Turning the tide

"CARE had given us immediate relief in the form of rations, some bowls to cook a little food and the equivalent of £100. We knew that wouldn’t last long. People like my husband were gainfully employed when we were at Nagore. Now, there were no jobs, no more money coming in and no hope."

Alternative forms of self-employment were discussed. The deliberations were often difficult, because all the men who depended on the sea had developed fears about returning to this work.

"It was tough," admitted Sundari, the field officer of Avvai, a non-government organisation based in Nagapattinam.

"All of them had a nondescript existence, with neither a safe present nor a promising future. We had a lot of convincing to do. Finding alternative vocations was an uphill task. And some of the jobs we found for the people did not work at times. Sometimes, we had the unenviable job of finding an alternative to an alternative. And then there was the issue of religion. Though the Islamic Purdah system was not all-pervasive, the entire Jamaat (community) had to be convinced that working for oneself was not haram (forbidden). We had several rounds of discussions with the Mullahs, the women, their consorts and the prayer leaders. Yet we did not give up hope."

"We formed six groups and 136 women clubbed together, including 20 widows, and called it Sangamam (the confluence).The group members explored ways that they could make themselves financially independent by saving money in the group and then taking out loans to invest in money-making ventures. After several rounds of talks, a consensus emerged that 72 highly vulnerable members living below the poverty line would be given loans."

"After more consultations, small entrepreneurial ventures got finalised, we found that it still was very difficult to break their centuries-old resistance against women being bread-winners, let alone having a prominent role in society. Every day started with optimism, progressed through pessimism and ended in hope. However, once we managed to explain that all of this would change their lives for the better permanently, the women were overwhelmingly enthusiastic."

For 31-year-old Zunaida Begum, who relocated to Thethi, it was an altogether different trade that was to form a self-supporting, networking bulwark for the community’s commerce three summers ago.

Among other things, Zunaida tried out the humble, portable, wall-mounted pay-phone box.

These days, she carries the instrument carefully wrapped in her sari, shielding it from the rains and rust. She places it in a snug, dry corner of her home.

The one-rupee coin pay-phone a rarity in the state headquarters of Chennai situated 300 km away to the north has given Zunaida a new lease of life by attracting more customers to her small counter which also sells cold drinks.

The group’s average monthly earnings of a little over £25 has resulted in a striking change in the attitude of the Thethi residents.

And when you remember that women from traditional Muslim households were neither allowed to study nor mingle with the society, this is tremendous progress.

"Looking at a stranger in the face, especially if it happened to be a man was unimaginable for us. Now, we have not only overcome our reticence, but also have gained the confidence to argue with male bank officials to get a better deal because our survival is at stake. The tsunami created the necessity which in turn has proved to be a great teacher," Zunaida says, exuding self-assurance.

For Zunaida, operating a bank account, collective bargaining, undertaking daylong journeys to buy merchandise and answering journalists’ questions in a composed fashion, all seem like the natural things to do now, because she is the leader of the Sangamam.

Surprisingly, this wasn’t the case of a rural version of women’s liberation, because the men expressed active support to their better halves’ entrepreneurial ventures.