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Exile to Eden: The Indian Express
A year after they were shifted to a school in Maharashtra, children of the Gujarat riots learn to live with their violent past Raigad, Nov 30: The sun sinks into the choppy Arabian Sea, ushering in twilight over the Konkan coastline.
Raigad, Nov 30: The sun sinks into the choppy Arabian Sea, ushering in twilight over the Konkan coastline. A mile off a quiet beach in Raigad, Maharashtra, on the fringes of a village called Borli, forty four girls swing into action: slicing apples and sweet limes, setting out steel plates on wooden tables and stirring plastic buckets brimming with rose water.
When dinner is served and all the girls are seated, the hostel matron’s husband, Mohammed Hussain, holds up his watch, pauses for a few moments and says: ‘‘Eat.’’ A group of seventy seven boys, led by their warden, Kazi Habibuddin, follow the same routine in their lodge, located 300 feet from the girls’ hostel. A sonorous voice resonates from the local mosque, breaking the dense rural silence.
This iftaar ceremony is far from ordinary: the young boarders are victims of the communal violence that ravaged Gujarat last February. Most of their houses were looted, doused with kerosene and set alight; some had witnessed deadly attacks on their relatives; a handful bore burn scars.
For nine months the children were housed in squalid relief camps in Gujarat. Then a year ago, Mumbai surgeon A.R. Undre, relocated a group of seventy to his school in Borli, about 5 hours south of Mumbai. And a month later, another fifty children were added to the thousand-student institution.
Every child bears a tale of tragedy, but the younger ones seem less affected. ‘‘I’m not sad anymore,’’ says bubbly Alfaraz, 10, who lost eight members of her family to the riots. She adds, ‘‘My elder sisters take care of me now,’’ alluding to the hostel’s social dynamic, where the elder boarders watch over the younger ones—plaiting hair, ironing clothes and administering mild discipline.
‘‘When they first came here, the girls used to be like crows—always grabbing things,’’ says warden Fatima Sultan, who runs the women’s hostel. ‘‘Stealing was rampant and I had to keep the kitchen locked.’’ Today, Sultan says if she leaves a bowl of fruit on the dining table it wont be touched: the children know it will come to them.
Yet there was a lengthy period of adjustment before the group settled down. Vicious fights broke out over trivialities and there was this constant air of listlessness. ‘‘They had hard, blank stares fixed on their faces; look at them today,’’ says Sultana, gesturing towards a group of sprightly girls wholly absorbed by a translucent crazy ball in the hostel garden.
A similar scene plays out in the boy’s lodge, a mansion-size, unpainted structure, which overlooks the village’s sandy playground. Every afternoon after school, most of the borders hurry back home to ensure they get a bat, not a ball. Others choose to remain indoors—reading, resting in bed, and letting loose over spirited games of ‘Snakes and Ladders.’
The boys appear healthy, cheerful and friendly. Disagreements rarely turn violent. ‘‘Trust and intimacy has developed,’’ says warden Habibuddin.
So have these young victims of a stained national legacy reconciled themselves with the violent past? The signs after a year are largely positive. But the memories of the ordeal are still vivid.
Each child recalls the three days of siege in painstaking detail. ‘‘Of course I feel bad,’’ says twelve-year-old Mehboob, whose grandfather was torched alive in the toilet and who saw a woman’s hand being sliced off. ‘‘We were eating breakfast and they started stoning the mosque near the house. They had the police with them. We had to flee on foot and hide in an abandoned Hindu bungalow.’’
And for ever-smiling Shabnam, the riot images are too chilling to be erased. ‘‘I was about to be killed, but was rushed away in a rickshaw,’’ says the twelve-year old who witnessed a pregnant women being carved up and burnt. Some children have displayed remarkable maturity and say they’ve come to terms with the event. ‘‘I used to be angry but I’m not anymore,’’ says earnest Azharuddin, 14, who hid as mobs set fire to his mother’s sister, her husband and two children. ‘‘I do get scared and have flashbacks, but I’m glad to be studying here with a chance to make something of my life,’’ he adds.
There wasn’t much protest when the children were shifted to the school last November. Yet one issue loomed large over the move: barring a handful, most in the group had studied in Gujarati and didn’t have a good grasp of English—the medium of instruction in their new school.
‘‘It’s been a tough year,’’ says the school’s principal Abbas Surve, ‘‘Some of them are doing well, but it remains a huge challenge. While teaching mathematics, instructors have to explain the meaning of basic words like ‘‘triangle’’ because there’s no Hindi equivalent.’’ The fallout: ten-year-old Imran spends yet another year in the second standard.
