Why have India’s ultranationalist aspirations made Lakshadweep the unlikely locus of its tourist aspirations and exacerbated tensions with the Maldives? FEATURES The Lakshadweep Gambit AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR Why have India’s ultranationalist aspirations made Lakshadweep the unlikely locus of its tourist aspirations and exacerbated tensions with the Maldives? SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Reportage Lakshadweep Maldives India Nationalism China Foreign Policy Environment Climate Change Islands Lakshadweep archipelago Operation Cactus Mohamed Muizzu Modi Minicoy Tourism Belt and Road Initiative Luxury Tourism Mohamed Nasheed IMF Maldives Monetary Authority Sea Shell Beach Resorts Integrated Island Management Plan Laccadive Maliku Kavaratti Androth Chalo Lakshadweep Amindivi Eco-tourism Turkey Maumoon Abdul Gayoom Infrastructure Diplomatic Relations Malé Maldivian Economy Environmental Disaster Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. DISPATCH Reportage Lakshadweep 29th Mar 2024 Kerala: On 4 January, pictures of Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi snorkeling in Lakshadweep hit social media. The pictures were accompanied by his invitation “for those who wish to embrace the adventurer in them, Lakshadweep has to be on your list,” and incited a cascade of unanticipated events in the Indian archipelago of 36 islands lying to the west of India’s southwestern coast, in the Laccadive Sea between the Arabian Sea to and the Bay of Bengal. The photos triggered a surge in Google searches unseen in 20 years. Maldivian ministers in Malé, a mere 900 kilometres southwest of Lakshadweep, were alarmed. A few vented against Modi on social media. Hassan Zihan, Mariyam Shiuna, and Malsha Shareef, all deputy ministers, were suspended for the social media posts they made against Modi. Maldivian ministers have been sacked for lesser blunders, however, the president has chosen to keep them on government payroll following a temporary suspension. At a time when the Israeli-Palestinian conflict had escalated to levels previously unseen following the Hamas-led terror attacks in October 2023 and in the wider context of Israeli settler violence in the West Bank, Shiuna pointed out India’s ties with Israel. Other public officials joined in and said that Modi’s visit to Lakshadweep was aimed at undermining Maldives’ luxury tourism industry, which prides itself on its secluded pristine beaches. Indian travel and tourism agencies and celebrities added fuel to the controversy by using hashtags #MaldivesOut and #ExploreIndianIslands. In January, Maldivian President Mohamed Muizzu broke with tradition and prioritized visits to Turkey and China, flouting India's “ first-visit ” protocol. He flew to China, signed 20 deals , secured a massive 1000 crore aid package, and upon his return, urged India to withdraw its 80-member army contingent stationed in the Maldives by 15 March. The first well-known Indian presence in the Maldives was in response to the 1988 coup, under Operation Cactus , following a request from then-president Maumoon Abdul Gayoom, which protected the Maldives from Sri Lankan militants. There were 77 Indian officers stationed in Maldives since 2010 when the Indian government gifted two helicopters and a Dornier aircraft. Recent news suggests the first batch of Indian troops, some 25 soldiers, have already left the island country. In short, Modi’s Lakshadweep pictures created something of a diplomatic crisis that could significantly reshape Indian and Maldivian relations. Muizzu’s moves while in power have signalled a subtle but important shift in Maldivian foreign policy, with China gaining significant ground and India's traditional influence facing a challenge. But as diplomatic tensions between India and the Maldives have simmered, Muizzu’s deals with China, aimed at turbocharging tourism through large-scale construction projects and marketing to new countries, have raised crucial questions about the fragile archipelago’s environmental sustainability. Lakshadweep is similarly threatened—and if Modi’s agenda is realized, also poses a threat to the tourism sector pivotal to the Maldivian economy. Swallowed By the Ocean While Maldives-China 20-point MoU cooperation in disaster management and green and low-carbon sounds positive, deepening blue economy cooperation and accelerating the Belt and Road initiative raises serious concerns for the low-lying island country. In late 2021, highlighting the Maldives’ extreme environmental vulnerability, Aminath Shauna, the former environment and climate change minister noted, in an interview with the International Monetary Fund (IMF), that a staggering 80% of the country's islands sit less than a meter above sea level, over 90 percent of the islands report flooding annually, 97 percent are reporting shoreline erosion. “Fifty percent of all our housing structures are within just 100 meters of the coastline. So most really cannot withstand tidal floods, let alone tsunamis. Really, everything is at stake,” she had said. In 2008, concerned about the rising sea levels threatening the Maldives, then-President Mohamed Nasheed proposed relocation to neighbouring countries. However, in comparison, the current president’s plans differ greatly. He envisions reclaiming land, building elevated islands, and fortifying them. A report from the Economic Society of New Delhi-based Shri Ram College of Commerce reveals how extensive extraction for development disrupts beaches, harming marine life, compromising conservation for commerce, fuelling rapid biodiversity loss, around 21 percent of daily waste comes from tourists, polluting water and endangering health and untreated sewage and depletion threaten freshwater resources. But tourism continues to be integral to the Maldives economy, with growth in the sector in 2022 exceeding pre-pandemic levels with a remarkable 13.9% growth, outpacing even optimistic forecasts, fuelled by pent-up demand from both European and Asian tourists. Indeed, tourist arrivals and revenue in the Maldives have rebounded sharply, with total receipts soaring by 28% from $3.5 billion in 2021 to an estimated $4.5 billion in 2022. Fascinatingly, leading the charge was the recent upsurge in Indian travellers , some of them prominent Bollywood stars, with 209,198 visiting the island paradise in 2023. Close behind were 209,146 Russian visitors, followed by 187,118 Chinese tourists ranking third. According to the Maldives Monetary Authority, fuelled by a booming tourism sector, Maldives’ total government revenue surged 38 percent to USD 1.82 billion in 2022, outpacing both tax and non-tax revenue hikes. Financial figures show strong tourism recovery in the Maldives, raising concerns about its impact on the region's fragile ecosystem. However, the nation's latest partnerships, especially with China, may offer opportunities for balancing economic growth with environmental protection. Chalo Lakshadweep Can India reasonably pitch in Lakshadweep as a competitor for Maldives? While the idea of Lakshadweep as a competitor to the Maldives might be tempting, environmental concerns raise serious doubts about its feasibility. Lakshadweep’s environmental fragility, limited infrastructure, and local concerns cannot be ignored. A fresh study paints a grim picture for the Lakshadweep Islands, revealing that all of them are facing significant threats from rising sea levels, regardless of future emission scenarios. This marks the first time climate models have been used to assess potential inundation across the archipelago. The study predicts drastic land loss for smaller islands like Chetlat and Amini, with 60 to 70 percent and 70 to 80 percent of their shorelines vanishing under rising waters. Even larger islands like Minicoy and Kavaratti, including the capital, are not spared, facing potential land loss along 60 percent of their coastlines. The only relatively safe haven appears to be Androth Island, though it too will be impacted. Minicoy , the second largest and southernmost island in Lakshadweep, shares a unique historical connection with the Maldives. Known locally as “Maliku” in the Maldivian-Minicoy language, Minicoy was separated from the Maldives in 1752 by the Ali Rajas of Malabar (Kerala) and remained distinct ever since. The remaining northern islands of Lakshadweep, the Amindivi group, fell under British control much earlier in 1799, following their victory over Tipu Sultan of Mysore (who ruled them from 1787). The Laccadive Islands (southern group) and Minicoy were annexed to the British Empire later, with the suzerainty of Minicoy transferring to the British Indian Empire in 1875. However, the Arakkal House held a trade monopoly over these islands until 1905, when they were fully surrendered to the British. When India gained independence in 1947, the Union Jack continued to fly over the Minicoy lighthouse until 1956, when a representative of the Queen lowered it, marking Minicoy's official integration into the Indian Union. Lakshadweep’s current infrastructure caters to its 60,000 residents and a limited tourist influx. In 2021, the islands welcomed 13,500 tourists, a number that jumped to 22,800 in 2022. While this growth is encouraging, it also strains existing resources. There is only one airline operating flights to Lakshadweep and six ships ferrying people, and any Indian, who is not a native of Lakshadweep, shall have to obtain an entry permit . The reason for this, as per the Lakshadweep Tourism website, is to protect the Indigenous peoples residing there. Following a Supreme Court order in the 2012 case of M/s Sea Shell Beach Resorts v. Union Territory of Lakshadweep and Others, an expert committee led by Justice R.V. Raveendran evaluated the Integrated Island Management Plan (IIMP) for Lakshadweep. The IIMP is a crucial document that outlines the vision and strategies for sustainable development in Lakshadweep. The Supreme Court's order emphasized the need for balancing development with environmental protection in the islands. The Raveendran Committee's report made several recommendations, including, strict adherence to environmental laws and regulations, prioritization of sustainable tourism