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>From http://www.goanobserver.com/ * accessed on June 22, 2004 DANCE OF DESTRUCTION By Jonquil Sudhir On Monday Revenue officials headed by J B Singh, Collector of South Goa along with a huge contingent of the police indulged in a frenzied dance of destruction in Baina. The officials destroyed everything in site including the small business establishments of Goans and non-Goans alike and the homes of ordinary residents of Baina. Though the mandate they had from the High Court was only the demolition of the cubicles of the commercial sex workers in the area. No concerns were shown for either relief or rehabilitation of the victims. JONQUIL SUDHIR was witness to the callous, insensitive cold-blooded decimation of Baina. TEN YEAR old Manoj was on his way home from school. His thin frame and large bag barely squeezed through the narrow lanes of Madhavi galli. The long line of men and women carrying the rusty blades of ceiling fans, used asbestos sheets and buckets full of household goods did not make things easier. The tension in the air and the hasty gathering of belongings made him uneasy. When he reached home, the uneasiness turned to concern. On the doorstep, instead of his mother and baby sister, he found a small suitcase, numerous bags, sacks and buckets waiting for him. On entering his tiny single room house, he saw two young men with hammers in their hands standing over his crying mother. Scared, worried and confused Manoj asked the two men what the matter was. The men told told him that they had to leave. Pick up all their belongings and get out before the �big machine� came to tear down their house. But where were they supposed to go? How were they going to get there? They didn�t know anybody else in the State. They didn�t have enough money to go back to their native state of Karnataka. They didn�t even have enough money to eat three square meals a day. How were they going to afford the Rs. 400 rickshaws were demanding to transport their meagre belongings? The men had no answers. Their job was to make sure that everybody evacuated the area. Defeated and despondent, the family picked up their bags and moved towards the main road. The rain came pouring down. There was no roof to take shelter under. Manoj�s mother let out a shrill cry of despair. THIS IS THE story of one among the hundreds of families residing in Chota Bazaar in Baina that were displaced on Monday, the 14 th of June when the Government razed their houses to the ground. Men, women and children rendered homeless. People who had lived there for three generations turned out onto the roads to face the strong winds and the heavy downpour of the monsoons. With no place to go and no money to take them there. It all began when the government announced that 247 sex workers, including gharwallis and their families would be shifted to the Old Bal Niketan premises at Ribandar on the 13 th of June. The government was to provide accommodation, minimum provisions and an allowance of Rs.500 per month. But when government officials arrived in Baina on the 13 th morning, they were greeted by locked doors. When it became obvious that there were not takers for the rehabilitation package, the state government officials returned in empty buses. It was presumed that the sex workers had returned to their native states in fear. They had not. They merely left the area for a day. They were scared that the police would force them to go to Ribandar. Something that they were not ready to do because they did not trust the government. As soon as word got out that the officials had left, they quietly returned to their cubicles under the cover of darkness. They heaved a sigh of relief. The plan had failed. They did not have to go to Ribanar. They could stay in the only home they knew. But it was not meant to be. At 7 am, on the 14th of June, the residents of Katem Baina were awakened by workers from the Mormugoa Municipal Corporation. They were told that they had to evacuate immediately. There were bulldozers waiting to demolish their houses. Frightened, confused and distraught, they begged the workers to give them time to find another place to stay. It was raining. Their children had gone to school. Husbands had left for work. Sorry. They had half an hour to pack up and leave. As the news spread across the ghallis, all hell broke loose. People left their houses and ran in different directions to find out if they really did have to leave. They rushed to the offices of the NGOs in the area. The social workers, on their part, were desperately trying to contact colleagues who were at the High Court trying to stay the demolition order. They didn�t know what to tell the residents. How does one tell someone that he may be homeless by the end of the day? They tried reassuring them. They told them that they were trying to get a stay order. That the National Women Commission for Women had written to the government asking it to postpone the demolition plans. That the Court would surely grant the stay once they saw the letter and heard the pleas of the petitioners Savera. Still disconcerted, but slightly reassured, they began to discuss the situation with other residents. BUT AS the bulldozer began to break the first few cubicles in Fakir ghalli, people stopped and stared in disbelief. The government was going ahead with its threats of destruction. The murmuring and the speculation was soon followed by tears and shouts of despair. And then by the hasty, silent gathering of belongings in the darkness of their homes. Darkness because their electricity was switched off early in the morning and their tiny cubicles did not have big enough doors leave alone windows. Many had just gathered their belongings when it started to rain. Their hopes surged. The government was not so cruel that they would turn them out into the rain. Again they were in for a rude shock. The demolition squad persisted. Nothing was going to stop them. By 11 am, the first row of shops, bars and cubicles were demolished. The residents in the slum area came out to watch. �Teacher, teacher,� they anxiously asked the social worker from Arz, �will they break our houses too?� She did not know what to say. For she did not know herself. But, she reassured them nonetheless. The petition was being heard in the High Court that very minute. By noon, the verdict would be out and the Court would grant a stay. They just hoped that the bulldozer would not reach their houses by then. THE SHOPKEEPERS and bar owners began to worry. The government was supposed to demolish only the cubicles used by the sex workers. But, one of the first few structures to go was a bar in Fakir ghalli. They decided to wait and watch. But police officers armed with rifles and lathis began to chase the innocent bystanders away. One community worker who argued that there was no harm in watching, got a rifle pointed at her abdomen. �Move or else!� he said. They made a hasty retreat. But only temporarily. Curiosity brought them out again. It was 12 noon. The social worker�s cell phone began to ring. The petition had been postponed to the next day. There wasn�t going to be a reprieve. The social workers struggled with the decision to tell the community that in all likelihood, their houses would be destroyed before the sun set. They didn�t have to. The water supply was cut off next. Electricity department officials entered the area armed with a ladder and cutters. The linesman climbed up onto the electricity pole and began to hack off the numerous electricity cables as the people watched in horror. The message became crystal clear. The government was not only ridding the area of the sex workers, but also of the slums. Dodging the fallen cables and water puddles in the ghallis, people began to hurriedly empty their houses. In anticipation, some even climbed onto their roofs and began to remove the asbestos sheets. Perhaps they could be used to set up house somewhere else. Worse come to worse, they could be sold for a sum. BY THE end of the day, 5000 square metres of every structure including the 250 cubicles were demolished. Outside, the roads were full of men, women and children sitting amongst their meagre belongings staring into nothingness. Some were crying, others shouting in anger and the majority silently contemplating the next move. A long row of trucks, pick ups and rickshaws waited to be loaded. Those who could afford to do so loaded the vehicles with their possessions. Destination? Unknown. There was nowhere to go. This was the only home they had. Wherever there was space, they would stop there. The rest sat glued to their places. The police tried to get them to budge. Even using threats and abuse. On the 16 th of June, two days after the demolition, there are no long lines of distraught people on the road. There are many rummaging amongst the debris looking for property that was left behind. Others scavenging for metal that can be sold. But the majority have left. Where to, no one knows. Government officials have said that they have returned to their native states. But they haven�t. They have moved to the nearby regions of New Vaddem, Mangor, Shantinagar, Zuarinagar and Chicalim. For now.
