Chipko revisited - Chipko Andolan forest protection movement; India

The original tree-huggers build a perpetual structure for village-based forest preservation

I WATCH KALAWATI DEVI weave her way skillfully down the steep and well-worn path with a surefooted ease that comes only from a lifetime in the mountains. She is followed by a small boy in rubber boots who keeps pace close behind. We meet on the front step of a small hut that clings delicately to the mountainside, overlooking the Alaknanda River gorge, as the bright sun lights up the sky and transforms the river below into a glittering ribbon bending around steep, rocky cliffs. For me, it is a setting of breathtaking Himalayan beauty, an image I'll probably remember for the rest of my life. For Kalawati, it is virtually the only landscape she has ever known.

Our introductions are brief and casual. Kalawati offers a sharp, clever smile that puts me immediately at ease. Her eyes and hair are black, contrasting against the rich reds and greens of her sari, and her forehead is adorned with the customary red dot. Only the roughness of her hand gives away the fact that her days are filled with long hours of hard, physical work. As we talk she seems to radiate a quiet, unassuming confidence, like someone who is at peace with herself and everyone around her. Her son, Balbir, sits quietly out of deference to his mother, patiently containing his twelve-year-old urge to go out and play.

Kalawati Devi is one of the leaders of Chipko Andolan, the famous people's movement of the India's Garhwal Hills, centred deep in the foothills of the Himalaya. Chipko, which means "to embrace," got its name in the 1970s from the then-novel practice of tree-hugging: when the forests were threatened, usually by commercial logging interests working in concert with government forestry officials, Kalawati and her friends and neighbours would march together into the forest to put their own bodies between the axes and the trees. They would risk their lives to protect a fragile mountain ecosystem and restore their ancient rights to the food, fuelwood, fodder, building materials they need to survive.

I've come here to learn from those like Kalawati who played a part in this drama, and to find out what has happened to the movement since those early confrontations. My contacts in New Delhi tell me that there is very little tree-hugging anymore -- the battle has largely been won. At first I had difficulty believing that big-money logging interests and well-bribed government officials were somehow subdued by impoverished villagers. But on meeting Kalawati I find my cynicism beginning to fade; she seems like the kind of adversary that people with money and power might easily underestimate.

THE JOURNEY INTO THE Garhwal Hills, taking some twenty hours of bus travel from New Delhi, is visually compelling, at once beautiful and sobering. In between dramatic views of rocky cliffs and deep river valleys with snow-capped peaks off in the distance, there are scenes of brutal deforestation -- steep slopes stripped clean of trees and consequently gouged by landslides that deposit tonnes of rock and gravel into the valleys below. Landslides remain a constant threat along much of this route, and the worst have been known to tear whole villages from mountainsides. The journey to the Garhwal was delayed twice while workers dug through the debris of yet another landslide.

The roots of this devastation date back to the nineteenth century, when British colonial administrators ruled India with a combination of bureaucratic organization and military muscle. The British were interested in resources to feed a hungry empire, and the tall stands of primary-growth forests that blanketed much of Northern India were a treasured prize of imperialist ambition. The British fashioned a system of forest management that was designed to do the job quickly and efficiently. Forest lands, which had for centuries been owned and managed communally by indigenous villagers, were simply taken over by the colonial administration, which then awarded concessions to private logging companies to extract the trees. The concept of "environmental protection" meant little to colonists who saw themselves as conquerors and developers of a wild and uncivilized land. The notion of "the rights of indigenous people" meant even less. And when India gained independence in 1947, the new government simply took a page from the colonial book on resource development and adapted essentially the same system.

For a long time, all of this meant very little to the people of the Garhwal Hills. Life carried on as usual in this rugged and remote area that was largely inaccessible to logging interests. But major roadbuilding programs launched in the 1960s changed all that. New roads pierced into the region; for the first time, century-old forests were within striking distance of axes, chainsaws, and logging trucks.