and eco-friendly practices, protection of the islands' fragile ecosystems and cultural heritage. Having said that, recently, the Lakshadweep administration planned to develop eco-tourism projects in 11 islands in public-private partnerships. NITI Aayog, the Indian government’s policy body, had sought proposals from consultants. The administration of the union territory identified the islands of Bangaram, Thinnakara, Pareli-II, Pareli- III, Chariyam, Kalpitti, Tilakkam, Kavaratti, Perumal par, Viringili island, and Minicoy. Additionally, branded hotels are coming up , while water villas are also on the horizon. However, the one and only parliamentarian from Lakshadweep has already raised his concern over tourism development projects. Talking to the media , he said the “Chalo Lakshadweep” call may not even get off the ground given multiple constraints, including the lack of direct flights and the minuscule number—150—of hotel rooms. “Even if it does, the tourist inflow has to be controlled in view of the fragile ecology of the island that has been propped up by a rulebook that lays down the number of tourists the islands can contain each day,” Mohammad Faizal, the parliamentarian from Lakshadweep, told media. Faizal cited Justice R.V. Raveendran’s suggestions to protect the island. The media quoted him, adding that the island is looking for high-end controlled tourism. Meanwhile, in a phone conversation with SAAG from Androth, the largest island in Lakshadweep, Mohammed Althaf Hussain, a former Panchayath president, discussed the potential benefits and drawbacks of increased tourism focus in the islands. Hussain noted that “pumping more money into tourism development can create job opportunities, help locals diversify their income, boost earnings, and popularize local culture.” However, he also acknowledged environmental concerns, stating, “Like any other place, our islands face environmental challenges due to climate change, including waste management woes.” He concluded by expressing optimism that “with scientific solutions, we can overcome these challenges.” Dr Naveen Namboothri, Trustee and Programme Head at Dakshin Foundation, a non-profit organization dedicated to environmental conservation and sustainable development, shared a note prepared by Lakshadweep Research Collective. This note responds to the draft development plan for the island proposed by the Indian government. The note shared by Naveen, who is part of Lakshadweep Research Collective, states that, the then development plan poses a dangerous threat to Lakshadweep's ecology, community, and culture. The note adds that the plan ignores Lakshadweep's unique ecology and climate vulnerabilities, proposing unsustainable development that endangers reefs and livelihoods. “It grants authorities power to take land and resources, jeopardizing traditional practices and local economies. Proposes a narrow, “fast-track” approach focused on infrastructure and exploitation, neglecting social well-being and ecological integrity,” the note adds. On 1 February, while presenting the interim budget, Indian Finance Minister Nirmala Sitaram, named Lakshadweep. “To address the emerging fervour for domestic tourism, projects for port connectivity, tourism infrastructure, and amenities will be taken up on our islands, including Lakshadweep,” she said . And there are reports that India has proposed a ₹3,600-crore infrastructure upgrade plan for the Lakshadweep islands, aiming to transform them into a tourist hub. Back in 2021, the Lakshadweep administrator was accused of introducing policies that could harm the environment and cultural heritage of the islands. The controversial proposals included a beef ban and restrictions on those contesting in local elections. At the time, India’s opposition leader Rahul Gandhi also raised his concerns. The tensions between India and the Maldives can be attributed to hypernationalism displayed by both state and non-state actors. While Maldivian deputy ministers criticized Prime Minister Modi, Indian social media users fueled the issue with their own brand of hypernationalism and unrealistic expectations regarding Lakshadweep. For India, boycotting the Maldives may well have negative political consequences. Meanwhile, losing the trust of a long-standing strategic partner whose culture is intertwined with its own would be a major detriment for the Maldives. Fueled by budget allocations and amplified by media buzz, India seems intent on making a "Maldives™" out of Lakshadweep, propelling ultra-nationalist sentiments in both countries. This move suggests that India is far from closing the chapter on instigating a previously non-existent tourism rivalry between Lakshadweep and the Maldives. ∎ Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Next Up:

MULTIMEDIA EDITOR Zeeshaan Nabi Zeeshaan Nabi is a composer, producer, educator, frontman of the band Ramooz, and founder of the label Meerakii Music. He is currently based in Delhi. MULTIMEDIA EDITOR WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

· INTERACTIVE Live · New York Zohran Kwame Mamdani on Palestine in 2021 “I really got into organizing through the Palestinian solidarity movement. I co-founded my school's chapter of Students for Justice in Palestine. The same people who used to walk by me in the student union when we were organizing for an academic boycott—those same people have reached out to me since to say they wish they had gotten involved, that they feel differently now. Really, the Black Lives Matter movement opened a lot of people's eyes to the interconnectedness of state violence.” Follow our YouTube channel for updates from past or future events. There is a pervasive and commonly vocalized sense that the dire state of Gaza and the actions of Israel since October 2023 have created an unprecedented level of public support for Palestine. And perhaps the scale of public support—or, more accurately, its endurance—is indeed unprecedented. But in an interview from the SAAG archives held on 5th June 2021, NY State Assemblymember Zohran Kwame Mamdani shared his own feelings as a longtime SJP and DSA organizer for the Palestinian struggle, as well as in his political role, that with the uptick of violence in Gaza in 2021, he found immense positive signs of shift within society, the first instances of prominent politicians being on the backfoot with protesters and organizers, and other instances of what he had previously considered unthinkable. For Mamdani, much of the roots of this uptick in pro-Palestinian sentiment and the delinking of anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism lie in part with the Black Lives Matter movement and the education of society writ large due to mass movements for racial and economic justice over the past decade, and longer. Mamdani and Naib Mian invoke the dichotomy that motivated the event for which they spoke— In Grief, In Solidarity . Mamdani’s sense of how power is and should be wielded, both inside and outside the “halls of power,” as it were, is held simultaneously with how deep the institutional roots between Israel and the US really go, for instance with the links between the NYPD and IDF’s brutal tactics, or most police departments in the US for that matter. This slice from our archive illuminates to a large degree that while change can feel faster than it is, histories of deeply grievous injustices and those of positive change are longer than we perceive them to be. Histories and ideas of collective action are invoked here, too: Mamdani’s idea of solidarity in action—whether deployed over a shipping container or outside a courthouse and wherever it may be—is deeply capacious. When Mamdani says that “we have not yet hit the ceiling of support for Palestinians,” he evokes a sentiment of today. Three years later, we still haven't. SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Live New York Palestine Intifada Gaza Dissent Occupation Israel Apartheid State Power Methods of Resistance Mass Protests Anti-Israel Protests Black Lives Matter Students for Justice in Palestine SJP DSA Democratic Socialists of America Inequality Racial Justice In Grief In Solidarity Power Dynamics IDF NYPD IDF and American Police Departments Police Brutality Political Prisoners Refugees Anti-Zionism Dehumanization Islamophobia Dismantling Oppressive Structures Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 5th Jun 2021 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

The Revolution won’t materialise / out of your mere thoughts. FICTION & POETRY Skulls The Revolution won’t materialise / out of your mere thoughts. K Za Win This is the final poem, dated 23.02.2021, by K Za Win (1982–2021), who was shot dead by Myanmar security forces at a protest in Monywa on 3 March 2021. Revolution will be in bloom only when air, water and earth— all the nutrients are in agreement. Before the Revolution opened out, a bullet blew someone’s brains out, out on the street. Did that skull have a message for you? Faced with the devil is this or that statement relevant? In the dharma of dha you can’t just wave the sword. Step forward and cut them down! The Revolution won’t materialise out of your mere thoughts. Like blood, one must rise. Don’t ever waver again! The fuse of the Revolution is either you or myself! First published in Adi Magazine , Summer 2021, t his poem appeared in Picking Off New Shoots Will Not Stop the Spring: Witness Poems and Essays from Burma/Myanmar 1988-2021 , edited by Ko Ko Thett and Brian Haman, and published by Gaudy Boy in North America, Balestier Press in the UK, and Ethos Books in Singapore. This is the final poem, dated 23.02.2021, by K Za Win (1982–2021), who was shot dead by Myanmar security forces at a protest in Monywa on 3 March 2021. Revolution will be in bloom only when air, water and earth— all the nutrients are in agreement. Before the Revolution opened out, a bullet blew someone’s brains out, out on the street. Did that skull have a message for you? Faced with the devil is this or that statement relevant? In the dharma of dha you can’t just wave the sword. Step forward and cut them down! The Revolution won’t materialise out of your mere thoughts. Like blood, one must rise. Don’t ever waver again! The