'Hunting is tempting'

In Assam, 61 poachers surrendered last month. Their confessions lay bare the workings of an entrenched racket, writes TERESA REHMAN

AS HE SMILES, the sharp lines on his forehead and cheeks stress his tough skin and sturdy grit. Twirling his moustache, Dilli Boro — ‘Veerappan’ to his associates — recalls his quarter-century career as a poacher in Assam’s Manas National Park. He rarely returned without a kill, even though he used only a country-made gun. “Poaching is a sport that calls for passion, determination and courage that comes only with experience,” says Boro, who surrendered with 60 other poachers last month, in an exclusive interview with TEHELKA. “You must know the laws of the jungle, sense animal movement, swim, crawl and climb trees.”The surrender has brought quite a turn in their lives.

The 61 poachers — hailing from villages on the park’s southern boundary — now await rehabilitation. Surrendering before Assam’s autonomous Bodoland Territorial Council (BTC), the poachers admit they took to poaching because they lacked livelihood. There are no townships or factories in the region except a tea estate. The villagers — mostly Bodos, apart from some Assamese, Bengalis and Nepalese — are wage labourers or marginal farmers with few resources. Initially, recalls Boro, hunting took place during religious festivals. But the villagers took to rampant poaching during the 1988-98 tribal agitation for a self-governing Bodoland.

In 1992, UNESCO was forced to name the Manas Park, a tiger reserve since 1973, as a World Heritage Site in danger from militants who devastated infrastructure, looted arms and killed staff. Many jobless educated youths joined the violent agitation and soon careened to a poacher’s life. “We had no infrastructure, healthcare, water supply and irrigation,” says Thaneswar Das, an ex-poacher with roots in the Bodo agitation. “There was no work even as a daily-wage labourer.” Authorities agree that alternative livelihood is the key to keeping these poachers away from killing more wildlife.

“Our first goal is to give them jobs,” says Anindya Swargowary, head of the Manas Tiger Reserve, which is part of the park. “Conservation and development have to go hand in hand.” Indeed, ex-poachers such as Boro can be useful in the anti-poaching campaigns. Hunting since a pre-teen, the nimble-footed Boro, 38, claims to know every stretch and hill of these forests. He knows movements of an unseen animal from the smoke of a snuffed matchstick — “avoid the wind so that the animal doesn’t know where we are” — and can spot the hunter just as easily as the hunted.

Most ex-poachers, who grew up in the forests, would bury their guns at places known only to them. A most ingenious ploy saw the last man in a poaching party drag a leafy branch to erase their barefoot prints. “Sometimes, we even drew tiger paws to mislead the forest guards,” says Muneswar Basumatary. On the hunt, they always carried mosquito repellents and nets, essential medicines including painkillers, ration and drinking water. In his career, Boro poached countless hog deer, and wild bison and buffaloes.

He once killed a one-horned rhinoceros and even a tiger, whose skin he sold for Rs 26,000, a fraction of what the middlemen must have fetched from the final buyer. “I was on a treetop to hunt a wild boar when I saw the tiger eye my prey,” recalls Boro. “I was greedy because a tiger meant more money… Of the two hunters, one had to die.” Most ex-poachers say they avoided big game until their poverty turned acute. “I began poaching in desperation after deer, wild pigs and peacocks ravaged my crop,” says Anukul Chandra Das, 45, who hunted only deer and wild boar to sell as meat. His anxiety grew when the forest department offeredhim only a little hay as compensation after elephants destroyed his house. Once, it hired him as a daily labourer but never paid him.