Within a few short years, vast tracts of forest were clearcut and mountainsides were stripped clean, marking the beginning of an environmental and economic disaster. The crucial protective tree cover was destroyed. Winds and monsoon rains ripped away at the thin soils; landslides became more frequent and more treacherous. With fewer trees to hold the soil and less soil to absorb the seasonal rains, the region began to swing between two increasingly dangerous extremes--chronic water shortages in the dry season and severe flooding during the monsoons. In July of 1970, floods along the Alaknanda caused the greatest devastation in living memory. Bridges, roads, houses, farms, and livestock were washed away in the deluge; nearly 200 people died.

The deforestation changed everything for the Garhwali people -- their daily routines and their prospects for survival. While virtually holding the mountainsides together, trees also serve as the foundation for an entire village economy. Trees are the source of fuelwood for cooking and heating, lumber for building materials and farm implements, fodder for livestock, and nuts and fruit to supplement the local diet or to sell in area markets. As the forests shrank, the daily task of collecting fuelwood and fodder, traditionally the sole responsibility of women, became a grueling sixteen-hour journey with increasingly meagre results. Water shortages and soil erosion devastated local agriculture. Poverty, sickness, and malnutrition became a reality in all but the most prosperous and fortunate villages.

The systematic deforestation continued unabated until the first sparks of a protest movement were ignited. Frustration had been simmering throughout the area for some time, but the single incident that brought matters to a boil occurred in 1973: The State Forest Department refused the villagers' request to cut twelve ash trees to make implements, while simultaneously granting permission to a sporting goods company from the south of India to cut thirty-two ash trees to make tennis racquets. In a provocative and symbolic move, government officials had literally put sporting goods before ploughs, and the interests of outside businesses before the needs of local people.

It was during the meetings that followed that the villagers hit upon the notion of tree-hugging. The idea was put to the test in the forest where the designated ash trees were located; after a series of confrontations, the government and its contractor finally backed down. "Forest runners" were then dispatched to spread the news of this successful encounter from village to village. A peaceful movement to preserve basic rights was being born and village women, the traditional managers of the forests, were about to take the lead.

Kalawati recalls those early days. She talks quickly amid sparks of laughter and frequent flashes of her smile. I get the feeling that these stories have become a kind of contemporary chapter in the timeless mountain folklore.

One of her stories sticks in my mind as a particularly telling example of Garhwal forest politics: A private contractor started cutting trees in an area of supposedly "reserved" forest close to Baccher, Kalawati's home, a village of 100 families. Word of the tactics of passive resistance had spread throughout the region by then, and Baccher was ready to respond. Village women marched into the forest to confront the loggers, hugged the trees and tried to grab the axes. Kalawati recalls how she was afraid, and I can only imagine how she felt as a precedent-setting activist, risking her life and never knowing if these confrontations would end in disaster. She was also challenging the norms of traditional Garhwali society; the village men were often slow to accept this new wave of radicalism led by women. Kalawati's husband resisted the idea at first, but (she smiles at this point in the story) he eventually learned to like the idea and now does all he can do to help.

The forest contractor, no doubt perturbed by crowds of women standing in the way of progress, tried to buy the movement off. He offered 1,000 rupees (about $60, a considerable sum to the villagers) if the women would get out of the way. "One thousand rupees are not necessary," Kalawati told him. "The trees are necessary."

The cutting stopped -- for a while -- but then started again. This time Kalawati and her friends went to the District Forest Office in the main town of Gopeshwar. The official there told them, in the indifferent tone of someone who did not yet understand the significance of what was happening, that the forests belong to the government, not to a bunch of village women, and that police would be dispatched if this tree-hugging did not stop immediately. Unimpressed, the women refused to back down; they left word that any police intervention would simply be greeted by even more protesters.