fuse of the Revolution is either you or myself! First published in Adi Magazine , Summer 2021, t his poem appeared in Picking Off New Shoots Will Not Stop the Spring: Witness Poems and Essays from Burma/Myanmar 1988-2021 , edited by Ko Ko Thett and Brian Haman, and published by Gaudy Boy in North America, Balestier Press in the UK, and Ethos Books in Singapore. SUB-HEAD ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Shebani Rao A Freelancer's Guide to Decision-Making "Skulls" by Hafsa Ashfaq. Mixed-media, digital illustration & acrylic on paper (2023). SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Poetry Myanmar Military Coup Dissident Writers Revolution Spring Revolution Pogroms Picking Prison Incarceration Military Crackdown Politics of Art Adi Magazine Monywa Posthumous Burma Histories of Revolutionary Politics K ZA WIN (1982-2021) was a land rights activist and a Burmese language teacher in addition to a poet. In 2015, he marched with students along the 350 mile route from Mandalay to Yangon for education reforms until the rally was shut down near Yangon and he along with most of the student leaders were arrested and jailed. He spent a year and one month in prison, after which he published his best-known work, a collection of long-form poems, My Reply to Ramon . In the 2020 election, he said he didn’t vote for the National League for Democracy, whose policies he was very critical of, but when the NLD won by a landslide and an election fraud was alleged as an excuse for the 2021 military coup, he was on the frontlines of the anti-coup protests. He was shot dead by Myanmar security forces at a protest in Monywa on 3 March 2021. 4 Apr 2023 Poetry Myanmar 4th Apr 2023 To Posterity Paweł Wargan 30th Apr In the Yoma Foothills Tun Lin Soe 26th Feb Whose Footfall is Loudest? Thawda Aye Lei 24th Feb Mahrang Baloch's Struggle Against Enforced Disappearances Shah Meer Baloch 18th Feb Discourses on Kashmir Huma Dar · Hilal Mir · Ather Zia 24th Oct On That Note:

JOURNALIST Marissa Carruthers MARISSA CARRUTHERS is a British journalist of 15 years, who relocated to Cambodia almost six years ago. She writes about lifestyle, travel and culture across Southeast Asia and has been contributing to The Post for the last five years. JOURNALIST WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

Following the collapse of Myanmar’s healthcare infrastructure after the 2021 coup and India’s sudden suspension of free movement protocols in 2024, even the most basic access to medical care has become a perilous and expensive endeavor for many Burmese living in Mizoram-Myanmar border regions. As Indian authorities invoke criminal allegations against those seeking care for border security, tens of thousands have been denied essential services, and the burden on Myanmar’s remaining hospitals is further intensifying. THE VERTICAL LIFE ON LINE AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR Following the collapse of Myanmar’s healthcare infrastructure after the 2021 coup and India’s sudden suspension of free movement protocols in 2024, even the most basic access to medical care has become a perilous and expensive endeavor for many Burmese living in Mizoram-Myanmar border regions. As Indian authorities invoke criminal allegations against those seeking care for border security, tens of thousands have been denied essential services, and the burden on Myanmar’s remaining hospitals is further intensifying. SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Photo-Essay Mizoram India 2024 Indian General Election Myanmar Health Crisis Health Maternal Health Border & Rule Borders Politics of Ethnic Identity Ethnic Division Zo Mizo Chin state Free Movement Regime Médecins Sans Frontières Freedom of Movement Christianity Rikhawdar Burma Chin Hills Healthcare State Repression Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. DISPATCH Photo-Essay Mizoram 27th Jul 2025 Since the violent coup d’état in 2021, Myanmar’s healthcare system has nearly collapsed under the weight of political repression, worker exodus, and escalating conflict. The result is that what was once a robust public service has been transformed into fragmented emergency care provided largely by NGOs such as Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF). Field reports from MSF starkly document what international bodies like the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, UN Special Rapporteur, and Associated Press have confirmed: hospitals shuttered, key disease programs disrupted, and millions left without reliable care. On the other hand, in forcibly returning vulnerable individuals to Myanmar without healthcare safeguards and under the shadow of rape accusations, Indian authorities violate international non-refoulement obligations while also inflicting profound harm on those already under physical and psychological duress. Amnesty warns that this practice “threatens to intensify the health crisis” for Burmese refugees, who find themselves trapped between persecution at home and denial of asylum with healthcare in India. Burmese refugee attempts to cross Tuai river for emergency medical treatment near Zokhawthar village in Mizoram, India. Courtesy of the author. A quiet yet complex world unfolds in the lush hills and deep valleys where Mizoram, in India, meets Chin State, Myanmar. While the official border stretches for 510KM, the boundary feels more like a line on a map than a real division in practice: villages often straddle both sides, and families share bloodlines across nations. The military-led coup of February 2021 brought with it the migration of thousands of people from Chin State, who sought refuge from violence and persecution in Mizoram. The people on both sides are predominantly from the Zo ethnic group , which includes Mizos in India and Chin in Myanmar. They speak related languages, share customs, and follow similar Christian beliefs. This has created a strong cultural bond, even in the face of political borders. Marriages, festivals, and trade are conducted informally across the border. Despite the Indian federal government’s cautious stance, the Mizoram state government and its people have welcomed the refugees on humanitarian grounds, housing them in makeshift camps and local homes. This has created a quiet tension between the Indian central government and the Mizoram state leadership. The Tuai River, a former key crossing point between Myanmar and India, is pictured near Zokhawthar village. Its significance waned after India suspended the Free Movement Regime (FMR) in 2024, which had allowed border residents to travel visa-free up to 16 kilometers into the neighboring country for 72 hours. Courtesy of the author. In Rikhawdar, a border town in western Myanmar, 52-year-old Thangi experiences first-hand the repercussions of disrupted healthcare and movement. Each month, she embarks on a grueling journey from her home in Rikhawdar to Zokhtwar, a distance of nearly 80 miles, just to get a medical checkup. The trip costs her nearly 70,000 kyats — about $22, a considerable sum in a region ravaged by conflict. Still, for Thangi, the opportunity to get a medical checkup and to hear her husband’s and son’s voices on the other end of a Facebook Messenger call is priceless. This is her small comfort in an otherwise onerous situation. She looks out of a tiny window in a home stay, facing the heavily guarded border with India. Once a key trading post and a vital escape route for those seeking refuge from the war, the border is now completely sealed off. 52-year-old Thangali experiences first-hand repercussions of disrupted healthcare and movement. Courtesy of the author. The closure of the border has also made it impossible for Thangali, a 28-year-old rebel fighter from the People’s Defense Forces, to get a crucial MRI scan at a hospital in Aizawl, India. Thangali, who was injured during a night ambush whilst fighting against the Junta forces, used to travel to India, almost 200 kilometres because there is nowhere within reach in Myanmar that has a functioning hospital offering the advanced services he needs. “We used to cross the border to get the care we needed,” Thangali said the next day, his voice weary but steady. “But now it’s too dangerous. With the border closed, we’re trapped—cut off from help. The treatment that once gave us hope is now out of reach, and we’re left to suffer in silence.” The sudden termination of the Free Movement Regime (FMR), which allowed for cross-border access to essential services between Mizoram in India and the border areas of Myanmar, has plunged his home township of Kale into a healthcare crisis. Kale Township connects central Myanmar to the Indian border through the Chin Hills, making it a key corridor for both humanitarian aid and displacement movements. It was in the lead-up to February’s national elections that the Indian government decided to end FMR, allegedly to address security concerns . Unfortunately, it has instead largely just stranded thousands of people and left them in urgent need of medical attention . "The closure of the border has dealt a heavy blow to our community," said Dr. Lalaramzaua, the only doctor at the RHI Hospital. "We're struggling to handle numerous cases with very limited resources. We rely on our neighbours in Mizoram for supplies and medication. With the border now closed, our ability to provide the care we need is severely compromised. "In several documented cases , including over 38 individuals deported in June 2024 from Moreh, local authorities reportedly used allegations of rape and other charges—without due process—to justify forced returns.” Amnesty International warns that this conflation of unverified crime allegations with border enforcement effectively bars these refugees from seeking vital healthcare in India, particularly for reproductive and mental health. Malsawm Puia lives in Kale township, on the border between India and Myanmar. He suffers from blood cancer. Malsawm was being treated at a hospital in the Indian state of Mizoram, but the Indian government’s decision to terminate a free movement agreement could mean a potential death sentence for the 28-year-old and dozens like him. Courtesy of the author. Among those severely