Soon, Das had killed a tiger, whose skin he sold for a meagre Rs 12,000 because the tail was missing from it. IN FACT, these ex-poachers risked their lives for years only to see the middleman get the lion’s share. Usually a townsman called “Dada” — surrogate term for the middleman — took away the skin, horns, teeth and other parts of the poached animals, while these hunters never found out where their kills were sold or what their prices in the international market were. On occasion, their booty rotted away only because they couldn’t make contact with the middleman in time. A visit to the houses of these surrendered poachers is enough to know that they continue to live in terrible poverty. “I had no school uniform, nothing to eat after school,” says Netra Bahadur Rai, 26, a Nepali who started poaching at age 12. “Poaching gave me food.” Another ex-poacher, Naren Boro, hunted hog deer to sell as meat but could never afford it for his family. Says his wife, Sipini: “I don’t know how a deer’s meat tastes.”
On the other hand, poaching ran up bills, too, such as for hiring help to transport big kills. They also paid protection money to Bodo militants: 4 kg off a big deer; 1 kg off a small one; 20 kg off a buffalo. Happy with the surrender of these expoachers, the forest department is now setting up 31 anti-poaching camps across the Manas Park while encouraging the participation of nearby communities. “We are trying to bridge the gap between us and the local people who feel alienated by our conservation efforts,” says Swargowary. Although there are no specific rehabilitation packages for the moment, authorities plan to give each surrendered poacher Rs 10,000, a rickshaw to some and roofing sheets to some others. Some with farmland may get a bullock cart. “Hunting is tempting,” says Anukul Das plainly. “We might go back to it if we don’t get alternative livelihood.”

From Tehelka Magazine, Vol 5, Issue 13, Dated April 5, 2008

Popular radio music show spreads climate change message

By Teresa Rehman

SHILLONG, India (AlertNet) - Climate change issues are reaching a remote new audience in Meghalaya, a hilly state in northeast India, via 'Mawsawa,' a popular FM radio music show.
'Mawsawa' in the local Khasi language, means a "tone that echoes back," a metaphor for imitation and spoof.

The pioneering show is "basically a spoof on Western music. For instance, a Bryan Adams song is sung in the local language but in the same tune, using traditional musical instruments. And the lyrics would be something to do with the environment and climate change," said Ian Khongmen, the head of 93.5 Red FM radio, the station that hosts the show.

The station, working in cooperation with the state government, is committed to raising awareness about the problems associated with climate change in the area, but is managing it with a new vigour, spiced with humour and drama, listeners say.

Better yet, the show is reaching even small remote villages that have yet to be electrified and do not yet have the luxury of television - places where a battery-powered radio may be the only way of receiving messages on climate change.

REACHING REMOTE AREAS WITH RADIO
"On my tours to remote hamlets, I have seen people listening to FM radio even on their mobile phones. I have seen farmers working and listening to radio. It was then that we decided to tie up with the FM station to spread the message of climate change and other environmental disasters at the grassroots level," said P.S. Nongbri, Meghalaya's deputy conservator of forests.

How effectively is the program reaching rural areas? Last year, when the forest department did a segment for World Wildlife Week in which they broadcast bird calls and asked listeners to identify the birds, "it was only people from interior villages who could answer correctly and win prizes. We were amazed by the reach of the radio," Nongbri said.

Talking about environment issues is an ongoing mission for the FM station. It has developed exclusive characters like Kong Lor (Kong is an endearing term for elder sister), who have become a vehicle for its messages.

"Kong Lor is like the conscience-keeper of the community who talks about the values and tradition which give us a sense of pride. She talks about environmental problems but with a lot of zest and spectacle and manages to strike the right emotional chord among the listeners," said Khongmen, the station head.

The radio station, on the air from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m., last year ran a series of segments aimed at generating awareness about the region's 'sacred groves' - protected forests that are tied up with local religious beliefs and are considered conservation models.

Another set of programs, for Earth Day, focused on the need for tree planting. Disc jockeys regularly make their way to local festivals, and have helped put on street plays on environmental issues in association with local traditional institutions, or 'dorbars'. "Our station is entertainment-based but we try to push in these pertinent issues," said R.J. Ashlyn, a presenter who runs a listener call-in evening show.