At that point a ranking officer of the State Forest Department decided that he had heard enough. It was time to settle the matter once and for all. He and his entourage went into the forest to lay down the law, but instead witnessed a sight that was both fascinating and disarming: hundreds of women, more than he could count, milling about among the trees, singing songs and chanting, many with infants strapped to their waists and children at their feet. Realizing that to lay down the law would require some kind of brutal offensive against all of the women and children in the area, he left chastised and embarrassed. Kalawati (now smiling more than ever) recalls how he then attempted to sneak out the back entrance to the forest in a futile effort to escape without being seen.

THE MOVEMENT ACHIEVED similar victories throughout the 1970s and early 1980s, leading eventually to commercial logging bans throughout much of the region. Spontaneous protest has since matured into a remarkable system of village-based forest management. Some fifty villages, ranging in size from about twenty to one hundred families each, participate with persistence, determination and a talent for cooperative organization well-honed by years of nonviolent resistance.

Each village has a women's group -- a mahila mandal dal -- that functions as the system's driving force and organizational glue. The daily chore of gathering enough fuelwood and fodder to meet immediate needs has expanded to include the subtle balancing act of simultaneously using and rehabilitating a damaged woodland ecology. Each village also has at least one area of communal forest; in some cases, these common lands include mature stands of hardwood trees, pockets of primary-growth forest that escaped the clearcutting. More often the communal forest started as a barren, logged-out patch of mountainside, and is now an area of brush, grass, and small trees in the process of restoration.

It is the job of the mahila mandal dal to replant and maintain these communal lands for the benefit of the entire village, now and in the future. To this end, the women work out equitable arrangements for distributing both the products of the forest and the labour for tree-planting. In the village of Papiryana, for example, each of about thirty families is allotted one day per month to cut all the fuelwood and fodder they can carry, provided that only branches and deadwood are taken and no tree is felled. Each family also devotes a day each month to tree-planting and guarding the communal forest from stray domestic animals and other unwanted intruders.

Trees are sometimes cut selectively, but only when special needs arise. Weddings, for example, rank high on the list of village celebrations and typically call for a large feast. A tree may be cut to provide fuel for the feast and a small stockpile for the newlyweds. Trees may also be cut when it is time for one of the villagers to build a new house or to fashion new farm implements. In all cases, a request is made of the mahila mandal dal and, if granted, is limited to a fixed number of carefully chosen and marked trees. Since everyone is well aware of the importance of the forests and respectful of the dangers of overcutting, these simple rules are rarely broken. But if they are, a stiff fine is levied against the perpetrator and retained by the mahila mandal dal to support village projects or assist in times of emergency.

The system of women's organizations has worked well, so well in fact that it has worked well, so well in fact that it has enhanced an entire way of life. Now everyone is involved in the process of rejuvenating the hillsides. It is not uncommon to see groups of men building stone walls to enclose and protect the common forest lands, and many of the mahila mandal dal are now applying their organizational skills to address health care, education, and other village needs.

Watching the women at work in the forest, one comes closest to appreciating what Chipko is all about. They work together, chattering constantly and moving with agile quickness up and down the steep slopes. Everyone has an intimate understanding of ecology, of what it takes to make things grow and why the whole effort is worth so much care and attention. They select seeds from the mature forests, grow their own seedlings, and plant trees on all but the steepest slopes. The women are close to the trees, the mountain soil, the ice-cold springs and fresh air, in ways that I can hardly understand; the whole process takes on an intensely natural, even spiritual quality. Tree-planting up here is not just a job or a hobby; it is a basic act of restoring nature and community that touches the life of every villager. Interestingly, village children follow the women along, helping and learning in their immense Himalayan classroom. A twelve-year-old child like Kalawati's son Balbir, for example, already knows enough practical ecology to fill many schoolbooks, a sign that bodes well for the movement's future prospects.

It was while watching the women working in the communal forest that I asked an innocent but dumb question. Somewhat mesmerized by the villagers' relentless ability to participate together, share the workload, allocate scarce resources, make decisions by consensus, and reveal no apparent signs of the greed and ambition that tear apart so many societies, I asked one of the women if they ever face serious conflicts, or otherwise fail to cooperate. She looked at me, barely able to comprehend what I was talking about, and replied "No. This is a peace movement."