impacted is Malsawm Puia, a 28-year-old from Kale township in Myanmar, battling blood cancer. Before the border closure, Malsawm Puia received treatment in Mizoram. With the end of the free movement agreement, he now faces an uncertain future as he is unable to access the necessary medical care. "The decision by the Indian government could be a death sentence for many of us," said Malsawm Puia's mother, who accompanied him to the hospital. Corpal Chanchu 23, stays in Kale township of Myanmar. Corpral got injured while fighting with the Myanmar forces last month. Courtesy of the author. Lalremtluanga, a 28-year-old rebel fighter, was injured in January during a mission. Initially treated in Aizawl's Greenwood Hospital, he had to leave due to worsening conditions and was then treated at the RHI Hospital. His condition, worsened by a broken leg and concerns about infection, makes it even more urgent to receive cross-border medical support. "The situation is dire," said Lalremtluanga. "We lack proper healthcare and medication here. The border closure has put us in a difficult position." The sudden end of the FMR and the ongoing construction of border fences have left nearly 100,000 residents of Kale township struggling with a failing healthcare system. The only hospital, already stretched thin by the ongoing conflict and injuries from the unrest, now faces an unprecedented challenge in providing care due to a severe shortage of medical supplies and facilities. "We have pregnant women and cancer patients here," Dr. Lalaramzaua said. "The lack of facilities means I can only treat basic conditions. The situation is heartbreaking, and we are doing everything we can with the limited resources available." Enok, a farmer in Kale township, gave birth to her fourth child at home with the help of a midwife. She considers herself lucky for managing a safe delivery amid the raging conflict in the region. Unable to travel to the hospital for a medical check-up, Enok still can’t obtain postnatal supplements and has to subsist on plain rice. Courtesy of the author. In terms of maternal health, women face perilous childbirths in Myanmar. Enok, a 38-year-old farmer in Kale township, gave birth to her fourth child at home with the help of a midwife. She considers herself lucky for managing a safe delivery amid the raging conflict in the region. Unable to travel to the hospital for a medical check-up, Enok still can’t obtain postnatal supplements and has to subsist on plain rice. “I can’t get enough sleep,” Enok, who used a pseudonym for security reasons, related, “People are so tired because they can’t sleep.” ∎ Civilians and fighters seek treatment inside the RHI Hospital. According to Insecurity Insight, a nonprofit collecting data on conflicts worldwide, nearly 1,200 attacks on healthcare workers and facilities have occurred in Myanmar since the junta seized power in February 2021. Courtesy of the author. Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Next Up:

ARTIST Tara Anand TARA ANAND is an illustrator and visual artist from Bombay, currently based in New York. ARTIST WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

· COMMUNITY Live · Brooklyn “Apertures” with the Vagabonds Trio A live performance for the launch of SAAG's Volume 2, also celebrating the release of Rajna Swaminathan's new record “Apertures” at the Soapbox Gallery in Brooklyn. Swaminathan (mrudangam/vocals) performed as part of the Vagabonds trio with Ganavya (vocals) and Utsav Lal (piano). A live performance by experimental Rajna Swaminathan, Ganavya & Utsav Lal. On May 12th, 2023, SAAG hosted a launch event for Vol. 2 at the Soapbox Gallery in Brooklyn, for which we were delighted to present the experimental and deeply moving musical compositions of the Vagabonds Trio: Rajna Swaminathan (mrudangam/voice), Ganavya (voice), and Utsav Lal (piano) who we had the pleasure of collaborating with a second time after his opening performance for In Grief, In Solidarity . They were joined partway by Miles Okazaki (guitar). To showcase musicians with such incredible musical range, a commitment to radicalism and social justice as expressed in the lyricism and melodies, and a deep rigor and discipline with their craft, was a true honor. We hope you enjoy the recording of the live event and the improvisational way it shifted from the respective discographies of each member of the trio, shifting seamlessly from several languages, including Tamil, English, Urdu, and more. Most of all, the performance celebrates the release of Rajna Swaminathan's new album Apertures (Ropeadope, Apr 28th), available to buy or stream now . SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Live Brooklyn Experimental Music Jazz mrudangam Rajna Swaminathan Apertures Ganavya Utsav Lal Launch Event Contemporary Music Ropeadope Miles Okazaki Event Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 19th May 2023 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

ADVISORY EDITOR Tisya Mavuram Tisya Mavuram is currently the PR specialist for the American Prospect. She is a writer and organizer, previously a digital organizer at Act On Mass , a former staffer for Elizabeth Warren, and contributor at Data for Progress. She is based in Brooklyn. ADVISORY EDITOR WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

LITERARY SCHOLAR Aneil Rallin ANEIL RALLIN grew up in Bombay, lives in Los Angeles, and does not drive. He is the author of Dreads and Open Mouths: Living/Teaching/Writing Queerly , co-editor of the “queer and now” special issue of the journal The Writing Instructor, and a scholar of Rhetoric, English, and Literary Studies. He has held tenure-track appointments at Soka University of America, York University in Toronto, and California State University, San Marcos. LITERARY SCHOLAR WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

As Pakistan's militarized disappearance of everyday Baloch civilians continues, the vitality of the community in the age of social media has come to be preserved through “dossiers of memory”—online archives housed in tweet threads and on Facebook groups. These archives are tools of resistance—declarative visual pleas to local and global audiences that affirm the presence of the disappeared Baloch and connect their struggles to worldwide movements against enforced disappearances. As Pakistan's militarized disappearance of everyday Baloch civilians continues, the vitality of the community in the age of social media has come to be preserved through “dossiers of memory”—online archives housed in tweet threads and on Facebook groups. These archives are tools of resistance—declarative visual pleas to local and global audiences that affirm the presence of the disappeared Baloch and connect their struggles to worldwide movements against enforced disappearances. Sameen Agha, My House is on Fire (2021). Marble & mixed media on canvas. Artist Balochistan Noor Bakhsh · Qasum Faraz · Sajid Hussain 5 Mar 2025 th · THE VERTICAL REPORTAGE · LOCATION Who is Next? “Now that I have cleaned the dust from my son’s photograph, where should I keep it to find some relief? Wherever I place it, I feel as though the photograph is looking at me and talking to me.” These are Nako (Uncle) Mayar’s words, shared in a Facebook post on 19 December 2023. Nako Mayar first caught public attention when his photographs and videos went viral during a sit-in protest in Turbat , held against the extrajudicial killing of Balach Mola Bakhsh by the Counter-Terrorism Department (CTD) in November 2023. He was later seen participating in the “ Long March against Baloch genocide ” to Islamabad, organized by the Baloch Yakjehti Committee. The public were deeply moved by the sight of this elderly man holding a picture, crying, cursing, lamenting, and pleading—showing the photograph to everyone who visited the sit-in or sat near him to express solidarity. “Look how handsome my son is”, he would say. These visuals of Nako Mayar were shared widely on Facebook and Twitter, making Baloch people aware of his plight. Nako Mayar, holding a framed photograph of his disappeared son, Fateh, during a protest. Image courtesy of the author. Nako Mayar hails from Zamuran, a sub-Tehsil of Buleda in district Kech, nearly 70 kilometers south of Turbat city. He spent most of his life as a shepherd, relying on subsistence farming. After the 2006 assassination of Nawab Akbar Khan Bugti during a military operation in Kohlu Dera Bugti—which ignited the current and fifth wave of the Baloch nationalist movement—however, the political situation in the region deteriorated. As military operations intensified in the B-areas (rural areas policed by Levies and Frontier Corps) of Balochistan, Nako Mayar migrated to Tehsil Buleda, district Kech to escape the violence. Buleda, more populated and equipped with slightly better facilities than Zamuran, offered relative safety compared to the isolated, violence-stricken rural areas. Additionally, military operations often targeted remote villages, forcing residents to move toward more concentrated settlements, where they could be easily monitored and controlled. In Buleda, he continued to live a modest life, relying on his goats and sheep. His son, Fateh Mayar, was a diligent student who attended school in the mornings and taught English at a local language institute in the evenings. Fateh earned his pocket money from teaching. According to Nako Mayar, his son Fateh was forcefully disappeared from Turbat Bazaar on 14 June 2023, when he went for Eid shopping. This incident completely altered Nako Mayar’s life, transforming him from a free and independent shepherd into a political subject. In many of the videos shared on social media, Nako Mayar can be heard saying, “My son is innocent. He doesn’t even have a Computerized National Identity Card (CNIC). He’s still a child, less than 18 years old.” One of the most poignant lines he often repeats while looking at his son’s photograph is, “I am cursed for giving my beloved Fateh an education. If you come back, I will not let you study. If he had been a shepherd, maybe nobody would have cared about him. I am seventy years old, and he is my only son. My son used to go to school in the morning and to the language institute in the