In Odisha, some tribals 'test' life after end of reservation

Fixing the road is what Sukumari Soy, 45, says she will do first, if she is elected sarpanch. Just one downpour, and it becomes a liberally muddy stretch between her village called Pokharibhadi, in Odisha’s Mayurbhanj district, and the rest of the world. Not even a cycle can negotiate it at such times. This is an age-old problem that stubbornly remains unresolved.Similarly, Damayanti Kumra, 52 of Nuapada panchayat, in Bolangir district, wants to contest for the sarpanch’s post to “work for the betterment of the people”.Like Soy and Kumra, there are many who are aspiring to take on tribal leadership roles in Odisha’s panchayat elections, which conclude on February 24. They have jumped into the fray, despite being miffed that some of their reserved seats have been done away with, thanks to recent court orders. Several protest marches flagged this issue too. medium89746949Above the din, however, is the question: In these 75 years since Independence, have welfare schemes rolled out by the state helped better the lot of scheduled tribes (STs) in Odisha? Also, is there any merit in the clamour for larger reserved representation, or is it mere political posturing? As is often the case, the responses to these issues are nuanced. Some voices from the ground share their bittersweet views.Durga Singh, 24, a Ho tribal from Gourchandrapur village in Mayurbhanj district, is sceptical. He believes it is usually a contractor who funds the campaign of a candidate he thinks shows promise. When that candidate wins and becomes a sarpanch, they feel beholden to allocate whatever development projects for the panchayat to the same contractor. medium89746978Singh, a graduate who is currently preparing for bank entrance exams, says: “The contractor then does things as per his whims and fancies. He rents machines to get work done at discounted rates but shows photographs of the villagers claiming he has hired them. It’s an easy way for him to pocket money from the government, without paying the locals. So, how do we village folk benefit from whether the sarpanch candidate is a tribal or otherwise?”Kumra realised just how corrupt the system was when she decided to stand for elections but opted out. “Too many people in my village asked for money… whether it was the representatives of the various adivasi communities or puja committees. I withdrew from the fray thinking ‘what will I do by paying you money?’ It is better that I continue working for my own NGO,” she says.Perhaps these are some of the reasons why the Census 2011 data showed that 40.6% of STs live below the poverty line compared to 20.5% among non-tribals.That being said, the belief that tribal leaders will relate better to issues their community grapple with, compared with those from the general category, overrides most other sentiments.“It is via the several social and cultural gatherings of the community that people find it easy to meet and discuss issues of the village with a sarpanch,” says Laxmidhar Singh, a popular tribal leader and co-convener of Indigenous People’s Forum of Odisha. medium89746994Manas Mishra, rights activist and member, Gandhi Peace Foundation, Bhubaneswar, corroborates: “Had there not been reservation, hardly any tribal woman would have even thought of contesting an election. Most of them are inexperienced when they get elected, but over a couple of years, they learn the ropes. It takes time to bring about this shift.”As for the effectiveness of the panchayats, “its powers are often curtailed by block development officers and district magistrates who call the shots, whether it is to do with housing, water supply, etc,” says Singh. Some even go further to say the sarpanch often functions as a rubber stamp of the district administration.No surprises then that the general belief in these areas is: “For every ₹10 the government allocates for us, we get 10 paise.” medium89747191A silver liningIt’s not only gloom and doom though. There is a sunny side too. It is the spurt in literacy brought on by the central and state government sponsored fully-residential school chains such as Ekalavya (for SC and ST children) and Ashram (for ST students).Take 28-year-old Tantra Dharua’s case. His father, an impoverished farmer, died when Dharua was not even a teenager, and it would have been difficult for him to pull through, says this second-year law student, somewhat diffidently. Because he went to an Ashram school, along with 700 other boys, in Manpada village (in Nuapatna district), Dharua feels today he can aspire to do bigger things in life. “I am studying law since there is no lawyer in my community and it is a useful subject to know,” he explains. medium89747218There are others who have gone a step further. They have landed jobs that fetch salaries of ₹9,000-10,000 a month, like 24-year-old Lachaman Balmuchu from Jajpur, who works in the state veterinary department. Some would say it’s low-paying, but for many in these terrains, it’s a high jump.The naysayers, of course, believe Ekalavya and Ashram schools are alienating emotionally-disadvantaged children from their culture; that teaching them in a language other than their mother tongue makes matters worse. As for their academic performance, critics believe even the best students who pass out of these residential schools don’t score more than 60% and can land Class IV government jobs at best.Untitled Carousel 80970320Fresh flavoursIf just lucre isn’t a marker, another happy fallout of education, most agree, has been awareness, leading to a decline in incidences of child marriage and early pregnancy. “Girls would marry at 13 and become mothers at 15, while boys would spend most of the day drinking handia (a locally made drink) and going off to sleep,” says Balmuchu.However, like Balmuchu, who used to cycle 4km to school, there are others who have made the most of welfare schemes that the state has been sending their way. “Today, the average age for marriage has gone up, but boys sometimes get frustrated when they can’t find jobs to support their families,” he says.That’s when the proof-of-the-pudding moment arrives. medium89737838Dole that takes a toll?When getting a job becomes a challenge, some tribal youth change course to come back to farming. It then often becomes a classic case of being caught between a rock and a hard place.“Since they have been away in hostels for over a decade, neither do they have an education that liberates them, nor do they have the native wisdom to do farming. This is especially the case in the districts of Kalahandi and Kandhamal,” says Liby Johnson, executive director, Gram Vikas.A strong voice of dissent about development efforts of the state, Madhumita Ray, lead, gender and social inclusion, Centre for Advocacy and Research, says: “We have not invested enough in agriculture or forests in the last 75 years. Our education system has told tribals they are savages. In fact, a tribal once told me: Give us our land. Give us our forests, water and fish. We won’t need your job reservations.”The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep medium89737830In any case, farming and forests have been problematic issues for tribals for decades. They have been constantly on the edge staving off attempts to displace them because some dam has to be constructed or a mine has to be dug.It was the British who, on May 1, 1865, decreed that forest land is state property. As a result, since most tribals owned land in forests back then, they suddenly had nothing to call their own. Post-Independence, even though there were legislations to give some autonomy over the land around them, forest departments in the states haven’t made matters any better.In fact, locals in Daringbadi, Kandhamal, like Kailash C Dandapat, secretary, Jagruti Anushthan, believe that the Forest Department makes life for the tribals harder.“It is all very vague. Incomplete paperwork gives rise to tribals remaining anxious about land ownership. Add to that the lackadaisical attitude of the state in not putting up boundaries to demarcate areas of operation for individual farmers,” he says.A concerted effort at investing in agriculture is also missing. Very little has been done to provide better irrigation facilities for farmland; rainfed it was, rainfed it is. And farming is usually just for six months. medium89737716Mayurbhanj-based Ramesh Soy, 24, a graduate and civil services aspirant, couldn’t have put it better. “For months, there is not enough water to drink or bathe; where is the question of farming? Just because there are forests around us doesn’t mean there is water,” hr points out.Many throw up their hands as a result. They ditch farming and end up working as migrant labourers in other parts of the country.While the state has floated several welfare schemes for tribals — some good, some ineffective — something that earns them full marks is ensuring food security. Through the public distribution system, the state government has managed to reach tankikiya chaula (rice priced at ₹1 per kg) to every hut in the state.“As long as the people are getting tankikiya chaula, the BJD knows that its vote bank is reserved in Odisha,” says Dandapat.Change for the better is happening. Slowly.(Lead image: Ajaya Behara/Gram Vikas)Untitled Carousel 87702150