Tharchin has been in Delhi, where he came from Himachal Pradesh, for seven years. Having been in India since 2002, he doesn’t find it difficult to adjust here, though he is still learning to cope with Indian spices. In Delhi, he found the opportunities that he says aren’t available at other places in India. “I have’t experienced discrimination here. Sure, at times there would be racist comments but the people who would pass those would be in a small percentage. Delhi is a liberal place and it feels like home.”

Amongst Indians aware about the political context of Tibet’s struggle, it is easy to see every Tibetan through those lenses. An Indian friend with contacts in the Tibetan community told me many of them do not want to speak to the media as they are tired of always being seen as refugees. Sonam Dolkar, now 25, came to Delhi when she was 18, and is pursuing her MPhil in Japanese Studies in JNU. She says that she does not mind if people see her in the light of Tibetan’s liberation struggle, “Even if I can educate one person about our struggle, that’s one way I can contribute to the cause.”

Protest posters on a Majnu Ka Tila wall

Culturally, she finds Indians more outgoing and also outspoken. “Studying and living in Delhi was one of the best decisions for me.” As far as the city of Delhi is concerned, she would like to work here after her academic life is complete, “although there were times when Delhi was not so safe for women and people like us . . . because of the fact that we look like Chinese. I constantly experience people calling us different names and gawking at us. But the positive thing about Delhi has been learning to use our freedom. In the Tibetan school, we were constantly under the eyes of a teacher, school captains and warden. Living in Delhi and having the freedom from all these pressures has been, in one way, very liberating.”

If not the only, or the permanent home, the city has definitely become a second or a current home for a lot of Tibetans, not all of them young students. Tenzin Passang came to Delhi after his education in Mussourie and set up his shop in the Monastery Market in Buddhist Vihar, near ISBT. “I am grateful to the government of India for this place, for the amenities of water and electricity. If I have got the chance to do business here, I too make it a point not to dupe customers. Even students are happy with the reasonable rates at my shop.” Has he ever had to face any racism here? “Maybe one in hundred persons is like that. And if that person says something, other Indians explain to him, tell him about us, where we have come from and why.”

Sonam Wangyl is in the Indian army and helps his wife manage their shop when he comes to Delhi during his period of leave. I ask him about some of the clothes at the shop and he gives an embarrassed smile, saying it’s really his wife who knows the shop best but is unwell and thus away from the shop. He is happy with his job and satisfied with the running of the shop, “Business is good; the environment is favourable for doing business.”

The president of the market association, Sonam Dorjee, explains that since the ministry of urban development exclusively allotted the place to Tibetans, even shops run by Indians are owned by Tibetans. At the time of the interview, Dorjee was extremely busy because around Buddh Purnima a lot of religious ceremonies take place around the monasteries, which the market association has to arrange for. On the question of whether the market people have tiffs with the Indians around, he says, “Sometimes, but we try to ignore these things. While some local people might discriminate against us, most are not bad. If there is any trouble with customers, we go and pacify things. With time, things are becoming smoother. We advise our people that the customer is god in Indian culture and that they should be dealt with carefully.” He feels Tibetans are well looked after by the Indian government.

The Tibetans who came to Delhi might be satisfied with their day to day experience in Delhi but those who have lived in the south of India find it an easier place to be. Tashi, living in the Tibetan youth hostel in Rohini, which houses around 300 students, finds the south more welcoming. At the same time, he also remembers protests in Arunachal Pradesh, which had asked Tibetans to leave.

Entrance to the youth hostel in Rohini

Tashi had left Tibet at the age of three, after his parents passed away, with other Tibetans. Living in Delhi, he tries to ignore differential behaviour towards them as much as possible. “Sometimes we are overcharged by shops. We know this yet we agree as we Tibetans are often lenient with our money.”

At times he is left flustered. “We have small eyes and that’s why we are called chinkis. Fine. But at least they shouldn’t call us Chinese. Many people think Tibet is an Indian state in the north-east.” On occasions when the harassment turned more aggressive, Tashi and his friends did not find the police very helpful. “Indian guys on bikes have targeted women around here. They snatch phones or abuse them verbally. We have had a few fights. We try to be around women when they step out in the evenings so we can protect them.” Yet he feels that those from the north-east have suffered more attacks. “And then those from the north-east have also wanted us to leave Majnu Ka Tila, because they want to run the market. But that is so unfair because we built the entire place. It was bare when we got it.”

