Published on 2008
The Criminal Tribes Act has been repealed four decades ago but the
kal-ottar community are still hounded by law, ostracised by society,
and ignored even by the rights organisations, finds out C Shivakumar
When 24-year-old Muthu was taken away by police in a midnight swoop on
his village, no one was surprised. His neighbours and his family sound
quite resigned to the fact. They don't know if he has committed a
crime, but they believe it would make no difference to the police. For
Muthu is by definition a criminal from birth. He is a kal-ottar
(stonecutter), a community branded as a criminal community by the
Madras Presidency in 1911 when it enacted The Criminal Tribes Act of
1871. The law was repealed four decades ago, but the stigma remains.
"Our community is branded by law as criminal," says Murugeshwari.
"Police routinely make midnight raids to arrest our men. We don't have
permanent homes. We are hunted by the law and dare not stay too long
in one place. As a result, we don't have identification papers, no
ration cards, no voter ID cards. We have petitioned the chief minister
for help but there's been no answer so far. So the police continue to
enter our houses and take away our men and put them in jail. Sometimes
even the women are not spared."
Lack of papers
Muthu was in jail for over two weeks before his wife Parvathi could
see him. No one would tell her where he was or why he had been taken
away. The seven months pregnant Parvathi ran from pillar to post for
almost two weeks. He was in Madurai Central Jail.
When she went to the jail to visit her husband, a fresh problem arose.
"Do you have a voter ID card or a ration card?" the official asked
when she presented her application.
"No, I don't," she said.
"Sorry, without an ID card we can't let you in," the official replied
as she turned to another applicant.
Tears welled in Parvathi's eyes. "Please madam, please. I just want to
see him once." The official looked at her for some time and then
relented. "If someone in your locality has identification papers they
can help you out."
A neighbour stepped up and signed some papers for Parvathi so that she
could get permission to meet Muthu. Two weeks after he was taken away
from the Muniyandipuram area of Madurai, he got a chance to meet his
family. No charge sheet has been filed against Muthu.
The police have no qualms about their treatment of these people. "They
are a violent community, involved in murder and theft cases," says a
police official.
But Tamil Nadu Ottar Kuruvar Vallurimai Sangam organiser Radhakrishnan
says the police are biased. "Most of those arrested remain in custody
without any cases filed. Some are tortured and forced to give
confessions.
"We are easy targets. If police fail to solve any case, they pick us
up and book us for crimes we never committed," alleges Selvam, the
secretary of the sangam. He says himself was tortured by police and
released only after intervention by human rights activists.
The community is scattered around Madurai, Theni, Villupuram and other
parts of Tamil Nadu. The men work in stone quarries or construction
firms while the women sell fancy items like bangles and earrings. Most
of their earnings are spent getting the men out of jail.
Bail money
"Whatever we earn is spent getting bail or hiring a lawyer," says
20-year-old Savitri, whose husband Muniyandi is jailed under the
Prevention of Anti-Social Activities (PASA) in Madurai. Savitri was
pregnant when her husband was arrested. Now her son Vignesh is
one-and-a-half years old. The family reunion takes place only during
Savitri's jail visits.
Polygamy is one of the more curious side-effects of the jail time the
men spend. Kathamuthu, for instance, has three wives and 14 children.
With so few men around, Radhakrishnan says polygamy is understandable.
"It is mostly due to the frequent detentions of the men folk."
It's not just the Tamil Nadu police who are after them, the kal-ottar
say. Police from neighbouring Kerala recently raided Bethaniapuram and
dragged 60-year-old Velayudham and his two sons from their home and
took them away in a Kerala-registered vehicle. Sukumari, Velayutham's
wife, says they were taken to Ottapalam police station.
"Three days later we were freed," says Naganandan, one of the sons.
But Velayutham is still missing. "We tried to file a complaint. But
the Karimedu police station refused to entertain it. A letter was also
sent to Ottapalam police station but they refused to acknowledge it,"
says Sukumari.
