*Shevlin Sebastian * *22 May 2011*
The mud road is rutted. But the driver of our jeep, Ravindra Rai, goes over the humps and crevices with practiced ease. On either side, there are numerous trees: coconut, banana, cocoa, mango, jackfruit, guava and cashew. A soothing summer breeze is blowing, accompanied by the sound of crickets. The house in Vani Nagar has a red tiled roof. Near the entrance, there is a calf, a rope tied around its neck, chewing fresh leaves. It is all pleasant till we see Harshith, sitting on a wheelchair in the verandah. He is 18, but looks 12. His legs are pencil-thin. His head hangs loosely over his chest, spittle trickling down from his mouth. Sometimes, he sticks out his tongue as he stares blankly into space. “He was born like this,” says his mother, Jayanthi. Harshith has cerebral palsy. “Medicines are costly,” she says. “My husband is a cashew plantation labourer.” There is a ray of sunshine in this darkness, though: Harshith’s younger sister, Chitra, 12, is perfectly healthy. Their 10-year-old neighbour Ashika, with shoulder-length black hair and a sweet smile, trembles uncontrollably as her mother, Kusuma, holds her in a tight embrace. “She gets regular epileptic fits since birth,” says Kusuma, a teacher. “I have had her treated in many hospitals, without improvement.” In the Buds School at Perla, there are 27 students: 12 boys and 15 girls. On a straw mat lies seven-year-old Ayesh, who suffers from cerebral palsy. The most striking feature is the way his eyeballs roll from side to side. He seems unable to control its movement. His mother, Hemlata says, “He is blind. Operations to restore sight have failed.” 18-year-old Padmaraj, sitting nearby, is paralysed waist down, “but his brain is fine,” says teacher Mariam Jyothi. All students are deformed. “They suffer from mental retardation, epilepsy, asthma, psychiatric problems and cancers,” says Mariam. There are no classes—instead, Mariam teaches songs, and the students play games. On small strips of white paper, some children draw houses and ponds, trees and plants, displayed on the dining room board. Avimash, 25, of Padra village is also mentally challenged. “He also has occasional fits,” says Dr Y S Mohan Kumar, a physician practicing in the area for the past 29 years. Recently, a self-help group, Solidarity Youth Movement arranged for surgery on his knee joints. “He is able to walk a little,” says Kumar. At Karabka village, Abhilash, 12, suffers from hydrocephalus (swollen head). “It’s from birth,” says Dr Kumar. “He is mentally challenged and unable to do anything.” There are many such patients in villages across Kasaragod district, Kerala. When asked the reason, the villagers, most of whom are illiterate, say one word with repeated emphasis: endosulfan. Here is the history. The state-run Plantation Corporation of Kerala (PCK) owns 4,696 hectares of cashew plantations across 20 villages. From 1976 onwards, they sprayed the chemical endosulfan to combat tea mosquitos that were damaging cashew trees. Unfortunately, within a few years, health problems were reported among villagers. “I was alarmed by the rise of psychiatric and neurological problems,” says Mohan Kumar. “Several people had congenital abnormalities, mental and physical retardation, and cancers. The number of cases was very high. I realised this was abnormal.” When local farmers protested the destruction of honey colonies after the spray was applied, Kumar and his journalist friend, Sreepadre, realised the health complaints could also have been caused by endosulfan. Sreepadre found out the World Health Organisation clearly states there are health hazards in exposure to the chemical. People can suffer from neurological problems, and all forms of cancer. Endosulfan can enter our body through water or the food chain. Sreepadre published an article on his findings in a Kannada newspaper. It provoked public interest in the issue. Incidentally, the US Environmental Protection Agency classifies endosulfan as a highly hazardous pesticide. Later, research by the National Institute of Occupational Health confirmed high endosulfan levels in the people, water, soil, and vegetation at Kasaragod. In 1998, following a suit by M K Leelakumari Amma, a government employee whose brother died of suspected endosulfan poisoning, the High Court banned aerial spraying of the chemical across the state. The PCK stopped aerial spraying on December 26, 2000. Meanwhile, till now, there have been 16 government-sponsored studies. Some are by well-known bodies like the Indian Council of Medical Research. But the conclusions are mixed. While several name endosulfan as the cause, others have said there is no connection. “We suspect those who say there is no link are in the pay of pesticide firms,” says Narayanan Periya, chairman of Endosulfan Viruddha Samaran Samiti (Committee Against Endosulfan), an umbrella group fighting for the victims. Narayanan is happy with the recent Stockholm Convention of Persistent Organic Pollutants which has agreed on a global ban on endosulfan by 2012, though India has asked for a grace period of 11 years to enforce it. Says Narayanan: “I have to be cynical here. The grace period was sought by India to enable the pesticide companies to exhaust their stocks, while more lives are damaged.” And there is social damage. “Young girls are unable to marry,” says T C Madhava Panicker, president of the Kasaragod People’s Forum. “People are scared when they get pregnant, they might have children with defects.” As media coverage causes fear and alarm, divorces are also on the rise. “There is a case of a wife getting regular, inexplicable fits,” says Panicker. “When the husband found out about endosulfan from newspapers, he had no qualms about filing for divorce.” Nowadays, when wives get pregnant in Kasaragod, husbands insist on numerous scans. “If there is a trace of abnormality in the foetus, they immediately go for an abortion,” says Panicker. It is a benighted area. House after house reveals an endless cycle of tragedy. On our way back, driver Ravindra stops near a roadside cashew tree. He shakes the branches and several cashew fruits fall to the ground. He picks up one, eats it heartily, and gives us two. But, numbed by the devastation we had just witnessed, we are unable to summon the carefree courage needed to bite into the succulent-looking fruit. http://expressbuzz.com/edition/print.aspx?artid=275996 -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Mental Health Advocacy (News 'N Views) India" group. 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