Apart from the schools, Tashi mentions the Tibet House in Delhi, which promotes Tibetan culture beyond the Tibetan community as well, and the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts in Dharmshala as another place where Tibetan art and culture are kept alive. Graduates of the school can then teach others. “After graduation, all of us have to find our next stop. I am thinking of JNU or the Jindal School.”

Scholarships from the Tibetan government are from those scoring 60 per cent and above. If someone gets marks above 80 per cent, another 7,000 is added. “Financial aid is there but limited and you are not left with much for additional expenses after paying for food and transportation. But we all try to help each other. There are Tibetan people with money who sponsor students.” Tashi also works to support himself, helping organise tours when he has time to spare.

In the same hostel lives Phurbu Tsetan, a second year student of English literature in Ramjas College, Delhi University. Her birthplace is Kollegal in Karnataka. Right after she passed out of the Convent of Jesus and Mary in Dehradun and started preparing to come to Delhi, she heard news of racial attacks on people from the north-east. “Since we look alike I was afraid. My senior reassured me that while the news is correct the media also exaggerates.” Soon she was explaining to locals that she was not from the north-east, and where Tibet is. “In the beginning I didn’t get this hostel as I am not from one of the Tibetan schools. When I was looking for a house, I was asked for huge security deposits that other Indians did not have to pay.” Like for most other women, traveling in Delhi is not stress free for Phurbu, though she felt less afraid in Dehradun and even more comfortable in Karnataka. For vacations, she prefers to go to places around Bangalore. She says India is an evolving country and she understands that sometimes misunderstandings and discrimination can happen. “But one student had some really bad experiences here. She was filling someone's survey and wrote that Indians are fake. I was shocked as I found it rude. She then agreed to write that Indians are mostly nice but rude at times. Actually because of what Tibetans have faced they're close knit. So probably college friendships where you just hang out and go back home seemed fake to her.”

Phurbu herself has friends from different places. “One is from Arunachal and we definitely share more solidarity.” Phurbu, like many Tibetans, closely follows the teachings of Dalai Lama. “His Holiness says our culture is all we have right now. So we have to be attentive to it. We observe each festival with equal fervour. On our national day, I wear our traditional dress.” The most anticipated occasion is Losar, the Tibetan new year. Dalai Lama’s birthday and the day he received the Nobel Prize are important.

Talking more about her culture, Phurbu says, “Tibetan parents take a lot of risks. They send kids to boarding schools at a young age. They believe they will get prepared to face the world. When I was in the sixth grade I travelled to Bangalore alone. There is no pressure on us related to marriage. Though my mother was too lazy to be romantic, I can choose my partner. I would surely like to but I am not sure if my mother would agree to my being with someone from another nationality. When I went to a Christian school, she was really scared and made doubly sure that I knew my own religion closely.” In Dehradun, Phurbu shares, there are hostels run by NGOs especially for children from Nepal, Tibet and India, funded by people in the UK.

She does not shy away from direct political participation though she says she stays away from college elections because of the fights and vandalism involved. She participates in protests for Tibet though as a Dalai Lama follower, she sticks to the stand of demanding autonomy for her country, rather than a complete break from China. Another youth, Tsering Wangmo, a Delhi University graduate, speaks similarly, “I go for gatherings that do not trigger anger against the Chinese because that can antagonise them further and harm the Tibetans living with them. I prefer peace marches.”

Phurbu happily recalls, “On 10 March, the Tibetan Uprising Day, we went around with banners to the university and to Madhuban Chowk and spoke to people, informed them about our struggle. They gave us our full support. Indians have suffered under the British rule; they can empathise with us.”

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When seen together with the experiences of Africans living in Delhi and a spate of attacks on them, the accounts of Tibetans tell of relatively smoother adjustment stories. They might not be targeted because of their colour, but they are still easily segregated based on their looks. Lack of knowledge about Tibet-from its geographical location to its political status-are still common challenges they have to face. But at least till the Tibet-China tensions are resolved, the Tibteans in Delhi seem to have accepted it as their home for a brief period in time and made their peace with it.

First published in The Equator Line, Jul-Sep, 2017.