Adivasi Movements in India: An Interview with Poet Waharu Sonavane

by PRACHI PATANKAR

Adivasi Ekta Parishad gathering in Rajasthan, India. PHOTO/Satish Londhe

I have known Waharu since I was a little girl growing up in India. I have many fond memories of him and his wife Hirkana. I used to accompany my family to activist conventions and meetings in various parts of our home state, Maharashtra. Waharu’s son Malema, myself, and other kids used to sing social-movement songs with our parents and other community organizers before the start of every meeting, and then play outside as the discussions and strategy sessions continued throughout the day.

The indigenous and tribal identified peoples of India are part of hundreds of diverse tribes, nations, and ethno-linguistic peoples throughout South Asia. Many group themselves together with the umbrella term Adivasi; and many are recognized as Scheduled Tribes (STs) by the Indian government. Together, they number almost 90 million people today, almost 9% of India’s population. The Bhil are one Adivasi people, all together numbering in the millions, rooted in various parts of western India and Pakistan.

Waharu is a Bhil Adivasi, long-time poet and activist. Since the 1970s, he has been organizing for Adivasi self-sufficiency among his community near his hometown in western India. He is a big part of my wonderful childhood growing up among dedicated organizers and activists who made fighting to change the world look like it was fun, exciting, and something everyone should be involved in. The poetry and the songs that came out of this movement are still etched in my memories, and come out of my mouth unthinkingly as remarks to certain circumstances in life.

The problems of Adivasis remain. Many indigenous peoples worldwide face some similar struggles and questions, whether on Turtle Island (North America), in Latin America, Australia, and elsewhere. The word ‘occupy’ has raised discussions and debates in many places in the past year; Waharu is also talking about occupying and reoccupying, claiming and reclaiming – land, culture, values. In this interview, I also wanted to learn the changes that occurred in his perspective, from the time he named his son “Malema” (named for Marx-Lenin-Mao), to the recent work of the Adivasi Ekta Parishad. What shaped those changes, and why?

Stage

We didn’t go to the stage,
nor were we called.
With a wave of the hand
we were shown our place.
There we sat
and were congratulated,
and “they”, standing on the stage,
kept on telling us of our sorrows.
Our sorrows remained ours,
they never became theirs.
When we whispered out doubts
they perked their ears to listen,
and sighing,
tweaking our ears,
told us to shut up,
apologize; or else…

–Waharu Sonavane; translated by Bharat Patankar, Gail Omvedt, and Suhas Paranjape

Prachi Patankar: How did you start working in the Adivasi movement?

Waharu Sonavane: I was born in Shahada, in Nandurbar district of northern Maharashtra. In 1970 when I left school, I came back to Shahada. At that time there was a big drought in Shahada taluka (county). My young brothers and cousins, who should have been in school, had to go to work in the fields. My family wasn’t asking me to do manual labor because I was educated. But I started feeling that I was living off the work of my little siblings and cousins. So one day I started going to work with them. They welcomed the extra income in the household. It was difficult at first, as I wasn’t as used to manual labor as before.

One day when I had finished work and sat down to eat, my aunt said, “Brother, how long can we toil like this? You’re so educated and you’re working like us. Forest plots have just been released. We should get some share in this. Then we can live off our own land like farmers.“

I filled out two forms and went to the Member of Legislative Council. I wandered for eight days trying to get the land. Then someone told me that if you want help there’s a grassroots Adivasi leader who fights for our rights, his name is Ambarsingh. When I went to him, he said, “The community to which you have been born is burning in the fire of exploitation and atrocities. It is shouting, ‘Save us!’ But, the one who has the power to save it is running after employment and position.” That hit me. I said to him, “Look, you don’t think I could work for our people?” Ambarsingh said, “It’s easy to say, but something else to do it. Many people have tried, have stayed on for a month or two and then gone back. Sometimes doing this work for the community, you may remain hungry, get beaten up; sometimes you’ll have to go to jail.” I decided to stay.

Ambarsingh was once away; he was working for the Sarvodaya Mandal, a Gandhian cause. I was staying in his hut and hadn’t eaten for two days. At night there was no oil in the lamp. I was sitting in the dark; it was raining and the rain was falling on me. Then I thought, “I’m also human. A dog even goes to different houses and fills his stomach. I’m going leave.” But then I remembered Ambarsingh saying, “It’s easy to say, but to actually live it is something else.” Since then I’ve been committed to the movement.

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