evening. He is not involved in any kind of anti-state activities. His records are clear—they can check the school and language institute attendance. If he were involved in any such activities, how could he have taken his relative to the Frontier Corps camp doctors when he was stung by a scorpion? This should not happen to anyone.” He continues, “If the tyrants do not give me justice, may God hold them accountable. Oh God, question these tyrants on my behalf.” The story of Nako Mayar and his son Fateh is not just about personal tragedy but is emblematic of a much larger human rights crisis faced by countless families in Balochistan. Fateh is just one of thousands of young Baloch, predominantly students, who have been forcibly disappeared by Pakistan’s military and paramilitary forces. In his search for justice, Nako Mayar is one of many family members who tirelessly protest outside press clubs, march along roads holding photographs of their missing loved ones and engage in social media campaigns led by political organizations such as the Voice for Baloch Missing Persons (VBMP) and the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC). They demand answers and the safe return of their sons, husbands, and brothers. Central to their struggle are the photos they hold. These photos, once treasured as personal memories, have now become powerful symbols of protest, keeping the stories of the disappeared alive. More than just reminders of the past, these photos break the silence that surrounds enforced disappearances, turning personal grief into a powerful act of public resistance. In Nako Mayar’s case, the photos of his disappeared son, Fateh, have become much more than just images. They represent a father’s grief, his unbreakable resilience, and his refusal to let his son’s story be forgotten. These photos draw people in, making them feel the weight of Fateh’s disappearance and compelling them to engage with his story. The photographs are not just keepsakes. They are reminders of the love families still hold and the pain they endure. Every time Nako lifts Fateh’s image at a protest or posts it online, he is refusing to let his son’s story be silenced. He is fighting against the state’s efforts to erase Fateh’s memory. These photos demand answers, pushing families and communities to keep speaking up for those who no longer have a voice. They push the stories of their loved ones out of the darkness, out of prison cells, and into the public eye. The fight for visibility and justice has also found its way into the digital realm, where families and activists have created virtual archives, to ensure that the stories of the disappeared are neither forgotten nor ignored. Social media platforms have become crucial sites for preserving these memories and amplifying their resistance. The “Voice for Baloch Missing Persons” (VBMP) Facebook page is a digital archive created by families to record the stories of their missing loved ones. Since its formation in 2009, VBMP has documented thousands of cases of enforced disappearances and extrajudicial killings. Faced with a lack of attention from national and international media, families and activists have turned to social media to share their stories and gather support. Photograph from a sit-in camp near the Quetta Press Club. Image courtesy of the Voice for Baloch Missing Persons (VBMP) Facebook page. Beside the Quetta Press Club, VBMP maintains a permanent camp where portraits of the missing are displayed prominently. These photographs, larger than typical ID photos, are arranged in rows. The camp, lined with these images, serves as a powerful reminder of the families’ pain and their relentless demand for justice. Each day, VBMP’s page posts updates, counting the days since its encampment began and marking the time that families have spent waiting for answers. Digital platforms have also become vital tools for connecting the local struggle in Balochistan to a global audience. By using hashtags like #ReleaseAllBalochMissingPersons on digital sites, families are not only reaching out for local support but also appealing to international human rights organizations and diaspora communities. These posts, shared repeatedly, create an online archive of pain and resistance, reinforcing the community’s presence in digital spaces even as they are marginalized in physical ones. Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC) emerged in 2020 after the killing of four-year-old Bramsh Baloch’s mother, allegedly by one of the local death squads believed to be operating under Pakistani military intelligence. This devastating event sparked new waves of protests, with BYC leading numerous demonstrations, including the Long March against Baloch Genocide in 2023 and the Baloch Raji Muchi in 2024 . These events, led by Baloch women, brought attention to the suffering of the community, calling for basic rights and an end to state violence. Every year, on October 4, the family of Shabir Baloch —one of the many forcibly disappeared activists—launches a campaign, demanding answers. For his wife, Zarina Baloch, and his sister, Seema Baloch, the fight is not just for visibility but for recognition, acknowledgment, and the hope of bringing Shabir back home. This year on October 4, Zarina Baloch and Seema Baloch, launched a protest campaign demanding the whereabouts of Shabir Baloch. Zarina, Shabir’s wife, is often seen at protests, both in person and online, holding a placard that reads, “Am I married or a widow?” Zarina Baloch holds a sign with the words, “ Am I married, or a widow? " Image courtesy of X. Shabir Baloch was born in the Labach district of Awaran. He began his political journey as a student activist and was later elected as the Information Secretary of the Baloch Students Organization, Azad chapter (BSO-Azad). The BSO was banned by the Pakistani state as a terrorist organization due to its radical separatist stance on the issue of Baloch liberation. Shabir was arrested by the Frontier Corps while visiting Gwarkop, a village seventy kilometres far from Turbat city in the Kech district, with his wife, Zarina, during a raid on 4 October 2016. Along with Shabir, twenty-four other Baloch were detained in the raid, but all were eventually released—except for Shabir. Since then, his whereabouts remain unknown. “It was less than two years into our marriage when Shabir was abducted,” Zarina says. I still hear our laughter echoing in our bedroom when we were together.” For the past eight years, Zarina and Shabir’s sister, Seema, have been searching for justice. On 12 October 2016, Zarina went to the police station to file a report, but the authorities refused to register her case. In November 2016, she filed a petition in court, hoping to find her husband. Zarina and Seema brought Shabir’s case to the attention of international organizations like Amnesty International and the UN Working Group on Enforced or Involuntary Disappearances, but they received no response from the Pakistani government. The Pakistan Commission of Inquiry on Enforced Disappearances also took up Shabir’s case but failed to recover him. Instead, according to the Human Rights Council of Balochistan (HRCB), the commission intimidated and harassed Shabir’s family during the hearings. On October 4, 2024, HRCB tweeted , “On one occasion, a justice on the commission told Seema not to attend any more hearings. When she insisted, he remarked that if she was not a woman, she would have been kicked out of the office.” This is the struggle faced by every mother, sister, and wife of men, forcibly disappeared in Balochistan. These women protest and march tirelessly, often breaking down mid-speech while demanding answers, overwhelmed by panic attacks and grief. They find themselves navigating complex and indifferent government institutions. When they go to police stations to file their cases, they are refused. When they knock on courts’ doors, they are given endless dates for hearings without resolution. They work to have their loved ones’ names added to the lists of human rights commissions, but nothing changes. Instead, they are met with harassment, intimidating calls from authorities, and false assurances. Each day, the size of their case files grows thicker. With each passing year their hope and determination remain unwavering despite the system’s continued failure to deliver justice. One such file belongs to Saira Baloch—a plastic folder filled with photographs of her brothers, Asif and Rasheed. They were both arrested by Pakistani security forces at Zangi Nawad, a picnic spot in District Noshki, on 31 August 2018. Saira explains that while the security forces initially acknowledged the arrest, they later denied it. It has been six years since, and the family has received no information about the alleged crime, whereabouts, or legal basis for their detention. A folder with images of Asif and Rasheed. Image courtesy of X. Salman Hussain, an anthropologist, describes these files as “dossiers of memory.” It is a personal archive containing photographs, National Identity Cards, First Investigation Reports (FIRs), police complaints, court hearing dates, and handwritten notes from relatives. Personal notes often detail the dates and locations of abductions or provide outlines of speeches that families deliver at protests. The caption of one of Saira’s posts on X captures the essence of these memory dossiers, “Our happy life has been imprisoned first in pictures and then in files. Our wishes, dreams, and desires to live are locked inside this file. Will he (the disappeared) ever be able to come out of these torture cells and files?” T hese personal archives are much more than collections of old photos and documents, they are records of dreams, struggles, and resistance. When families share these photographs alongside their personal notes, they turn the images into powerful reminders of those who are missing, keeping their stories alive. With no physical remains to mourn, they use photographs to fill the space between life and death—where the missing is neither fully gone nor truly present. Sharing these photographs on platforms like Facebook or X is not just about raising awareness—it’s a way of saying, “We’re still here, and