MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

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The road leads you to Dornapal, the biggest relief camp in Chhattisgarh, where victims of Naxal violence and members of Salwa Judum, the civil militia set up by the state government to counter the Maoist rebels, are taking shelter. Thousands of villagers have been living in the camp for nearly three years, wondering if they will ever get back to their homes.

They could return to their villages without informing anyone but that would be choosing certain death. For waiting in the forests are the Naxalites, angry that the villagers, instead of being on their side in their battle against the state, opted to live in camps managed by the government.

The Sunday Express spent 24 hours in the camp to know what this fearful existence has done to the villagers, who now find themselves trapped in a fight where the dead on both the sides are their own people, an existence so fraught with uncertainty that the Supreme Court on March 31 questioned the very grounds for the Salwa Judum’s creation.

Fear stalks the camp at night but recedes with the morning. Living in the camp for nearly three years has somewhat blunted the fear. There is instead a conflicting mix of normality and desperation.

“We are in the middle of nowhere,” says Savlam Aayetu, a 45-year-old Salwa Judum activist. “We have not covered new areas in the last few months because the state Government and the police have stopped backing us. The Government is neither talking to the extremists nor taking the movement forward,” he says.

One of the Salwa Judum’s tactics involved emptying villages in troubled areas in a bid to isolate the Naxalites. Displaced villagers have taken shelter in camps where the Government provides food rations and the security is taken care of by special police officers (SPOs) and official agencies. SPOs are victims of Naxal violence and have been trained and armed by the state to protect these camps.

“Though we are free to move around, we still feel like we are in a prison. We can’t go back because the Naxalites will kill us,” Aayetu says, recalling how the Naxals had put a gun to his head. He had been blindfolded and taken to a local politician and asked, “Is he your God?”

The idea was to instill fear among villagers to stop them from approaching politicians, taking up government jobs, sending their children to school or even voting.

This approach forced villagers to become part of the Salwa Judum but, having joined it, they feel trapped. The movement itself has come under criticism with tales of atrocities committed by activists and reports that people have been arbitrarily evicted. The Supreme Court comment was one more negative for the civil militia.

Living within the confines of the camp has not been easy for the villagers. Only the hope of returning home has kept them going. Activists like Aayetu are so desperate that they think talking to the Naxals is a good idea because it will not only stop the cycle of violence but also help end the conflict.

“Jab tak ye yudh chalega tab tak yahi rahna padega (We will have to camp here till the war lasts),” says 17-year-old Gujja Joga, sounding more cynical than his age.

In the camp, youngsters like Joga are growing in the company of guns-toting SPOs. Rifles and fatigues are a dominating feature in the camp. It’s common to find young children dangerously close to loaded rifles when SPOs are relaxing or listening to music on old transistors.

While activists talk of extreme steps, ordinary villagers have learnt to put fear behind them, at least during the day. They begin their day as early as 4 am and set out in groups for forests near their villages in search of mahua flowers, traditionally used to brew liquor and as a flavouring, and, for many, the only source of cash. It’s only in the third year in the camp that they have mustered the courage to leave its safe perimeters. But they come back by late afternoon or early evening never risking their lives in failing light. When the elders are out, UNICEF volunteers look after children, teaching them alphabets and numbers.

THE camp at Dornapal has residents from over 50 villages. Each village has its share of stories of torture and atrocities to share with the others.

Mannu, 25, a resident of Nagaram remembers how the Naxals would warn them against using tractors. “They do not want even roads. If you asked a question at their meetings, they immediately branded you a police informer.”

Santosh Nayak, among the relatively better-off tribals, has bought a house in Dornapal for Rs 17,000 from owners who did not want to live in the conflict zone. Despite owning the house he qualifies for free ration, electricity and water. He was kidnapped by Naxals from his Kosagoda village and kept in the jungle for days. “I don’t want to go back to the village because they may kill us,” says his father Vasuram. Kosagoda is far from the camp and deep in the forest so the Nayaks harbour no dreams of returning home till normality is restored, though he is not sure when that’ll happen. “There is no freedom here,” says Santosh, admitting that he feels awkward sitting idle.

There are others like Madkam Lachcha, an SPO, who when not manning the makeshift post, dreams of a life in the police force. He is studying for a constable’s examination. “Main aage badhna chahta hoon (I want to move ahead),” the 23-year-old says.

Like him, there are many who want to exchange the camp’s comforts of free ration and no-work to compete in the uncertainties of the outside world.

The Exchange
A barter system is prevalent in the camp thanks to the ration provided by the Government on the first and 15th of every month. The ration includes rice, tuvar dal, oil, potato, onions and salt. Obviously, the villagers need much more. So they approach vendors from nearby villages and trade part of the rations for the commodities they need. The arrangement works well for everyone; villagers who are not part of the camp get cheap rations and camp inmates get a variety of vegetables. They don’t get any cash and have no means to earn money. Devvrat Bairagi, a vegetable vendor from Dubbatota village about 5 km from the camp, sells the rice he gets in barter to other villagers at Rs 8 a kg—a real bargain in times of rising prices. These days the inmates have found another source of cash in mahua, which is linked intrinsically to their lives. It is sold either at a shop run by forest cooperative societies or directly to the traders. They spend hours collecting flowers and sell it for as little as Rs 6 a kilogram. The same villagers have to pay much more when they consume liquor brewed from the flowers.

CLOSER HOME
Polampalli is a small relief camp 13 km from Dornapal. It provides some clues about what the immediate future holds for villagers displaced by the ongoing Naxal violence. The Salwa Judum movement has come to a standstill and neither the villagers nor the administration are willing to predict its future. But by setting up a smaller camp closer to the deserted hamlets, the villagers have moved nearer home.
Set up about a year ago, the camp saw the return of the original residents of Polampalli along with several residents of neighbouring villages. Original residents moved into their intact homes, temporary huts were built for the rest. A company of CRPF and 45 special police officers man this camp. The shift near home has instilled a sense of confidence among villagers.
A few families from Korapad and Palmadgu villages have been brave enough to move to their villages after coming to Polampalli. They come to Polampalli on the 1st and 15th to collect the ration.
A weekly bazaar began in the camp last Monday, another confidence-building measure, which has given once fear-stricken villagers like Markam Dunga some hope. The 22-year-old says he will plough his land before the monsoon. The police say they have no instructions to prevent anyone from returning home but villagers want police camps set up in their villages before even considering moving in.
The administration concedes it’s almost impossible to set up a post in every village. The SPOs were recruited only because the police did not have enough men and resources to take on the ultra-left rebels. Since houses are located at distance from each other the villagers say they find no safety in numbers there unlike the camps where huts huddle close to each other.