By Manjeet Kripalani, Jan 6 2004
Source: Business Week Online
PDF Version of the original article (56KB)
When I went to southern India, driven by a simple desire to help, I
found devastation and recovery, cold shoulders and warm hearts
The January morning is sunny, and Madras seems so quiet -- very much
the quaint, seaside south Indian city it is, albeit one that has been
growing rapidly over recent years into a manufacturing hub. Everyone
is at work, and the streets are clear, save for the usual spray of
sand blown in from the Indian Ocean beaches, just 500 yards away. Who
could guess that a tsunami recently lashed the city, killing hundreds
and leaving thousands homeless?
It has been nine days since the waves hit South Asia, and much has
been accomplished in that time. True, Madras didn't suffer as much
damage as the coastal areas of Tamil Nadu state. Still, the city --
also called Chennai -- has had to recover bodies, clear debris, and
get relief supplies to survivors.
NOW AND FOREVER. I came to Madras from Bombay, eager to help in any
way I could. So I walked along the shoreline, near battered huts and
low-storied cement buildings, searching for nongovernmental
organizations (NGOs) to volunteer with. If I couldn't find one, then I
could at least lend a hand to the many individuals who cook kilos of
rice and dal, a kind of pea soup, in their homes and then package and
distribute them.
I'm disappointed. Today, people at the many NGOs that had set up
stalls to distribute provisions wear a forlorn look. A pickup truck
with the sign "Oasis Ministries" is loaded with food, and a tall woman
in a bright white silk saree is handing out packets of water and
savory lemon rice and egg. She is Padma Mudaliar, a local who runs an
orphanage.
I approach Mudaliar and ask, "Can I help?" Distributing her supplies
with military-like precision, she doesn't look at me but asks "For how
long?" I tell her four days. "I can do whatever you want, even tend
the morgue," I offer. She tells me no. "Not for four days, but for a
lifetime of commitment. Otherwise we don't need you." I slink away,
crushed.
HIGH AND DRY. Still, Mudaliar has a point. A good chunk of the
tsunami-affected population in India has received the supplies that
have been contributed so generously from all over the world. The work
that's left to be done -- rehabilitating people, rebuilding their
homes, returning them to their livelihoods -- requires commitment.
It won't be easy. In the seafront fisherman's slum of Nochikuppam, the
long, fiberglass catamarans that were flung into the residents' flimsy
huts are stranded at the side of the road. Even though the boats are
blocking traffic, the fishermen say they won't clear their shattered
craft and ripped fishing nets until the government has assessed the
damage, allowing them to get the promised compensation.
This makes sense. These are the poorest fishermen in Madras, and none
has insurance. Their boats cost nearly $2,000 apiece, and fishing nets
can run as much as $400. Many of their vessels are write-offs, though
some could get back on the water after, say, $500 worth of repairs.
"LIFE AFRESH." Yet there's no rush to return to the sea. Since the
tsunami hit, people have been trying to deal with the great
psychological toll as they try to collect pieces of their lives, says
Sokalingam, a weathered 35-year-old with a damaged boat. Besides, it
wouldn't be worth the fishermen's while to fish, even if they wanted
to. Since many locals believe any catch might carry tsunami-related
diseases, it wouldn't sell.
Until government institutions give the necessary clearances, people
like Sokalingam will have to depend on charity. Yet he is determined
to move forward. "I'm getting insurance," he vows, "so I never have to
suffer like this again."
That's the kind of change people like Ashok Joshi, the chairman of the
privately run Srinivas Services Trust and a former top bureaucrat in
charge of Tamil Nadu's security and internal management, are hoping
for. Joshi and his team of disaster-management experts spent three
days touring the devastated areas of Tamil Nadu.
The massive effort to move people back to their villages, to rebuild
homes, and give them the tools to earn their livelihood will soon
begin. Joshi knows what he wants to accomplish, even if he isn't sure
exactly how he'll do it. This is a chance to "create a world of new,
organized villages, with proper sanitation and a community center," he
says, going on to talk of "starting life afresh, better than how they
were living before." Joshi's organization intends to adopt two or
three villages and rehabilitate them along those lines.
ONE LAST TRY. This is the time to bring the robustness of modern,
contemporary systems into the thousands of villages destroyed in south
India. When rebuilt, they could serve as models for the rest of the
country. But the disorganized Indian government may not be up to the
task, despite its best efforts and intentions. India has a national
disaster-management plan, but it lacks focused implementation. No
central coordinating agency or computer program exist that can
efficiently distribute aid and volunteers, or plan what kinds of new
homes or villages can be built. No wonder victims, such as Sokalingam,
feel adrift.
I, too, am starting to feel that way. As the day wears on, I grow
tired of being turned away by institutions unable to make use of
ordinary citizens in their relief plans. The Ramkrishna Mission will
only accept its own members as volunteers. At a beautiful, serene
cathedral the priest in charge of relief "is resting," a church worker
tells us. I hear that one major international relief group has shut
down its office in Madras.
I'm dejected but decide to try the last address on my list: 20 Ratnam
St., the office of the Association for India's Development -- AID
India. How I wish I had gone there first. The green, three-story
house is overflowing with supplies -- gas stoves, plastic buckets,
baby's toys, sheets, blankets, cooking utensils -- and it's looking
for volunteers to load and unload goods, make field visits, sort
materials, collect clothes, even help with desk work.
AID is providing relief to the very remote coastal villages that few
have reached. Twice a day, trucks and volunteers leave the
headquarters and head south to help.
HAVE PEN, WILL TRAVEL. In the office, young men and women are busy
assigning jobs and answering phones. They're clean-cut and educated --
the best of motivated, middle-class India. AID's top coordinator, Ravi
Shanker, an electrical engineer from the elite Indian Institute of
Technology, now teaches at the Institute in Madras. Two doctors from
Britain each want to volunteer a week of their time. "Oh yes," a young
woman says to me, "put your name down, skills, and availability." A
well-heeled man from Singapore comes in with containers full of
donated items and money.
AID has something for me to do. Their volunteers are already in place
for the distribution of relief, but they need help in their makeshift
offices in Cuddalore and Nagapattinam, the worst affected areas, to
write daily reports on AID and its volunteers. Since I'm a journalist,
would I mind?
Not at all. So I am heading south. I'll start the next day
distributing some relief supplies collected by local citizens, and
later, I'll become the equivalent of a minute-keeper at a board
meeting for relief efforts.
<mailto:
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> Manjeet Kripalani is chief
of BusinessWeek's India bureau.
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