Hasdeo (Chhattisgarh): Walking through the dense forest of Hasdeo Aranya near Fatehpur village in Chhattisgarh’s Sarguja district, Sunita Porte could not help but smile at our fascination with the forest. For her and the tribal community, the forest wasn’t just a patch of greenery; it was the backbone of their existence. “Your fascination is fascinating to me,” she remarked. “But please record this. Show people outside how we sustain ourselves through this forest.”
As Sunita and her companions collected wood and foraged for wild food, a pressing question lingered in the air: “What is a forest truly worth?”
According to the Union government, a forest is defined as any land larger than one hectare with a tree canopy density exceeding 10 percent, regardless of ownership or legal status. This definition, however, falls short of capturing what the Hasdeo forests mean to people like Sunita. “This forest is our life,” she said. “Every tree, every leaf here serves a purpose. We build our homes from its dried wood and mud. We make products like mats from its shrubs. I may not know all technical names, but I know everything here. It’s our god.
Latest government data from 2021 suggests an increase in forest cover by 2,261 square kilometres since 2019. But according to Global Forest Watch, India has lost over 23,000 square kilometres of tree cover in the past two decades. The disparity in these numbers arise from a shift in how India classifies land designated as forest areas – where forests are seen more for their carbon potential and economic value than for their biodiversity or communal ecosystem
Similarly, for the women of Hasdeo Aranya, these forests are more than just an economic asset; they are a symbol of livelihood, culture, and resistance. Their fight to protect these lands forms the heart of the Hasdeo Bachao Andolan, a movement that has been ongoing since 2011. Women are the cornerstone of this resistance that has, against all odds, saved over 445,000 acres of forest from 21 proposed coal mines. Yet, beneath the green canopy still lies an estimated 5.6 billion tonnes of coal – a resource so coveted that, despite protests, coal blocks continue to be auctioned off, especially during the 2020 pandemic when the government announced 21 new coal auctions.
‘What is a forest truly worth?’ Photo: Shubhanghi Derhgawen.
In 2014, the Supreme Court had cancelled 204 coal blocks across the country, including 20 in Hasdeo. But this has not stopped efforts to exploit the area. As of today, one block is actively mined by Adani Enterprises Ltd, and efforts are underway to open two more. The struggle to save the 1,876-square-kilometre Hasdeo region is far from over.
Fearless women, relentless resistance
Until May 2024, the women from villages like Salhi, Ghatbarra, Hairharpur and Fatehpur, staged a protest for over 800 consecutive days. “We are not afraid of the police, the administration, or the company,” said Bijayanti Khusro, a Ghatbarra resident, recalling a recent clash with authorities. In late August, at 3 am, they were informed that movement leaders had been detained by the police, and tree felling was imminent. Without a structured communication system, news spread by word of mouth, and soon enough, women poured out of their homes to gather near the forest, trying to stop the destruction.
Rattu Porte recounted how the situation escalated. “We stayed there all night. As more women gathered, more police vans arrived. By morning, the police became aggressive. They tore our sarees, broke our bangles, and threw us into buses,” she said. Despite the physical altercations and being forcibly removed, Bijayanti remained defiant. “What’s the worst they could do? Take us to the police station? It’s built for us, right? We’ll go, and we’ll take our families with us!”
‘We are not afraid of the police, the administration, or the company.’ Photo: Shubhanghi Derhgawen.
Over 100 women from three villages – Salhi, Ghatbarra, and Fatehpur – were preventively detained without a cause mentioned. Held in a government school from 10 am to 5 pm, they were released only after the trees they had so fiercely protected were felled. Their anger was palpable. Sambai Khusro, a protester from Ghatbarra, recounted, “Only we know the pain we felt, and how much we cried when they pulled us away from the trees. For years, we have revered this land, and they destroyed it within hours.”
Awareness and voting: The disconnect
Rattu Porte, an active figure in the Hasdeo movement, emphasised how women have consistently been engaged in the Gram Sabhas and the public life, juggling domestic responsibilities with community involvement. “We witnessed first-hand how the state encroached on our rights, how they pressured Gram Sabha secretaries to falsely show the villagers’ assent for mining activities,” she explained.
While women understood the manipulations within the Gram Sabhas, there remained a deeper, more nuanced disconnect when it came to fully grasping their rights under key legislations like the Forest Rights Act (FRA) of 2006 and the Panchayats (Extension to Scheduled Areas) Act (PESA) of 1996. These laws promise significant protection for forest dwellers – under the FRA, more than 40% of India’s forest land could be vested as community forest rights with Gram Sabhas. However, the implementation has been flawed, with delays, mass rejections of claims, and ongoing threats of eviction. For many women, while the lived experience of protecting their forest is deeply ingrained, the legal framework that safeguard these rights often feel distant, overshadowed by male counterparts who possess more formal knowledge.
‘It was instinct. The tree is like our child.’ Photo: Shubhanghi Derhgawen.