Meghalaya has witnessed large-scale deforestation due to illegal and poorly planned coal mining as well as pollution of its water resources by cement and limestone plants. Trees on Nongkhum island, the one of the biggest river islands in the West Khasi hills, are being indiscriminately felled to produce charcoal. "Destruction of catchment areas of main rivers and streams caused by mining is the most pertinent problem in Meghalaya now," Nongbri said.

MUSICIANS JOIN INITIATIVE
The radio initiative has caught on with local musicians with similar environmental interests. Kit Shangpliang, a musician from Shillong, the capital of Meghalaya, has been penning songs on themes including social evils, poverty and terrorism, and now has taken up climate change as well.

His rock band 'Summersalt' regularly focuses on conservation themes, be it conservation of forests or of indigenous culture and values. Songs use indigenous musical instruments of the Khasi people or even traditional kitchen tools turned into instruments.

"We want to look at conservation in a holistic manner. It's encouraging to see radio stations like Red FM talking about climate change," Shangpliang said. The lyrics of one popular Khasi-language song go like this: "Have you given some thought to the destruction? Mother Earth is in shambles, the forests have been felled again and again. Have you thought how the creator would feel? Feel the pain, the sky has to endure." Radio hosts plan to feature the song in some of their programs.

"We are committed to create awareness about climate change," Khongmen said. "We are together in the fight to ensure a cleaner and more secure future for our planet."
ends

Outpost Of Empire

The sleepy capital of Arunachal is now a bustling commercial hub but still gets treated like a protectorate, says TERESA REHMAN

IT’S AN interesting dichotomy, one in which the different facets of Itanagar are well captured. On the one hand, you might well encounter an unlikely pedestrian on the busy streets of the capital of Arunachal Pradesh, someone who looks like an illustration out of an anthropology textbook: A quaint lady from the Apatani tribe, with two huge black circular nose plugs (yaping hullo) and a traditional elongated black tattoo on her forehead (done to make her look unattractive to men from other tribes). On the other hand, you are as likely to find shops, vehicles, big billboards and young people in trendy urban attire: All the accoutrements, in fact, of an emerging commercial hub.

Tucked away in the eastern-most frontier of India, Itanagar is described by old-timers as a ‘cluster of settlements’, which evolved into a bustling mercantile nucleus. Itanagar usually surfaces in the national media only when the Indo-China border issue crops up. But in just five to six years, its character has changed enormously: With department stores, fastfood joints, hotels, apartment blocks and cyber cafes coming up apace. A training institute, eyes firmly fixed on helping local youth get jobs in the hospitality, aviation and IT sectors, has been a big hit with the young.

Earlier, buying patterns were based mostly on the criteria of quality and durability; now, it’s about buying what’s trendy. As average Arunachali urban youth have become more healthconscious, there’s also been a proliferation of gyms and health clubs. A dash of Tibetan culture and cuisine has crept in, with a number of ‘Tibetan refugees’ opening restaurants in Itanagar: Dolma Nawang, a Buddhist from Tawang runs the popular ABC Restaurant. There are also eateries with signboards that advertise the availability of ‘tribal food’.

But if you ask any of the residents of Itanagar about their city’s growth and the visible changes, the one word they use to describe the change is: traffic, traffic and more traffic. They say there was a time when hardly two or three vehicles could be seen on the road at a time. Now, there seems to be no parking space available in the city. Part of the reason for the proliferation of vehicles is easy car loans and the availability of stolen cars at cheap rates. “New notions like peak and lean hours and traffic accidents have become the order of the day,” says Nani Bath, who teaches at the Rajiv Gandhi University at Rono Hills, close to Itanagar.

Geographically, Itanagar’s location is a bit like a see-saw: it slopes down and then rises. The quaint capital at the foothills of the Himalayas came to be known as Itanagar or ‘town of bricks’ after it was declared the state capital in 1972. It’s said that it derives its name from the archaeological remains of the Ita fort, which dates back to the 14th century.

The population has grown exponentially, as people from rural areas come in search of jobs. But urban infrastructure has struggled to absorb this escalating rural migration. Water, sanitation, transport and electricity are under pressure. And there’s a rise in petty crimes like burglary and theft.