Branded as criminals from birth, the kal-ottar suffer from other kinds
of discrimination. At school, the children face taunts and jibes from
fellow students or teachers. "It is very humiliating," says
14-year-old Mahalakshmi. "Our classmates call us by names, saying bad
things about our community. Sometimes even teachers abuse us."
Mahalakshmi, a student of Pasumalai CSI Girls' Higher Secondary
School, is one of the few to have got as far as the 10th standard.
Most of the children are illiterate. In Mottumalai, it is common to
see them idling around, playing desultorily at some game or other.
Mahalakshmi, though, has ambitions. "I want to be a lawyer. I want to
fight for the rights of my community."
"We want our children to be educated," says Maduraiveeran, released
from jail a couple of months ago. "But most of them get branded as
criminals at a tender age. No one will give them jobs. So many enter
the crime world." He also says police routinely foist cases on them.
But Inspector General of Police South Zone Sanjeev Kumar dismisses the
allegations. "Most of them are involved in criminal activities. And in
fact there are instances when police intervention saved them from
being lynched by a crowd."
Their fear of the law is such that the community dare not approach the
police when a theft happens at their own home. Even weddings are
usually hushed up to avoid notice. "There is no fanfare as with the
other communities. They only exchange betel leaf and nuts,"
Murugeshwari says.
Easy target
B Parthasarathy, state director of the National Project on Preventing
Torture in India, says the community makes an easy target for the
police. "They are taken to different police stations across the state
so that police can close the old files, due to pressure from the top,"
he alleges.
Radhakrishnan says even the state human rights commission has turned
its back on them. "We sought their intervention over police torture.
But they turned us down, as though our rights never existed."
When this correspondent contacted the rights panel, a spokesman said
that since the petition was just a carbon copy and was circulated to
competent authorities in the state, "we felt there was hardly any role
for us. According to the petition, the community members threatened to
commit mass suicide. What else could we do in this regard?"
Hounded by the law, ostracised by society, and ignored even by the
rights organizations, the kal-ottar have no one to turn to for relief.
As generation after generation lives in dread, one wonders if there is
any hope at all for the younger generation.
The Criminal Tribes Act has been repealed four decades ago but the
kal-ottar community are still hounded by law, ostracised by society,
and ignored even by the rights organisations, finds out C Shivakumar
When 24-year-old Muthu was taken away by police in a midnight swoop on
his village, no one was surprised. His neighbours and his family sound
quite resigned to the fact. They don't know if he has committed a
crime, but they believe it would make no difference to the police. For
Muthu is by definition a criminal from birth. He is a kal-ottar
(stonecutter), a community branded as a criminal community by the
Madras Presidency in 1911 when it enacted The Criminal Tribes Act of
1871. The law was repealed four decades ago, but the stigma remains.
"Our community is branded by law as criminal," says Murugeshwari.
"Police routinely make midnight raids to arrest our men. We don't have
permanent homes. We are hunted by the law and dare not stay too long
in one place. As a result, we don't have identification papers, no
ration cards, no voter ID cards. We have petitioned the chief minister
for help but there's been no answer so far. So the police continue to
enter our houses and take away our men and put them in jail. Sometimes
even the women are not spared."
Lack of papers
Muthu was in jail for over two weeks before his wife Parvathi could
see him. No one would tell her where he was or why he had been taken
away. The seven months pregnant Parvathi ran from pillar to post for
almost two weeks. He was in Madurai Central Jail.
When she went to the jail to visit her husband, a fresh problem arose.
"Do you have a voter ID card or a ration card?" the official asked
when she presented her application.
"No, I don't," she said.
"Sorry, without an ID card we can't let you in," the official replied
as she turned to another applicant.
Tears welled in Parvathi's eyes. "Please madam, please. I just want to
see him once." The official looked at her for some time and then
relented. "If someone in your locality has identification papers they
can help you out."
A neighbour stepped up and signed some papers for Parvathi so that she
could get permission to meet Muthu. Two weeks after he was taken away
from the Muniyandipuram area of Madurai, he got a chance to meet his
family. No charge sheet has been filed against Muthu.
