Walking through the Kochi-Muziris Biennale (KMB) venues, one thing was clear: people need to understand that the Biennale is more than just about what's on display at the Aspinwall House or Pepper House. It is a reflection of a society that needs to be scrutinised rather than something to merely glance over.
The TKM Warehouse, one of the venues of the Kochi-Muziris Biennale 2023, houses various invitation programmes; 'Communities of Choice' being one of them. 'Communities of Choice', presented by the Chennai Photo Biennale Foundation and Ffotogallery (Wales) with the support of the British Council, poses a few underlying questions and exhibits photographs and news articles of various social issues that have not received adequate acknowledgment.
The exhibition aims to use the expression of emerging artists from India and Wales to create and develop bodies of work that explore the concepts of belonging and inclusion. It also explores themes like gender disability, politics, constructs of race/caste, identity, and sustainable community. The concept note of the invitations programme describes the exhibition:
Who am I?
Where do I belong?
Do I belong to A community?
Do I belong to many?
Palani Kumar's 'Out of Breath', a photo exhibition in the 'Communities of Choice' programme, depicts the hardships and suffering of manual scavengers in India, particularly in Tamil Nadu, and leaves many viewers feeling distressed by its portrayal of reality.
Manual scavenging—the act of manually cleaning human excrement from drainage and sewers—and employing people to do it have been banned in India according to the Employment of Manual Scavengers and Construction of Dry Latrines (Prohibition) Act of 1993. This law was replaced in 2013 with the Prohibition of Employment of Manual Scavengers and Their Rehabilitation Act, which outlaws the use of dry latrines as well as the manual cleaning of unhygienic latrines, pits, and open drains.
And yet, it is still been practiced in several states of India, especially Tamil Nadu. The series of photographs portrays the harsh realities of the lives of these oppressed scavengers and their deaths. As of December 31, 2022, the National Commission for Safai Karamcharis estimates that hazardous cleaning of septic and sewer tanks has resulted in the deaths of 1,054 people since 1993. Many people do the activity of cleaning sewage and drainage systems without any protective gear, leading to the most common cause of death among them—asphyxiation due to the inhalation of toxic gases.
“This is an everyday happening in India, but the issue has been avoided by the masses,” says Kumar, “and that is why I chose to fight for them by exhibiting photographs on the issue and showing the reality.” Despite the prevalence of reservation systems in society, finding employment outside stereotyped, long-term caste-based occupations is not easy. The hierarchical power structure plays a role in maintaining the situation by appointing and calling them for scavenger work.
Even if people want to leave, there seem to be no other job options available to them because no one is willing to give them jobs other than those, leading to a clear case of discrimination. As a result, people are forced to scavenge to acquire food for their families, who are sometimes kept in the dark about their occupation.
People suffer deaths due to asphyxiation because none of them have been provided with protective gear while working, even while having to fully submerge under these contaminated waters. In all of these upheavals, their children resort to and fall into these roles, and the cycle of discrimination continues.
Kumar is ready to talk about manual scavenging anywhere and everywhere until it is acknowledged and necessary actions are taken. “We say photography has the power to change the world, and many instances have shown that,” he says, “but in India, we have to constantly fight for it to be impactful.” Manual scavengers have played a huge part in the times of the pandemic and cyclones, and yet no one recognises their work. It has been more than five years since Kumar started documenting the lives of manual scavengers and their families, and yet he points out how nothing has changed in their lives and they still continue to suffer silently.
Union Finance Minister Nirmala Sitharaman recently announced that this year's budget will allocate around Rs 100 crores for the newly named NAMASTE (National Action Plan for Mechanised Sanitation Ecosystem) scheme and that "all cities and towns will be enabled for 100 per cent mechanical desludging of septic tanks and sewers to transition from manhole to machine-hole mode" as part of the announcement regarding urban sanitation in the budget for the year 2023.
“These are ‘election duties’ of the government,” says Kumar. “We are waiting for a time when the government will actually implement the law seriously and manual scavenging is going to end.”
“India has the power and technology to replace the work of manual scavengers with machinery and yet failed to do so,” states Kumar, and further says: “Why does the government not take murder charges against the people who employ the manual scavengers, knowing it is banned?”
The photographs convey the question of why nothing changed in their lives. Why are there no actions taken against people who assign jobs for manual scavenging, even after knowing it is illegal? Why are people not provided with protective gear before work? Why are these people unable to find other jobs having to reluctantly rely on being manual scavengers? Why are there no machines available for the job? Or, more importantly, why is India's drainage system still reliant on manual labour and not being prioritised for improvement?
“We are part of a web of interwoven communities. Some we have the privilege to choose, while others are simply assigned to us.” In the end, this description in the concept note seems more accurate than ever, as it captures the myriad of issues the community—which did not have a choice—had to deal with.
