Ambernath, Thane district: Las or vaccine is a taboo word in Circus ground, one of the major settlements of several denotified and nomadic communities in Ambernath in Thane district, over 50-kilometres from Mumbai. Anyone raised the topic of COVID-19 vaccines in the 25-year-old settlement, which houses over 340 houses, is looked at with suspicion.

The vaccination drive, which was kickstarted on January 16 this year, has had a bumpy run in most parts of the country. But in the Nath Panti Gosavi Samaj Sanstha, a settlement of some of the most exploited and historically marginalised communities, the drive is yet to make any headway.

Over two and a half decades ago, several migratory communities began to slowly settle on one side of a large circus ground. First, the Nath Panti Gosavi community, a semi-nomadic community that traditionally travelled around with cows and sought alms, moved here. Slowly followed the Banjara, Ghisadi, Mariaaiwale, Pardhi, Gondhali and Banjara communities. Almost all of them are still engaged in their traditional work and have to travel long distances for sustenance.

There are several reasons why residents here have refuse to get vaccinated. While a part of the problem is misinformation that gets consumed on social media, the larger issue is the evident absence of state intervention in the region.

The community leaders here complain that the local administration has made no efforts to reach out to residents and bust their misconceptions. “You can’t expect communities, that are unlettered and generally lack trust in the modern medical system to readily accept vaccination. It takes a lot of effort, a community-based campaign to turn things around,” explains Bhimrao Ingole.

Ingole is one of the community leaders and belongs to the Gosavi community. He and others have been going to each block, trying to talk the residents into trusting the vaccines. He is doing what the state should ideally be doing, he feels. He, along with yougsters from the community, have been educating residents about the deadly nature of the virus and the importance of masking up at all times. Their efforts have ensured that no one from the settlement has fallen sick so far.

“But there is only so much we can do. A community that doesn’t get access to medical care on most days will obviously be suspicious of the state’s claims (about the vaccination drive),” Ingole feels.

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Ingole, like another community leader Dilip Salunke, has been trying to get the first jab. But inadequate supplies and a general lack of understanding of how to navigate through the government's Co-WIN portal have made it impossible for them to get vaccinated. “If some of us get vaccinated at least, we can convince the rest to trust the drive,” Salunke feels.

Salunke says it is not just the sense of distrust but something much deeper that has seen the drive fall flat. Much before the coronavirus ravaged the country, many communities living on the margins have faced difficulties in accessing the medical system. Most families here are on the move, travelling from one city to another and making do with whatever is available to them. In most instances, when the formal health setup is inaccessible, the communities have trusted indigenous methods to cure themselves.

Kamlabai Salunke, a Ghisadi woman in her late 70s, shares that she distrusts the health facilities available here. “Each time I went to the central hospital or a private hospital close by, I was treated so rudely that I stopped going there. And it is not just the ill-treatment. The hospitals lack the infrastructure,” she complains. Another woman, Kosahamma Basappa Jangam, says that many families here don’t have government-issued documents, making things even more difficult. “Several families don’t have a ration card, or Aadhaar (card). How do they even get themselves vaccinated?” she asks.

Until a few months ago, houses in the settlement were just tarpaulin and cloth tents. The community collectively decided to move to something more concrete. Tin sheets were bought in bulk and placed in tiny blocks. These structures are temporary too and have already run into several problems with the local administration, but the collective assertion of the community had kept them going.

Almost all communities – denotified tribes and nomadic tribes – have suffered great indignity at the hands of the state and society. Their constantly mobile lives make them a lot more vulnerable to state action. Most of the nomadic and denotified communities have historically faced segregation and criminalisation. That has also added to their distrust in the system.

“Most people here look at the state with great suspicion. Interaction with the state can never be a pleasant one, most people here believe. And then when the state fails to take the inoculation drive to the community and instead expects the community to find its way to the drive, it ought to fail,” Salunka feels.

This experience is not restricted to one settlement. You can see a pattern across every state, says Deepa Pawar, a senior community leader who runs a non-governmental organisation called Anubhuti. Pawar’s organisation has spent the past year reaching out to the many nomadic communities and helping them in the time of distress. There are close to 50 nomadic and denotified communities living in Maharashtra. Most of these communities, numerically so small in size, struggle to stay afloat. Their living conditions have only worsened during the pandemic, Pawar states.

“Last year, the country was abruptly put under lockdown. Most nomadic communities are dependent on their movement for survival and were forced to stay where they were. Incomes depleted and most states failed to reach out to the community in the time of crisis,” Pawar explains. This, she says, only added to the general sense of distrust in the government and its measures like vaccination.

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