Even though women are the backbone of the movement, much of the strategies, legal knowledge, and organisational tactics have been passed down from their male peers. “The techniques we used to resist tree-felling were similar to the Chipko movement, but at the start, we didn’t even know about Chipko,” said Sambai Khusro. The Chipko movement, which saw women hugging trees in the 1970s to prevent deforestation, shares deep similarities with Hasdeo, but the connection came later for the women here.
“It was instinct. The tree is like our child. When the authorities approached with tools to cut it down, we hugged it, trying to shield it from pain,” Sambai recalled.
Over time, the women have learned about the historical parallels, giving their movement a stronger sense of legacy. Yet, at its core, their fight has always been rooted in their personal and intimate connection to the land.
Despite the women’s determination in the Hasdeo struggle, many women still feel disconnected from the political processes that shape their rights. Their interactions with the state are often limited to negative encounters, such as police crackdowns, while popular political slogans by the ruling Bhartiya Janta Party like “sabka vikas (development for all)” prompt them to ask, “Kiska vikas? (whose development?)”. The disillusionment with political promises has created a growing indifference to voting.
This indifference was evident in the 2024 general elections, when many women, including Sambai, did not want to vote. As a cook at the village government school, she was present on voting day but felt intimidated by the officials. “I don’t understand the symbols or the process. I’m not educated. They tell me to put my thumbprint here and there, and out of fear, I do it. But I don’t even know where my vote is going,” she shared, repeatedly expressing her lack of desire to participate. The act of voting, for many, has become hollow, a process stripped of meaning due to a lack of trust in the system or belief in its impact on their daily lives.
Also read: Why the BJP Could Face a Challenge to Repeat its 2019 Tally in Jharkhand, Chhattisgarh
The Erosion of Independence
One of the greatest fears expressed by the women of the Hasdeo region is the loss of their independence, not just over their land but in public life. Neeru Uirra, a resident of Ghatbarra, cradling her two-year-old daughter, articulated this fear: “If we lose the village, we lose the community. We won’t be able to finish our housework and gather at 10 am to discuss work opportunities or run our group finance units. We pool our savings to invest in small enterprises, like setting up a shop or selling the products we make here. Without the village meetings and sabhas, our physical movement will be restricted – we won’t even go to the forest as often to collect supplies or forage.”
‘We pool our savings to invest in small enterprises.’ Photo: Shubhanghi Derhgawen.
With helplessness on her face, Neeru exclaimed, “We will be stuck at home.”
This concern highlights the visible difference between women’s empowerment in the private versus public spheres. With the encroachment on land rights, the fabric of their communal life unravels.
As the process of land acquisition in villages like Ghatbarra have advanced, many households have begun accepting compensation from Adani Enterprises. Among the five such households visited, women of the family consistently expressed discontent over being excluded from such decisions. Despite some women holding land rights in their names, the men dominated all decisions regarding compensation. In many cases, wives were unaware of how much money was even given for the land.
The elders of the movement, like Hari Prasad, also pointed out the adverse social consequences of the company’s influence. Since Adani began convincing villagers to give their consent, alcoholism has surged manifolds among men further complicating circumstances for women. Parpatiya Porte, a resident of Ghatbarra who a part of the protests and movement was once, shared her own story of loss. Her husband, who never drank before the land disputes began, now regularly consumes alcohol. He has taken a menial job at the coal mine in exchange for their land and has received part of the compensation money. “What do I say? My husband didn’t think of children or me. Now he spends all the money on alcohol,” she said. Parpatiya has now stopped being a part of the movement or stepping out of her house and joining other women in their activities.
‘Do you think men listen to anything women have to say?’ Photo: Shubhanghi Derhgawen.
Even her everyday private protests and attempts to stop her husband’s drinking fall on deaf ears. “My daughter, who is in college, tried to convince him not to give away the land, but do you think men listen to anything women have to say?” she asked bitterly. When asked about the fate of the compensation money being squandered on alcohol, she stared off into the distance, dejected and resigned to a future where the hard-earned gains of the community, and her family’s security, seem to be slipping away.
This situation reflects the broader challenges women face in Hasdeo. On one hand, they risk losing their participation in public affairs, economic security, and community life. Yet, despite their awareness and strong voices within the movement, the private dynamics of the household often push women to the background. Information about the movement, or critical decisions, is filtered through the men. Compounding these struggles is the rising issue of alcoholism among men in the community, which has left many women to face abuse and neglect. This dual loss – of public space and private autonomy – marks the complex and deeply layered reality for women in Hasdeo.
Shubhangi Derhgawen is a freelance journalist and a lead researcher with the Visual Storyboard Team of the Centre for New Economics Studies (CNES), O.P. Jindal Global University.
Deepanshu Mohan is a professor of economics, Dean, IDEAS, and Director, CNES. He is a visiting professor at the London School of Economics and an academic visiting fellow to AMES, University of Oxford.
This research forms part of a series of field-based essays produced by the Visual Storyboard team at the Centre for New Economics Studies (CNES), OP Jindal Global University, dedicated to amplifying the voices of tribal communities in Chhattisgarh.