we will not be silenced.” Each post is a reminder that the state has failed to provide answers, yet these families will not stop demanding justice. For many relatives, searching for their missing loved ones has taken over their entire lives. Most of their days are spent protesting on the streets or sharing their stories online, refusing to let the world forget. By sharing these images, families also reclaim control over who is seen and remembered. Kashmiri and Palestinian scholars have called this a form of “counter-visuality,” where images serve as a tool to resist erasure and assert presence in spaces where they are denied. When a loved one disappears, families do not just lose a person, they lose part of their identity. They exist in a painful state of limbo, caught between being present and absent, struggling to find answers. Roles like wife, widow, parent, or child no longer fit. Instead, they become new political subjects, voices of resistance, marching in protest or campaigning on social media. Relatives who were once viewed as powerless victims have turned into powerful voices speaking out against state violence. This phenomenon extends beyond Baloch women, who have become symbols of resistance against enforced disappearances and extrajudicial killings. Similar movements can be seen around the world. In Argentina, the Organization of Mothers of the Disappeared (Mothers of Plaza de Mayo) was formed in 1977, marking the first public protest against military rule. To this day, every Thursday, the Madres march around the Pirámide de Mayo in the center of Buenos Aires. In Guatemala , tens of thousands of people were disappeared during the 1960-1996 civil war between the military and leftist guerrilla forces, leading to enduring grief and activism by the families left behind. Likewise, in Jammu and Kashmir, the Association of Parents of Disappeared Persons (APDP) continues to fight for justice and accountability for those who have vanished under state-sponsored repression. In each of these cases, women have used public grief and emotional expressions—such as weeping and mourning—as powerful political tools, transforming fear into collective resistance against state violence. These movements against enforced disappearances have given rise to influential political figures such as Estela de Carlotto, Rigoberta Menchú Tum, Parveena Ahangar and Mahrang Baloch. Every time a new story of disappearance is shared online, the community holds its breath, wondering, “Who is next?” This question echoes through every gathering and protest, a reminder that the pain of enforced disappearances is far from over. A young girl at a protest holds up a frame with the question “Who Is Next?” Image courtesy of X. Who’s Next by Qasum Faraz translated by Sajid Hussain (2013) Life is a poster pasted on the city’s walls. With the passage of time, It changes the names and photos emblazoned on its chest. Some days it’s Allah Nazar, Some days it’s Abdul Nabi. On every remorseless road of time and occasion, On every square, The wind distributes bits of my self- Like pamphlets. There is a strike tomorrow: All the shutters in the market will drop their gaze. Time and space will become one in the din of rallies. The day and the night, The month and the year, Will wear the same colour. Every letter on banners, placards, and foreheads, Will march along with a sea of its own. Who knows what will happen then? I, as a character of a global story, Stand at a distance and think: “For whom?” Someone, from behind, puts a hand on my shoulder, And whispers, “Life is a poster pasted on the city’s walls.”∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 NOOR BAKHSH belongs to Balochistan. He is a PhD student in Social Anthropology at York University. He has worked as a visiting and ad-hoc lecturer in various public and private universities in Balochistan. He is interested in the anthropology of violence and resistance; enforced disappearances, politics of photographs; digital activism, and hashtag ethnography; South Asia; Baloch and Balochistan; and Balochistan and Pakistan. QASUM FARAZ is a Balochi poet and the author of several poetry collections. He is an assistant professor of English literature and a critic. SAMEEN AGHA lives and works in Lahore. Working across sculpture, painting and installation, her practice explores the emotional landscape of the home and its social and physical attributes as they intersect with gender and self-identity, and confronting the complexities of loss, belonging, and remembrance. She is the recipient of the 2024 Sovereign Asian Art Prize. Agha received a BFA from the National College of Arts, Lahore, in 2016. Essay Balochistan Pakistan Civilian Activism Archive of Absence Resistance Resistance Movement Enforced Disappearances Disappearance Militarism Protest Extrajudicial Killings Counterterrorism Department Long March against Baloch Genocide Baloch Yakjehti Committee Zamuran Buleda Kech Shepard Subsistence Farming Assassination Kohlu Dera Bugti Baloch Nationalist Movement Rural Policing Violence Monitoring Turbat City Turbat Bazaar Childhood Computerized National Identity Card Education Levies and Frontier Corps Human Rights Human Rights Violations paramilitary Military Occupation Voice for Baloch Missing Persons Memory Grief Public Space Photography Justice Visibility Social Media Facebook X Quetta Press Club Baloch Raji Muchi 2024 State Sanctioned Violence Baloch Students Organization BSO-Azad Liberation Gwarkop Amnesty International United Nations Working Group Intimidation Security Dossiers of memory Anthropology Counter-visibility Erasure State Erasure Who is Next? Qasum Faraz Sajid Hussain Poetry Translation Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

Ahead of the presidential election in Sri Lanka, trade unions and political parties have promised a wage increase to tea plantation workers they hope to win over. Many workers are unconvinced, partly because wage increases are often tied to higher productivity targets that far exceed workers’ bodily capacity. THE VERTICAL The Ambivalent Voter Ahead of the presidential election in Sri Lanka, trade unions and political parties have promised a wage increase to tea plantation workers they hope to win over. Many workers are unconvinced, partly because wage increases are often tied to higher productivity targets that far exceed workers’ bodily capacity. Jeevan Ravindran “Let’s say a small child of around five years old is sick,” says Subramaniam Maheswarie, a 47-year-old tea plucker from Bogawantalawa in the Nuwara Eliya district of Sri Lanka’s Central Province. “We have to look after it and give it medicine.” The sick child Maheswarie is referring to is Sri Lanka: a nation on the slow road to recovery from a devastating economic crisis that led to shortages of food and fuel, and saw costs of living soar. The doctor who nursed the child is Ranil Wickremesinghe, the president who took the reins from Gotabaya Rajapaksa, who was ousted from office after months of protests. Wickremesinghe is attempting to hold onto power after two years in office as the country gears up for a presidential election tomorrow, 21st September, the first since the crisis. Such conditions are ripe for the playing out of patronage politics. The Ceylon Workers Congress (CWC), the largest plantation workers’ trade union, is advocating fiercely on Wickremesinghe’s behalf. Last year, the leader of the CWC was elevated to the position of a cabinet minister by Wickremesinghe’s government, and CWC formed a seat-sharing pact with the UNP (United National Party) aiming to garner votes in the central plantation districts. Maheswarie serves as a local chairwoman for the CWC, although she also continues to work on the plantation. Here in the hill-country region, political parties double as trade unions and vice versa—simultaneously trying to win workers’ votes as well as represent their voices in negotiations with plantations. In May this year, Wickremesinghe promised plantation workers a new wage of LKR 1,700 (US$5.64), a 70% hike from their current wage of LKR 1000 (US$3.32). Plantation companies appealed the wage, and Wickremesinghe’s presidential gazette was found to be unlawful by the Sri Lankan Supreme Court. The Wages Board has now issued a gazette mandating wages of LKR 1,350 (US$4.48) for plantation workers, with an additional productivity incentive of LKR 350 (US$1.16) that requires them to pluck extra kilos. Tea workers, most of whom are part of the Malaiyaha Tamil community—descendants of indentured labourers brought from South India to work on plantations by the British in colonial Ceylon—face a number of challenges including food insecurity, lack of access to educational opportunities, precarious housing, and poor living and working conditions. Maheswarie says the wage increase is positive, but admits that the last wage increase in 2021 led to problems for workers. She says productivity targets increased by 3 kilos at her plantation. Additionally, benefits such as medical care and food provisions were withdrawn or reduced, because the implementation of the new wage led to the collapse of the traditional collective agreement between plantation companies and trade unions. “[As part of the collective agreement], there were a lot of rules and regulations regarding what you should and shouldn’t do with workers,” Maheswarie says. “Now those rules don’t exist. Once we got rid of those rules, it was the companies who [arbitrarily] set the rules. Now that we don’t have the collective agreement, we can’t really go and argue [for more benefits].” Many workers are suspicious of the timing of the wage increase, perceiving it as a political ploy to win their votes in the election. However, Maheswarie is adamant that is not the case and accuses plantation companies of “dragging out” the process to frame the CWC as eking out a wage increase for political gain. Roshan Rajadurai, chairman of the Planters’ Association, which oversees hundreds of plantations in Sri Lanka, said targets would not increase. However, he also said productivity must be improved and that the wage increase was unsustainable. “In Sri Lanka, rationale and reason don’t, unfortunately, apply,” Rajadurai said. He