The earlier concept of building box-type utilitarian houses has changed: the traditional houses have remained only a symbol. “Now, people are building trendy houses with different architectural designs borrowed from design magazines or big cities. There is a gradual shift to interior designing and outdoor aesthetics,” says Nok Tsering, a government official.

Itanagar is actually an extension of its ‘twin city’ Naharlagun, which is about 10 km away. In fact, Naharlagun was home to important government offices which were later shited to Itanagar.
The population comprises both government servants and traders. But a worrying phenomenon is the rampant encroachment of government land by private parties. The lackadaisical attitude of the authorities has encouraged government servants to even construct personal houses within their government-allotted premises!

RATNADEEPA, A Buddhist monk, feels that this haphazard growth means there is a dearth of open spaces: “There is only one park called the Indira Gandhi Park and two picnic spots (the Zoological Park and the scenic Ganga lake).

Pradip Kumar Behera, editor of The Arunachal Front, a local daily, first came to Itanagar from Delhi in 1983. He recalls: “There were a few shops. Except the Raj Bhawan, there was dense greenery all around. Earlier, wild animals could be easily spotted on the highway.”

Modernity has crept in many other ways into this repository of tribal culture. Traditional attire is now increasingly reserved for festivals and special occasions. Behera says there was a time when a visitor was offered Apong (the country liquor). “These days, people offer tea, coffee and cold drinks,” laughs Behera.

Tourism has immense potential but is yet to be developed. There is a Buddhist temple on top of a hill that was consecrated by the Dalai Lama himself. However, one deterrent is the Inner Line Regulation, initiated by the British, which is still in force: All Indian non-residents need an Inner Line Permit to enter and are prohibited from owning land and fixed assets. As a result, this mountain city remains off the tourist map.

From Tehelka Magazine, Vol 6, Issue 45, Dated November 14, 2009

An author & a trailblazer personality

Teresa Rehman profiles a versatile woman who is intent on making history with her cultural revolution

It is truly awe-inspiring — the manner in which Sheela Barthakur has nurtured and is realising her dream. Founder of the Sadou Asom Lekhika Samaroh Samiti, a close-knit women’s literary organisation, in 1974, the visionary is on a mission to make the women at the grassroots level discover the might of the pen.

“I still have the same verve, the same energy and the same childlike enthusiasm that I had when I initiated the organisation three decades ago,” she says softly. There is, however, no mistaking the intensity and single-mindedness of purpose in that tone.

On what has been an exceptionally long journey, she has spearheaded a “silent cultural revolution” among women. When she had initiated the samiti several years ago, few people understood what she was up to. She recalls an incident in early Seventies, when she had requested the Asam Sahitya Sabha, which was organising a yuva sanmilan, for a few hours’ slot for women. Her plea was turned down.

The movement, which had started with just two members, now has more than 60,000 members in over 208 branches of the organisation all over Assam. It also has branches in Calcutta, Shillong, Delhi and Dimapur.

But is all this work guided by one central philosophy? Yes, she asserts. She refuses to confine herself only to the women writers who have already carved a niche for themselves. “I want a woman even in a remote village to express herself, be it through a poem, a letter, a story or a small speech at a public gathering. I want the woman to discover herself,” says Barthakur.
Her petite looks can be deceptive. As she tucks in the pallu of her mekhela chador and swiftly moves in and out of the pandal, Barthakur issues directions to her fellow members who are aiding her organise the 20th biennial meet of the organisation. The programme was held at Chabua in Tinsukia district recently.

The trailblazer that she is, she has motivated the women in the different branches to initiate their own publications from local financial support. The various units of the samiti work in a democratic manner, which is a unique phenomenon in the country.

It is a labour of love for the women writers. “We treat each other like sisters and we have a sense of mutual obligation. These women come out and participate willingly and take pleasure in their work. They are happy that they have found a platform to express themselves,” says Barthakur.