The police have no qualms about their treatment of these people. "They
are a violent community, involved in murder and theft cases," says a
police official.
But Tamil Nadu Ottar Kuruvar Vallurimai Sangam organiser Radhakrishnan
says the police are biased. "Most of those arrested remain in custody
without any cases filed. Some are tortured and forced to give
confessions.
"We are easy targets. If police fail to solve any case, they pick us
up and book us for crimes we never committed," alleges Selvam, the
secretary of the sangam. He says himself was tortured by police and
released only after intervention by human rights activists.
The community is scattered around Madurai, Theni, Villupuram and other
parts of Tamil Nadu. The men work in stone quarries or construction
firms while the women sell fancy items like bangles and earrings. Most
of their earnings are spent getting the men out of jail.
Bail money
"Whatever we earn is spent getting bail or hiring a lawyer," says
20-year-old Savitri, whose husband Muniyandi is jailed under the
Prevention of Anti-Social Activities (PASA) in Madurai. Savitri was
pregnant when her husband was arrested. Now her son Vignesh is
one-and-a-half years old. The family reunion takes place only during
Savitri's jail visits.
Polygamy is one of the more curious side-effects of the jail time the
men spend. Kathamuthu, for instance, has three wives and 14 children.
With so few men around, Radhakrishnan says polygamy is understandable.
"It is mostly due to the frequent detentions of the men folk."
It's not just the Tamil Nadu police who are after them, the kal-ottar
say. Police from neighbouring Kerala recently raided Bethaniapuram and
dragged 60-year-old Velayudham and his two sons from their home and
took them away in a Kerala-registered vehicle. Sukumari, Velayutham's
wife, says they were taken to Ottapalam police station.
"Three days later we were freed," says Naganandan, one of the sons.
But Velayutham is still missing. "We tried to file a complaint. But
the Karimedu police station refused to entertain it. A letter was also
sent to Ottapalam police station but they refused to acknowledge it,"
says Sukumari.
Branded as criminals from birth, the kal-ottar suffer from other kinds
of discrimination. At school, the children face taunts and jibes from
fellow students or teachers. "It is very humiliating," says
14-year-old Mahalakshmi. "Our classmates call us by names, saying bad
things about our community. Sometimes even teachers abuse us."
Mahalakshmi, a student of Pasumalai CSI Girls' Higher Secondary
School, is one of the few to have got as far as the 10th standard.
Most of the children are illiterate. In Mottumalai, it is common to
see them idling around, playing desultorily at some game or other.
Mahalakshmi, though, has ambitions. "I want to be a lawyer. I want to
fight for the rights of my community."
"We want our children to be educated," says Maduraiveeran, released
from jail a couple of months ago. "But most of them get branded as
criminals at a tender age. No one will give them jobs. So many enter
the crime world." He also says police routinely foist cases on them.
But Inspector General of Police South Zone Sanjeev Kumar dismisses the
allegations. "Most of them are involved in criminal activities. And in
fact there are instances when police intervention saved them from
being lynched by a crowd."
Their fear of the law is such that the community dare not approach the
police when a theft happens at their own home. Even weddings are
usually hushed up to avoid notice. "There is no fanfare as with the
other communities. They only exchange betel leaf and nuts,"
Murugeshwari says.
Easy target
B Parthasarathy, state director of the National Project on Preventing
Torture in India, says the community makes an easy target for the
police. "They are taken to different police stations across the state
so that police can close the old files, due to pressure from the top,"
he alleges.
Radhakrishnan says even the state human rights commission has turned
its back on them. "We sought their intervention over police torture.
But they turned us down, as though our rights never existed."
When this correspondent contacted the rights panel, a spokesman said
that since the petition was just a carbon copy and was circulated to
competent authorities in the state, "we felt there was hardly any role
for us. According to the petition, the community members threatened to
commit mass suicide. What else could we do in this regard?"
Hounded by the law, ostracised by society, and ignored even by the
rights organizations, the kal-ottar have no one to turn to for relief.
As generation after generation lives in dread, one wonders if there is
any hope at all for the younger generation.
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