questioned the announcement, saying the plantation sector was being “singled out.” He pointed out that wages for other sectors were not being increased. “We have to agree on something we can [actually] pay,” Rajadurai added. “If they [politicians] did everything they promised, Sri Lanka would be better than Singapore.” He refuted Maheswarie’s claim that benefits were being reduced for workers, saying welfare had actually been increased and that it was in the plantations’ best interests to look after their workers. According to Sri Lanka’s Tea Board, the industry contributed USD 1.26 billion to the Sri Lankan economy in 2022. However, plantation workers were severely hit by the crisis, with many struggling to afford basic necessities. “The election is coming, right? So they likely thought we’d only vote for them if they increased our salaries,” says Santhiappillai Mary, who works at the Loolecondera estate, a state-owned plantation in Kandy District, famously colonial Ceylon’s first tea estate. Mary is unmoved by Loolecondera's storied history. She shares that the plantation makes multiple deductions from workers’ salaries, including small amounts for the work cards they register their picked tea leaf kilograms on and, until recently, for their payslips. She has taken out multiple loans by now and is berated by the companies involved when she cannot pay. She often goes to work even when she is sick or it is raining heavily—simply because she cannot afford to miss a day of pay. “We have to take two meals to work, but sometimes, if I take two meals, my children don’t have enough food to eat at home,” Mary says. “So, I just take one meal and go. And sometimes I don’t take anything at all, because the children need food in the evening. I’ve done that, too.” Santhiappillai Mary, courtesy of Udara Pathum Such dire straits also affect access to free public services. In 2022, Mary’s oldest son had to drop out of school. After her family could not afford the bus fare to school, he was not permitted to advance to the next grade alongside his peers. In Agarapatana, local trade union leaders who were part of the National Union of Workers (NUW) are also not totally convinced by the wage increase. NUW has thrown its support behind presidential hopeful Sajith Premadasa, who has promised to turn estate workers into smallholders and increase their pay. “We can’t be sure we’re going to get the new wage,” said Dayalan Ravichandran, adding that he was surprised to see that he received the same salary in June even after Wickremesinghe promised a higher wage. “They say they’ve agreed to it, but it’s not definite yet. We don’t know if they’re just doing it because of the election.” One estate trade union leader said people’s votes were often won with alcohol, even within her own party. “The people in the party give alcohol to the chairmen and tell them to give it to the men,” she said, adding that the women were struggling without basic facilities. “The chairmen give alcohol to the men and tell them to vote for the party.” But perhaps the larger question is: Would a wage increase even shift the needle for tea workers? If even universal education—which Sri Lanka cites as a major source of pride in comparison to its South Asian neighbours—can seemingly be revoked for tea workers’ children for want of bus fare, can tea workers reasonably aspire to the end of generational poverty in the hill country? Tea leaves at a plantation in Kandy District, Central Province. Courtesy of Udara Pathum. Workers might be divided in their political preferences but are united on one issue. None of them believe the wage increase—of which proof will only emerge after the election when next month’s pay is given—will be definitive proof of improved conditions. Mary feels that any wage increase is unlikely to be the better prospect it’s touted to be. “If they increase the salary,” she says, “they’ll demand more kilos of tea leaves, so it’s difficult for the workers.” She adds that an increase in salary will also mean an increase in the cost of essentials. “So there’s no point in increasing the salary. However much we get, it’s not enough.” This linkage of wage increases to required increases in productivity demands is the root of tea workers’ misgivings about their financial future: indeed, a wage increase may well be thought of as an excuse for the extraction of surplus labour that exceeds the limits of bodily labour. Mahendran, 49, also a worker at Loolecondera, says his family often goes hungry for five or six days every month. He, too, believes estates will increase productivity targets in response to the wage increase, adding that workers “can’t work any more than this.” Rajadurai, the Planters’ Association chair, disagrees. “People are not willing to increase their productivity. Our productivity is the lowest in the world,” he says, comparing expectations for tea pluckers in Sri Lanka favourably to Assam, where he claims tea pluckers have to pluck far more. He argues that pluckers should be able to pluck 1 kilo in 12 minutes.“If they want to earn, they earn.” Pluckers, he says, “should not get into the mindset that 18 is an impossible target.” When informed that tea pluckers said they had a daily target of 13 kilograms before the 2021 wage increase, Rajadurai told SAAG: “What are they doing plucking 13 kilos for the whole day? It’s absurd.” If estates and plantation companies increase productivity targets with wage increases, the much-touted increase can arguably be equated not just to an effective wage stagnation but also a more significant risk to the lives and bodies of tea workers and their families. The firm productivity targets tied to the 2021 wage increase demonstrably taxed workers with less flexibility than before. Many workers say the work was harder after the wage increase. Maheswarie says that estates no longer weed the tea bushes properly. Instead, they expect workers to do so and then pluck 18 kilograms on top of that. Ramalingam Priyadharshini, 42, a tea plucker from Agarapatana, is still undecided about who to vote for. She’s been let down in the past by promises to fix the roads in her area and to build housing. Currently, her family has no toilet. Priyadharshini has to use the toilet at her mother’s house, a ten-minute walk away. At night, or in an emergency, she has to ask her neighbours if she can use theirs. “I’m wondering whether I should just not vote at all because our main problem is the road. But it’s only during election time that they come and say they’ll do everything for us,” says Ramalingam. Her mother, Palanimurthy Jeyam, is a retired tea plucker who plans to spoil her ballot after years of involvement with CWC as a local chairwoman. “The current government is only doing everything for the rich,” she says angrily. “But they’re letting the hungry people go hungry and die.” Mary also says she doesn’t feel hopeful that anything will change. Meanwhile, Priyadharshini argues that the state only really thinks of plantation workers when election campaigns are underway, a sentiment that brings to the fore the historical trend, since independence, of Sri Lankan political parties jockeying for power during election campaigns by promising welfare services like food subsidies and wage increases. Indeed, tomorrow’s election may well show the risk of taking plantation workers’ votes for granted—or their successful co-optation by trade unions.∎ Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. “Let’s say a small child of around five years old is sick,” says Subramaniam Maheswarie, a 47-year-old tea plucker from Bogawantalawa in the Nuwara Eliya district of Sri Lanka’s Central Province. “We have to look after it and give it medicine.” The sick child Maheswarie is referring to is Sri Lanka: a nation on the slow road to recovery from a devastating economic crisis that led to shortages of food and fuel, and saw costs of living soar. The doctor who nursed the child is Ranil Wickremesinghe, the president who took the reins from Gotabaya Rajapaksa, who was ousted from office after months of protests. Wickremesinghe is attempting to hold onto power after two years in office as the country gears up for a presidential election tomorrow, 21st September, the first since the crisis. Such conditions are ripe for the playing out of patronage politics. The Ceylon Workers Congress (CWC), the largest plantation workers’ trade union, is advocating fiercely on Wickremesinghe’s behalf. Last year, the leader of the CWC was elevated to the position of a cabinet minister by Wickremesinghe’s government, and CWC formed a seat-sharing pact with the UNP (United National Party) aiming to garner votes in the central plantation districts. Maheswarie serves as a local chairwoman for the CWC, although she also continues to work on the plantation. Here in the hill-country region, political parties double as trade unions and vice versa—simultaneously trying to win workers’ votes as well as represent their voices in negotiations with plantations. In May this year, Wickremesinghe promised plantation workers a new wage of LKR 1,700 (US$5.64), a 70% hike from their current wage of LKR 1000 (US$3.32). Plantation companies appealed the wage, and Wickremesinghe’s presidential gazette was found to be unlawful by the Sri Lankan Supreme Court. The Wages Board has now issued a gazette mandating wages of LKR 1,350 (US$4.48) for plantation workers, with an additional productivity incentive of LKR 350 (US$1.16) that requires them to pluck extra kilos. Tea workers, most of whom are part of the Malaiyaha Tamil community—descendants of indentured labourers brought from South India to work on plantations by the British in colonial Ceylon—face a number of challenges including food insecurity, lack of access to educational opportunities, precarious housing, and poor living and working conditions. Maheswarie says the wage increase is positive, but admits that the last wage increase in 2021 led to problems for workers. She says productivity targets increased by 3 kilos at her plantation. Additionally, benefits such as medical care and food provisions were withdrawn or reduced, because the implementation of the new wage led to the collapse of the traditional collective agreement