Born in Charingia village in Jorhat in 1935, she spent a few years of her childhood at Dhaka (now in Bangladesh). Her father, Nabin Sharma, was sent there as an inspector of the tea expansion board in order to popularise the brew. “I have beautiful memories of Dhaka and I still get nostalgic when I think of that place. I remember singing Assamese songs at the convocation of Dhaka University. I used to dance to Nazrulgeeti and Rabindrasangeet,” she recalls.

She owes a lot to her mother Pritilata Devi who was a liberal and broadminded woman. “She was educated at Brahmo Girls School in Calcutta and was, therefore, open to new ideas,” she says.
As a spirited young girl, Sheela loved to sing, dance and play. Despite opposition from family members, she acted in Rupkonwar Jyotiprasad Agarwalla’s famous play Sonit Konwari, when she was a student of J.B. College.

She had also qualified at an audition held by All India Radio at Jorhat Sangeet Vidyalaya. “I had to come to Guwahati for the recording and my family members disapproved of it. I protested and came for the audition,” she says.

The turning point in her life was her meeting with her soulmate, Saranan Barthakur. Her husband, who was a very good dancer himself, was a disciple of Kalaguru Bishnu Rabha.
She shares a wonderful synergy with her husband. “He helps me with all the household chores and is my source of support and inspiration,” she says. She smiles, “My son, too, is ever ready to accompany me to the various seminars and conventions of the samiti with his car and camera.”
After marriage, she came to Tezpur and joined Tezpur High School. A visharad in sitar under Ustad Illias Khan from Bhatkande Sangeet Vidyalaya, Lucknow in 1961, she had also taken lessons in Rabindrasangeet at Vishwa Bharati, Shantiniketan. “I even had my own cultural troupe here and we used to perform dance dramas, ” she recalls.

With her never-say-die spirit, she went on to complete her masters after marriage. In 1991-92, she completed her PhD on Social Change in Assam since Independence with special reference to Sonitpur district. She retired as a lecturer of philosophy from Darrang College in Tezpur.
She was also the founder principal of Gopinath Bordoloi Kanya Mahavidyalaya, the first girls’ college in Tezpur in 1979. She had also conducted several adult education programmes in five villages near Tezpur in 1975.

Since its inception, the samiti now has a long list of accomplishments to its credit and it has become a powerful forum upholding the age-old creative instinct in women. “A writer cannot be created but an atmosphere for intellectual development can be,” she says.

A common meeting ground for its members has been its 19 state-level conferences held so far. In each of these sessions, they try to deal with the socio-economic problems of the women of the area.

Barthakur recalls an unpleasant incident during their session at Barpeta in 1988. “We had gone to the satradhikar of Barpeta satra with a petition to allow women to enter the main temple premises which had been banned since ages. But, the temple authorities had incited a group of women to physically assault us,” she says.

Lekhika, the mouthpiece of the samiti, has helped create many new women writers. Barthakur herself has edited 15 editions of the Lekhika, and has carried and biographies of several women writers who have almost sunk into oblivion. She has also written several short stories and essays.

She has edited the complete works of three eminent women writers — Nalini Bala Devi, Dharmeswari Devi Baruani and Sneha Devi. “It was a difficult enterprise because people till the 19th and even in the 20th century did not think it worthwhile to preserve the works of women writers,” says Borthakur.

Assam chief minister Tarun Gogoi has promised to pay the samiti Rs 5 lakh, which she wants to utilise in instituting an award in the name of the first female filmstar of Assam, Aideo Handique. “Till date, the people of Assam have not accorded her due recognition. Through our samiti, we want to honour the great lady,” says Barthakur.

