To Rebel is To Be!

The sudden, radical rupture inflames the rain-soaked afternoon. The fire spreads in the eyes, and inside clenched fists. A mother holds her little child close to her heart, eyes blazing. A thin, wiry young woman in a red sari, becomes a fiery symbol of shakti – women’s power. A grandmother is so intense, that her entire history of angst and anger explodes.

By Amit Sengupta

In Robertsgunj/Sonbhadra, UP.

"Those who do not move, do not notice their chains. Freedom is always the freedom of the dissenter."

—Rosa Luxemburg

Inside the dense forests of the Central Provinces, there is a liberated zone called Birsa Nagar in adivasi village Majhauli. The clouds arrive like a dramatic spectacle here, first in the distance, with distant thunder and lightning, and, then, slow and steady, into the epicenter of this glorious and great struggle. Non-violent. And relentless.

Led by brave adivasi women.

“Purbaiya ab thum gaya hain. Ab pachchim se thandi hawa aayegi.” (The eastern winds from the sea have settled down. Now the cool western winds will arrive.”

She is right. The ‘pacchimi’ arrives like a magical prophecy, and the coolness of the cool wind, after a hard spell of static, sweaty, heat, ushers in relief. The body and limbs, fingers and eyes, mind and soul – they are suddenly bathed with a clean, pristine, metaphysical joy.

Life beckons. Memories are rekindled. The will to live, to introspect, to dissent, to celebrate resilience, to rebel and fight back, is resurrected. This resurrection stays, calm and controlled. Like the coolness of the cool wind. The pachchimi.

Eyes become moist.

Sukalo Gond, leader of this incredible movement, likes to tell the story of the winds (she is a treasure trove of stories), and what is part of the ancient Gond civilization – warrior adivasis with a historical legacy of struggle, defiance, and refusal to accept any form of oppressive authority of ‘outsiders’ – be it the white colonial stooges of the East India Company, or the ruthless, brown feudal chieftains of post-Independence India. The other adivasi communities are the Aghurias, Bhuiyas, Kol, among others.

The rain has stayed away for a while. It is morning. Last night it was fierce. Water poured incessantly like honey from the dark, nocturnal sky, creating a lullaby with their sound on the tin and tiles roof. Sleep is sweetened by the lullaby. On earth, in a thatched ‘community hall’ with a scaffolding of 11 wooden poles, no doors, walls or windows, open from all sides, with the green expanse moving into miles of endless horizons, and forests rising into the hills.

Named after the legendary tribal rebel of Jharkhand, Birsa Munda, murdered in prison quickly after arrest by the British in the late 1890s, Birsa Nagar is the epicentre of this incredible movement. This tribal belt starts from somewhere near Chitrakoot in what were called the Central Provinces, and moves beyond, into other revolutionary adivasi civilizations, all close to each other in the remote forests and hills – in Bengal, Jharkhand, Abhujmarh in Chhattisgarh, Western Odhisa, Telengana and Andhra Pradesh.

This is the rich ‘mining belt’ with unimaginable treasures hidden inside its fertile earth, greedily eyed by MNC and Indian sharks. While the tribals refuse to move one inch from their real and imagined homeland – their oral traditions of resistance protecting their wiry body and soul, hardened by hard labour under the sun, long treks for water, and living in the dark with no electricity.

This infinite struggle is almost 25 years old. It has taken a toll on the people. Led by women, with men as comrades, they have been dragged from their homes in the middle of the night, many, many times, beaten up and jailed, their huts destroyed and ravaged, their homes burnt, while they are still denied water, electricity, a well or hand pump, a primary health centre or school, and public transport is totally absent. They walk miles to reach their destinations, and children walk further for basic education.

When it comes to adivasis, the cruel colonial legacy continues in the largest democracy.

However, the warrior women, and men, refused to succumb. They would build their mud huts again and again, only to face the cops and Forest Department, ruthless and heartless, yet again. The resistance spread on the wings of resilience, like a burning fire inside their softened, primordial eyes.

They reclaimed their land and forest. They are now cultivating and nourishing their precious land, and they have built simple mud homes. Some have dug up wells, and the union headquarters of the All India Union of Forest Working People AIUFWP), where its president, Sukalo Gond is stationed, have installed a hand pump. That has saved long treks for women. The water from deep inside the earth is cool and tangy, like the pachchimi.

At Birsa Nagar, despite the rain and storm, they reached from distant tribal villages. July 15, 2025. An annual meeting to remember Mithilesh Gond, a school boy of 16, who was denied blood and medical treatment in a private hospital in a nearby town. He wanted to learn, to teach, to impart education to the next generation. He was the son of Sukalo Gond. Locals believe this was punishment meant for her, for leading this anti-establishment struggle. That the death of her son was a planned conspiracy.

Here, people remember. They don’t forget so easily. No.

Walking long distances through unwinding bylanes between the corn fields. On passenger trains, tempos and rickety buses. On bikes and cycles. They arrived. The rebel adivasis. To pay tribute to the son of their leader. And to resurrect their memories of the movement. To introspect and evaluate. To plan future strategy and tactics. And to carry on the fight – come what may!

They sat quiet. As stoic, silent and steadfast as their ancient forest-mountains. The dark sky became an accomplice -- suddenly turning silent. The earth, now adorned with the little plants of ‘makai’ (corn), has become happy and grateful. The trees, their bark and leaves, their wild flowers and butterflies, are shining with a softened sunshine wetness.

They sat quiet. Stoic and steadfast. The women.

Then Munnarbhai, starts the slogans: Inquilab Zindabad! Larenge Jitenge!

The sudden, radical rupture inflames the rain-soaked afternoon. The fire spreads in the eyes, and inside clenched fists. Fingers become tense. A mother holds her little child close to her heart -- eyes blazing. A thin, wiry young woman in a red sari, otherwise wise and serene, becomes a fiery symbol of shakti – women’s power. A grandmother is so intense, that her entire history of angst and anger explodes.

In unison, like a classical symphony, women raise their clenched fists, alive and pulsating with courage and energy, and the men follow the fiery chorus – Inquilab Zindabad!

If this is not a celebration of a great and glorious struggle, what is it?

If this is not a mass rebellion, what is it?

If this is not a magical victory of women united – what is it?

Sukalo Gond, President, AIUFWP, with her granddaughter, Savitribai Phule, Birsa Nagar. She is the formidable leader of the adivasis in Sonbhadra and an iconic figure across forest workers in India.

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Part 1 of a continuing series.

Pictures by Amit Sengupta