The Phoenix

I traveled to Nagapattinam to speak with the beneficiaries of DPG’s rural programs- self-help group formations and Tsunami shelters. One the second day there, I attended the local DPG Women’s Day Celebration. The ceremony went for an hour in a rigid format of speeches and tallying of DPG achievements in Tamil. When I was almost zoned out of the event, a middle-age woman with unexplained scars on her face and neck made herself noticed. She stood up before us and started speaking in a soft but deliberate tone. From what I can gather of her gestures and sprinkled English words, she was introducing herself. She had a story to tell and as she spoke, her voice grew louder and more assertive. At times, she sounded angry, and at others she sounded happy and triumphant. She pointed the mic at timid women in the crowd and had them tell their own stories as well. She sounded completely possessed and she in turned possessed the crowd. At the peak of her dialogue with the audience, she made them tap their left hand with one finger from their right, then two, then three, until they were clapping fully. It was a simple device to show the power of a united voice. Minutes after she asked them to put their palms together, the women were still clapping, for her and for themselves. It was the closest I’ve seen to a standing ovation since arriving here. This woman’s passion and outrage was apparent even to the deaf and dumb spectator who did not understand a word of Tamil.

After the event, I approached her. I hesitated at first unsure if she spoke English, but my instinct told me that I would not be met with the same affirming but blank smile common from Indians who didn’t understand. In fact, she spoke clear and impeccable English. She introduced herself as Seethalaksmika, the head of a small NGO name Phoenix, found to benefit children and women. They have no hand in forming or funding SHGs, but their primary mission is to motivate women. I was confused by this, “Isn’t that what all the NGOs involved here are doing?” But there was no time for her to further explain herself, as swarms of self-help group members surrounded her, eager to speak to her and shake her hand. She gave me her address and invited me to drop by her office. “Anytime,” she said. She worked until 7pm every evening. Strange, I thought, in a place where everything but hotels and restaurants are closed by 5. I left with a promised to visit.

All week, during my field visits, I kept her in mind, hoping to meet her again. But each day, my 10km travels into the villages took more than four hours because of long bus waits and circuitous routes. Getting back well after dark everyday, I was unable to see her. Finally, on the last day, a few hours before my overnight bus departed, I had some free time and hitched a ride on the back of a social workers motorbike into town. Her office was a narrow and poorly-lit corridor on the first floor of a decrepit building. Inside, there was a row of computers, but only herself and one assistant worked there. When I came in, she recognized me immediately and gave me a warm hearty welcome. We sat down in her office and began with the usual formalities, introductions, and how-do-you-dos, but that was shortly interrupted by a phone call. After she hung up from the call, Seetha smiled at me but her face was strained by sadness. She explained,

“My mother collapsed a few days ago. The doctor all said it was due to her weak lungs. But she never had this symptom before, so we sent her to Chennai to get a second opinion. The doctor discover she had a lump and found out it was fourth stage lymphoma. It’s developed in the last few years because of her other sickness. My whole family is now in Chennai with her. I don’t think we can afford the chemotherapy, so we will have to see what the doctor says.” Her eyes were glistening with tears, and she paused, but then came to and continued her story.
“She was caught in the water during the Tsunami and swallowed the salt and sand into her lungs. She has suffered a great deal since then. She lost her house, but because she was not a fishermen, the government would not giver her anything for treatment and shelter So many people suffered- Dalites, farmers- but the relief agencies, the NGOs, the government refused to help them because they did not understand the situation, believing that only fishermen working in the sea were affected. I was the first person to speak out against this. Back then, Phoenix was not a organization, it was just a movement. I started this with a number of friends many years ago because there was no one working to change to mindset of the women. The NGOs build and give money, but if the women have no one to teach them to speak to them, they are not motivated to change their situation. They absolutely need to see another woman just like them who has overcome these obstacles. I too have suffered a lot. Ten years ago, I got these scars when my in-laws threw acid because I did not pay the dowry. When I was pregnant and alone, my home flooded but no one helped. When the Tsunami came, everything I owned was swept away. That is why I am qualified to speak to them. A year ago, the movement was formed into a trust, so that government officials and other villagers would cooperate when we asked difficult questions. We don’t get any funding from donors or NGOs. The entire office, including the row of computers for training the village women, is funded by my friends who believed in this cause. Anything I earn from honorariums or working with other NGOs, I also give to Phoenix. My friends say I should worry more about my son, take better care of him. I try. I work other side jobs, tutoring and selling insurance. All the women working with Phoenix have high degrees, MBA, engineering, Masters in Philosophy, but we chose not to use our degree and joined this movement because this is important. If I am not here, who will run this organization, who will speak to these women?”

When she finished, I saw clearly why in spite of the presence of so many large NGOs and funding organization, Seetha’s tiny movement was vital. During my visits to the villages the past week, I noticed rural Indian women were more hopelessly resigned compared to their urban counterparts. Before joining the SHGs, many were confined to the house, not even allowed to move freely within their own village. Despite cheap loans and training to teach them to start businesses, many were reluctant to anger their husbands. And few, almost none, spoke out against violence at home. There are many social injustices in India, both gender and caste-based, but the more oppressed an individual is here, it seems the more submissive and less willing she is to change her position. At the bottom of this hierarchy are the Dalite women, discriminated against both as women and as a shunned caste. When I asked them what their hopes are for their children. Out of a group of 8 women, not one of them had an answer. They were all silent with their heads downcast until one finally said,” We don’t hope. We live day to day.” And so women like Seetha are vital for making social changes because they instill both the hope and the indignation necessary for a revolution. I remember one of the self-help group members, who heard Seeetha at the function, told me during an interview, “I admire the women who speak to us. They make me want to tell others my story and to help other women.” This lady recently became a treasurer of a village-level SHG federation and she plans to lead her SHG in a collective business when the funding becomes available.