Taking joy and pride in her work, she is pondering on the idea of encouraging women writing in other regional languages. “This is just the beginning. With the pen as our weapon, we want to reach out to the international fora,” she says. Going by her words, we are sure to hear more of her in the future.
ends

A LITTLE HELP FROM SATHEE

An unusual project for sex workers in guwahati has managed a combination of financial support and health awareness. Teresa Rehman reports

Mamoni Begum's grocery store — a tiny shop by the railway tracks in Guwahati’s Anuradha Colony — caters to the area’s sex workers, providing them their daily rice, dal and other essentials. But Mamoni’s is no ordinary neighbourhood corner shop, for Mamoni, a sex worker herself, is also active with Sathee, a project initiated for Women in Prostitution (WIPs) by the North East Society for the Promotion of Youth and Masses (NESPYM). As a peer educator for Sathee, Mamoni distributes condoms to her customers, provides instruction in their use and explains why it is important to insist that clients use them. Says Chiranjeeb Kakoty, NESPYM director, “The shop has become a place to exchange ideas, and enhance and reinforce the concept of safer sexual practices.”

Mamoni, 28, a sex worker herself, came to Guwahati in hope of finding work as a domestic help but ended up in the flesh trade instead. Her daughter has recently begun going to school, and Mamoni is determined not to let her enter her profession. Of her work with Sathee she says, “I am happy to be helping my friends who have been dragged into this trade. At least they will know how to take care of their health.”

Assam’s WIPs are not an organised group as there are no specific red light areas in the state. These women are exploited, tortured and harassed by the police, by the public and by local toughs. Banks and other recognised financial institutions do not treat them at par with other people, making it impossible for them to save. They are generally not sufficiently conscious of health care requirements, nor do they get enough information on such issues as reproductive health, sanitation, legal rights, redressal and saving. Lacking any knowledge of sexually transmitted diseases (STDs), including HIV/AIDS, they often sell sex without protection.

“Although most WIPs use various contraceptive methods to avoid pregnancy, most of them are unaware that the condom is the only contraceptive method that can prevent pregnancy, STDs and HIV infection all at the same time,” says Kakoty.

NESPYM has been working on issues related to HIV/AIDS since 1990. It introduced the Sathee card in Guwahati in December last year, funding the pilot intervention with its own resources although it has also received support from the Assam State AIDS Control Society (ASACS). The project is intended to help WIPs at the lower end of the socio-economic scale, giving card holders basic groceries at cheaper prices than those in most retail shops on condition that they undergo a health check up once a month. “By selling them grocery items at subsidised rates, we develop a rapport by which we can educate them about safer sexual practices,” says Kakoty. “We are not trying to rehabilitate these women, but to support them in leading a healthier life.”

In its pilot stage, the Sathee card has initially been distributed with the help of peer educators. It carries some medical details of its holder, who will be checked for STDS and other general health problems on a regular basis. If a card holder fails to turn up for a health check-up, she will not get the benefits of the card for the following month.

The main strategies of NESPYM’s AIDS project are: (i) Behaviour change communication, (ii) STD management, (iii) Condom promotion and (iv) Creating and sustaining an enabling environment for the implementation of the previous three strategies.

‘We are trying not to rehabilitate these women, but to help them lead a healthier life,’
says Chiranjeeb KakotyAs part of the AIDS project, a Project Advisory Committee (PAC) has been formed to monitor the progress of the project and to suggest ideas for the improvement of its output. The PAC comprises people from different walks of life: lawyers, educationists, police personnel, social workers and people from the WIP community itself .

At present, the Sathee project has 35 card holders. “Initially they had no sense of collectiveness,” says Jonali Das, the project co-ordinator. “We wanted them to come together so that we can educate them about the hazards posed to their health by their profession. And starting this grocery shop was a novel idea that has really worked.”

Besides attempting to incorporate a component of economic support into its health awareness drive, the Sathee project envisages building up a women’s collective that will be able to think and act as a unified entity in those matters where individual voices are least heard.

Based on the experiences gathered from the pilot intervention and the subsequent availability of financial resources, NESPYM is planning to upscale the intervention in other parts both of the city and of the region as well. “The response has been satisfactory though not overwhelming. At least people have understood the notion of safer sex,” says Kakoty.

July 28 , 2007