About fifty English-speaking volunteers from four continents including a few Indian metros have visited Borli over the last year to spend time with the children. Yet the value of these interactions were hotly debated. But the children’s English has improved remarkably over the last year—though much of the learning is by rote. ‘‘They’re enthusiastic about speaking the language because they understand its importance,’’ says English teacher Umashankar Devade.
When dinner is served and all the girls are seated, the hostel matron’s husband, Mohammed Hussain, holds up his watch, pauses for a few moments and says: ‘‘Eat.’’ A group of seventy seven boys, led by their warden, Kazi Habibuddin, follow the same routine in their lodge, located 300 feet from the girls’ hostel. A sonorous voice resonates from the local mosque, breaking the dense rural silence.
This iftaar ceremony is far from ordinary: the young boarders are victims of the communal violence that ravaged Gujarat last February. Most of their houses were looted, doused with kerosene and set alight; some had witnessed deadly attacks on their relatives; a handful bore burn scars.
For nine months the children were housed in squalid relief camps in Gujarat. Then a year ago, Mumbai surgeon A.R. Undre, relocated a group of seventy to his school in Borli, about 5 hours south of Mumbai. And a month later, another fifty children were added to the thousand-student institution.
Every child bears a tale of tragedy, but the younger ones seem less affected. ‘‘I’m not sad anymore,’’ says bubbly Alfaraz, 10, who lost eight members of her family to the riots. She adds, ‘‘My elder sisters take care of me now,’’ alluding to the hostel’s social dynamic, where the elder boarders watch over the younger ones—plaiting hair, ironing clothes and administering mild discipline.
‘‘When they first came here, the girls used to be like crows—always grabbing things,’’ says warden Fatima Sultan, who runs the women’s hostel. ‘‘Stealing was rampant and I had to keep the kitchen locked.’’ Today, Sultan says if she leaves a bowl of fruit on the dining table it wont be touched: the children know it will come to them.
Yet there was a lengthy period of adjustment before the group settled down. Vicious fights broke out over trivialities and there was this constant air of listlessness. ‘‘They had hard, blank stares fixed on their faces; look at them today,’’ says Sultana, gesturing towards a group of sprightly girls wholly absorbed by a translucent crazy ball in the hostel garden.
A similar scene plays out in the boy’s lodge, a mansion-size, unpainted structure, which overlooks the village’s sandy playground. Every afternoon after school, most of the borders hurry back home to ensure they get a bat, not a ball. Others choose to remain indoors—reading, resting in bed, and letting loose over spirited games of ‘Snakes and Ladders.’
The boys appear healthy, cheerful and friendly. Disagreements rarely turn violent. ‘‘Trust and intimacy has developed,’’ says warden Habibuddin.
So have these young victims of a stained national legacy reconciled themselves with the violent past? The signs after a year are largely positive. But the memories of the ordeal are still vivid.
Each child recalls the three days of siege in painstaking detail. ‘‘Of course I feel bad,’’ says twelve-year-old Mehboob, whose grandfather was torched alive in the toilet and who saw a woman’s hand being sliced off. ‘‘We were eating breakfast and they started stoning the mosque near the house. They had the police with them. We had to flee on foot and hide in an abandoned Hindu bungalow.’’
And for ever-smiling Shabnam, the riot images are too chilling to be erased. ‘‘I was about to be killed, but was rushed away in a rickshaw,’’ says the twelve-year old who witnessed a pregnant women being carved up and burnt. Some children have displayed remarkable maturity and say they’ve come to terms with the event. ‘‘I used to be angry but I’m not anymore,’’ says earnest Azharuddin, 14, who hid as mobs set fire to his mother’s sister, her husband and two children. ‘‘I do get scared and have flashbacks, but I’m glad to be studying here with a chance to make something of my life,’’ he adds.
There wasn’t much protest when the children were shifted to the school last November. Yet one issue loomed large over the move: barring a handful, most in the group had studied in Gujarati and didn’t have a good grasp of English—the medium of instruction in their new school.
‘‘It’s been a tough year,’’ says the school’s principal Abbas Surve, ‘‘Some of them are doing well, but it remains a huge challenge. While teaching mathematics, instructors have to explain the meaning of basic words like ‘‘triangle’’ because there’s no Hindi equivalent.’’ The fallout: ten-year-old Imran spends yet another year in the second standard.
About fifty English-speaking volunteers from four continents including a few Indian metros have visited Borli over the last year to spend time with the children. Yet the value of these interactions were hotly debated. But the children’s English has improved remarkably over the last year—though much of the learning is by rote. ‘‘They’re enthusiastic about speaking the language because they understand its importance,’’ says English teacher Umashankar Devade.