IT IS DIFFICULT TO FIND OUT who started Chipko, or who is in charge of the movement today. There are no formal titles, no board of directors, not even any business cards. No one in the Garhwal will claim any personal credit for something they all share.

There is one individual, however, whose name is mentioned at least once in every conversation about Chipko. He is the consistent presence, the overall coordinator if there is one. Chandi Prasad Bhatt is a tall, bearded man with penetrating blue eyes and deliberate mannerisms. He is one of those rare individuals who, though remarkably gentle, somehow leaves a deep and indelible impression on everyone he meets. He exudes a kind of controlled inner energy that is difficult to describe but easy to feel. Chandi Prasad Bhatt leads a small volunteer organization known as Dasholi GramSwarajya Mandal (DGSM), which translates loosely to "Village Self-Help Organization." The DGSM is housed in a whitewashed building on Gopeshwar's main street. Inside is a meeting room decorated with rows of black-and-white photographs depicting recent events in Garhwali history. One picture shows some of the devastation from the floods of 1970; another portrays a dozen village women meeting with former Prime Minister Indira Gandhi to receive an award of recognition. One of them is Kalawati Devi.

Chandi Prasad and the four or five people who work most closely with him provide a focal point for the villages involved in Chipko. They visit the villages regularly and often help out when villagers have a problem that involves, for example, specialized technical know-how or negotiations with senior government agencies. Several times each year, they organize an "eco-development camp": villagers gather from all over the region to exchange ideas, learn, build solidarity, and plant more trees.

On two occasions I joined in meetings with Chandi Prasad Bhatt; both times our conversations started at dusk and carried on well into the night. We sat in his simple meeting room, lighting candles to ward off the coming darkness. To make a point, he would often draw a simple map on my notepad; in this way I learned something about how the pieces of the Chipko puzzle fit together. One time he sketched three or four crooked lines, representing the Alaknanda River and some of its main tributaries, along with some small circles to mark the locations of participating villages. He explained how each village is orchestrating the restoration of a micro-watershed through tree-planting, contour farming, agroforestry, and the construction of retaining walls in the spots most vulnerable to landslides. Together, the fifty-odd villages are rebuilding a major section of the Alaknanda River watershed. With no resources other than their own skills and determination, the Garhwali people are restoring a large and badly damaged ecosystem -- no small feat considering that all over the world today, huge government agencies with teams of "experts," big budgets, and stacks of studies have been stymied by similar challenges.

Chandi Prasad Bhatt patiently answered my many questions as I groped for an understanding of what makes Chipko work. He outlined a simple but profound philosophy: The villagers act when they are ready to act, according to their own felt needs and their own priorities. They work with what they have at hand, and waste no time waiting for aid or answers from the powerful cities of India, let alone the West.

This is a movement about village self-reliance and self-determination, about an unwavering confidence in the innate wisdom and capabilities of the Garhwali people. And it is a movement about the basic rights of people to use and manage the resources they need for survival.

AS HER STORY of tree-hugging comes to a close, Kalawati Devi offers me a tour of Baccher, and I accept eagerly. We walk together up the path and into a small village square shaded by massive, century-old oak trees. People begin to gather around, eager to show their hospitality.

There is a small post office, indicative of Baccher's status as one of the larger villages in the Garhwal. It has the same neat and orderly appearance that distinguishes all of the buildings in the village centre and is run by a tall, imposing postmaster who beams with pride and delivers a powerful handshake. Two men building a fence nod their greetings without breaking the rhythm of their work. A woman shows me her cows and explains, in the patient tone of a farmer to an obvious urbanite, how milk production has improved steadily with the increased availability of fodder. Not far away, boys play an intense cricket match on a pitch they have somehow squeezed onto a narrow mountain terrace.

Back in the village square, we talk over cups of sweet tea and fresh oranges from the village plantation. After a time that seems much too short, we say our goodbyes.

COPYRIGHT 1993 Point Foundation
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group