Byline: Deepa Philipps
India
Climate
change is as real as it gets on the Ghoramara Island which is slowly eroding
into the depths of the Bay of Bengal, reports Deepa Philip
"The
storm that raged last night was the last straw, as waters caused the front wall
to collapse," says his wife. "Thankfully my mother-in-law was not
inside."
The mud house that contained the family's ancestral possessions
lies decimated the coconut fronds that framed its roof, graying under the blaze
of the sun have crumbled inwards like a pack of cards. Old memories die a slow
death as Routh and his family sifts through rotting wood, to pick up anything
remaining of worth.
“We have seen our neighbors drowning in the
water when their house and livestock was washed away,” recollects Feroza Bibi,
mother of Firoz. The water creeps up stealthily on them leaving them hapless.
So what do they do when drowning is inevitable? “We make a grab for the food
items and run towards higher grounds,” she says.
For
the villagers fleeing the inundated swathes of land, houses of relatives or the
local school, turn into makeshift shelters. “We stay at our grandfather or
uncle’s place till the time the new house is built,” says Firoz. His new house,
fifth in succession, is also precariously perched behind a mud wall that also
doubles up as a road for the villagers.
Various
studies have not labelled Ghoramara’s inhabitants as ‘environmental refugees’
but the state nor central governments have budged an inch. It was 2006, when
Pradip Saha, director of Damage Control, an organization based in Delhi, had
released a documentary 'Mean Sea Level' on Ghoramara. “I held a global premiere
in Ghoramara itself, highlighting the plight of the island,” he says. During
his research for the film, he was disconcerted with the government's apathy.
“The islanders are losing land to the sea and left to fend for themselves and
there is no sarkari [governmental]
mechanism is place, it is very odd!” he tells TEHELKA. “The government has to
officially declare it as a 'disaster', if any progress has to be made.”
Historical
past, indeterminate future
Legend
has it that two British brothers were allotted the erstwhile Ghoramara Island
as their zamindaari (revenue
land). Soon, the younger brother came riding on his horse to inspect the
land. After taking a few rounds of the land, he left his horse tied to a tree.
On returning, he found the horse missing and discovered later that it had been
eaten by a tiger. Thus the island infamously got its name as ghora
(horse) mara (killed).
Back
then, the island was home to a post office that was an observation tower in
disguise. With high and thick walls, the post office resembled a fort and was
discreetly used by the ‘Britishers’ to relay information about passing ships.
The post office was among the prime heritage buildings that have disappeared
into the water along with its villages of Baishnabpara, Khasimara, Khasimara
Char, Raipara and Baghpara. The loss of land has meant separation from the
mainland and thus a forced isolation.
Ghoramara
that was once a stone's throw away from Kakdwip located on the mainland now
takes half-an-hour to reach in a ferry. "If you would stand in Ghoramara
and speak, the person standing on Kakdwip could easily hear you," Ram Bari
Maity tells TEHELKA. "Now there is a huge gap with acres of land having
gone into the water."
The
loss is telling. Owing to the gulf created by rising water levels, access to
medical help is also restricted. "It takes over an hour to get a patient
to the nearest hospital on the mainland," says Shahana Bibi as her
daughter clothed in bare minimum clutches at her shoulder. There is one primary
health center in the island that caters to a population of 4284 (Census 2011).
It opens doors till noon, and has medical staff who travel back to their homes
after the allotted window of time.
The
situation is particularly disturbing for women. "In case of pregnancy,
there is no provision in the island for safe childbirth," says Bibi.
"There have been many instances when women have given birth in the ferry
itself." Those desiring to reach the mainland for pre and post-natal care
find themselves at the mercy of ferry drivers. "Many a time, they simply
refuse to ply the ferry. They don't care if we [women] die or live," says
Jaitun Devi angrily. As a mother of
three, she remains occupied in protecting her children from the incessant flow
of water that rushes in. “When the water enters the land, it sweeps over
everything and leaves no room even to keep the children,” she explains.
... story continues with the next post
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