between plantation companies and trade unions. “[As part of the collective agreement], there were a lot of rules and regulations regarding what you should and shouldn’t do with workers,” Maheswarie says. “Now those rules don’t exist. Once we got rid of those rules, it was the companies who [arbitrarily] set the rules. Now that we don’t have the collective agreement, we can’t really go and argue [for more benefits].” Many workers are suspicious of the timing of the wage increase, perceiving it as a political ploy to win their votes in the election. However, Maheswarie is adamant that is not the case and accuses plantation companies of “dragging out” the process to frame the CWC as eking out a wage increase for political gain. Roshan Rajadurai, chairman of the Planters’ Association, which oversees hundreds of plantations in Sri Lanka, said targets would not increase. However, he also said productivity must be improved and that the wage increase was unsustainable. “In Sri Lanka, rationale and reason don’t, unfortunately, apply,” Rajadurai said. He questioned the announcement, saying the plantation sector was being “singled out.” He pointed out that wages for other sectors were not being increased. “We have to agree on something we can [actually] pay,” Rajadurai added. “If they [politicians] did everything they promised, Sri Lanka would be better than Singapore.” He refuted Maheswarie’s claim that benefits were being reduced for workers, saying welfare had actually been increased and that it was in the plantations’ best interests to look after their workers. According to Sri Lanka’s Tea Board, the industry contributed USD 1.26 billion to the Sri Lankan economy in 2022. However, plantation workers were severely hit by the crisis, with many struggling to afford basic necessities. “The election is coming, right? So they likely thought we’d only vote for them if they increased our salaries,” says Santhiappillai Mary, who works at the Loolecondera estate, a state-owned plantation in Kandy District, famously colonial Ceylon’s first tea estate. Mary is unmoved by Loolecondera's storied history. She shares that the plantation makes multiple deductions from workers’ salaries, including small amounts for the work cards they register their picked tea leaf kilograms on and, until recently, for their payslips. She has taken out multiple loans by now and is berated by the companies involved when she cannot pay. She often goes to work even when she is sick or it is raining heavily—simply because she cannot afford to miss a day of pay. “We have to take two meals to work, but sometimes, if I take two meals, my children don’t have enough food to eat at home,” Mary says. “So, I just take one meal and go. And sometimes I don’t take anything at all, because the children need food in the evening. I’ve done that, too.” Santhiappillai Mary, courtesy of Udara Pathum Such dire straits also affect access to free public services. In 2022, Mary’s oldest son had to drop out of school. After her family could not afford the bus fare to school, he was not permitted to advance to the next grade alongside his peers. In Agarapatana, local trade union leaders who were part of the National Union of Workers (NUW) are also not totally convinced by the wage increase. NUW has thrown its support behind presidential hopeful Sajith Premadasa, who has promised to turn estate workers into smallholders and increase their pay. “We can’t be sure we’re going to get the new wage,” said Dayalan Ravichandran, adding that he was surprised to see that he received the same salary in June even after Wickremesinghe promised a higher wage. “They say they’ve agreed to it, but it’s not definite yet. We don’t know if they’re just doing it because of the election.” One estate trade union leader said people’s votes were often won with alcohol, even within her own party. “The people in the party give alcohol to the chairmen and tell them to give it to the men,” she said, adding that the women were struggling without basic facilities. “The chairmen give alcohol to the men and tell them to vote for the party.” But perhaps the larger question is: Would a wage increase even shift the needle for tea workers? If even universal education—which Sri Lanka cites as a major source of pride in comparison to its South Asian neighbours—can seemingly be revoked for tea workers’ children for want of bus fare, can tea workers reasonably aspire to the end of generational poverty in the hill country? Tea leaves at a plantation in Kandy District, Central Province. Courtesy of Udara Pathum. Workers might be divided in their political preferences but are united on one issue. None of them believe the wage increase—of which proof will only emerge after the election when next month’s pay is given—will be definitive proof of improved conditions. Mary feels that any wage increase is unlikely to be the better prospect it’s touted to be. “If they increase the salary,” she says, “they’ll demand more kilos of tea leaves, so it’s difficult for the workers.” She adds that an increase in salary will also mean an increase in the cost of essentials. “So there’s no point in increasing the salary. However much we get, it’s not enough.” This linkage of wage increases to required increases in productivity demands is the root of tea workers’ misgivings about their financial future: indeed, a wage increase may well be thought of as an excuse for the extraction of surplus labour that exceeds the limits of bodily labour. Mahendran, 49, also a worker at Loolecondera, says his family often goes hungry for five or six days every month. He, too, believes estates will increase productivity targets in response to the wage increase, adding that workers “can’t work any more than this.” Rajadurai, the Planters’ Association chair, disagrees. “People are not willing to increase their productivity. Our productivity is the lowest in the world,” he says, comparing expectations for tea pluckers in Sri Lanka favourably to Assam, where he claims tea pluckers have to pluck far more. He argues that pluckers should be able to pluck 1 kilo in 12 minutes.“If they want to earn, they earn.” Pluckers, he says, “should not get into the mindset that 18 is an impossible target.” When informed that tea pluckers said they had a daily target of 13 kilograms before the 2021 wage increase, Rajadurai told SAAG: “What are they doing plucking 13 kilos for the whole day? It’s absurd.” If estates and plantation companies increase productivity targets with wage increases, the much-touted increase can arguably be equated not just to an effective wage stagnation but also a more significant risk to the lives and bodies of tea workers and their families. The firm productivity targets tied to the 2021 wage increase demonstrably taxed workers with less flexibility than before. Many workers say the work was harder after the wage increase. Maheswarie says that estates no longer weed the tea bushes properly. Instead, they expect workers to do so and then pluck 18 kilograms on top of that. Ramalingam Priyadharshini, 42, a tea plucker from Agarapatana, is still undecided about who to vote for. She’s been let down in the past by promises to fix the roads in her area and to build housing. Currently, her family has no toilet. Priyadharshini has to use the toilet at her mother’s house, a ten-minute walk away. At night, or in an emergency, she has to ask her neighbours if she can use theirs. “I’m wondering whether I should just not vote at all because our main problem is the road. But it’s only during election time that they come and say they’ll do everything for us,” says Ramalingam. Her mother, Palanimurthy Jeyam, is a retired tea plucker who plans to spoil her ballot after years of involvement with CWC as a local chairwoman. “The current government is only doing everything for the rich,” she says angrily. “But they’re letting the hungry people go hungry and die.” Mary also says she doesn’t feel hopeful that anything will change. Meanwhile, Priyadharshini argues that the state only really thinks of plantation workers when election campaigns are underway, a sentiment that brings to the fore the historical trend, since independence, of Sri Lankan political parties jockeying for power during election campaigns by promising welfare services like food subsidies and wage increases. Indeed, tomorrow’s election may well show the risk of taking plantation workers’ votes for granted—or their successful co-optation by trade unions.∎ Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. SUB-HEAD ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Shebani Rao A Freelancer's Guide to Decision-Making “Into tea forest I,” 2024. Pen and tea stain on brown board, 91.4cm x 121.9cm, part of a triptych. Courtesy of Arulraj Ulaganathan. SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Dispatch Sri Lanka Plantation Workers Tea Estates Ceylon Workers Congress Ranil Wickremasinghe UNP Central Province Malaiyaha Tamil Community Indentured Labor Agricultural Labor Agriculture Plantations Labor Wage Labor Wages Political Agendas Patronage Politics Clientelism Surplus Value Productivity Demands Production Planters’ Association Political Economy Loolecondera Kandy District Nuwara Eliya District Political Parties False Promises Effective Wage Stagnation JEEVAN RAVINDRAN is a multimedia journalist based in Jaffna and London, with bylines in VICE , Reuters , CNN, and more. She reports on human rights and politics. 20 Sept 2024 Dispatch Sri Lanka 20th Sep 2024 ARULRAJ ULAGANATHAN is a member of the Malaiyaga Tamil tea plantation worker community, and an artist. His work has previously been exhibited at the JDA Perera Gallery, the Kochi Muziris Student Biennale, and Colomboscope. His most recent solo exhibition, "A Life in Tea" at Barefoot Gallery Colombo, combines elements from the tea estates, such as name cards, tea pruning knives, and bruised feet. Sinking the Body Politic Dipanjan Sinha 24th Aug The Uneasy Dreamscape of Katchatheevu Jeevan Ravindran 16th Jun Whiplash and Contradiction in Sri Lanka’s aragalaya Harshana Rambukwella 27th Feb India's Vector Capitalism Model Anumeha Yadav 5th Jun Chats Ep. 7 · Karti Dharti, Gender & India's Farmers Movement Sangeet Toor 29th Apr On That Note: