BANGLADESH/INDIA: From No-Man's Land to the Unknown

For decades, more than 50,000 people have been stranded, without access to basic rights, on tiny islands of no-man’s land locked within India and Bangladesh. 2015 finally saw an end to these enclaves, or ‘chitmahals,’ bringing hope and change to communities living on the world’s most complex border.

The party lasted long into the night across remote patches of northern Bangladesh. As the clock struck midnight people played music, danced and sang using candles for light, and for the first time in their villages they raised a national flag. Similar events were also taking place on the other side of the border in India just a stone’s throw away. 

For 68 years, ever since the formation of East Pakistan in 1947 (which later became known as Bangladesh), the residents of one of the world’s greatest geographical border oddities have been waiting for this moment; for their chance to finally become part of the country that has surrounded yet eluded them for so many years.

At 12.01am on July 31st, 2015, India and Bangladesh finally exchanged 162 tracts of land — 111 inside Bangladesh and 51 inside India. 

Known in geographical terms as enclaves, or locally as chitmahals, these areas can most easily be described as sovereign pieces of land completely surrounded by another, entirely different, sovereign nation.

Inside an enclave, a man prepares jute by removing the long, soft vegetable fibres that can be spun into coarse, strong threads, and keeping the sticks. For many enclave dwellers, jute is where most of their income comes from and also what they use to build their houses.
 

Enclaves aren’t as rare as you may think, and until now this part of South Asia has contained the vast majority. Existing around the world, mostly in Europe and the former Soviet Union, they were once much more prevalent — until modern day cartography and accurately defined borders eliminated many. Some still remain, such as the Belgium town of Baarle-Hertog, which is full of Dutch territory. The locals have turned the unusual border into a tourist attraction. However, for this region of southern Asia, where political and religious tensions run high, the existence of enclaves is not so jovial. Life for those who are from these areas is far harder than in neighbouring villages, only minutes away.
 

Sisters Lobar Rani Bormoni, 11, and Shapla Rani Bormoni, 12, stand in a paddy field in the enclave in Bangladesh where they born.
 

“These enclaves are officially recognised by each state, but remain un-administered because of their discontinuous geography. Enclave residents are often described as “stateless” in that they live in zones outside of official administration — since officials of one country cannot cross a sovereign frontier into administered territory,” explains Jason Cons, a Research Assistant Professor at the LBJ School of Public Affairs at the University of Texas, Austin and author of the forthcoming book, ‘Sensitive Space: Fragmented Territory at the India-Bangladesh Border.’
 

Muslim men from Dhoholakhagrabari enclave pray in their mosque. Mosques are usually the only solid structures that exist inside the enclaves.
 

Several folktales tell of the origin of these enclaves being the stakes in a game of chess between two feuding maharajas in the 18th century, or even the result of a drunken British officer who spilt spots of ink on the map he drew during partition in 1947. Captivating as these stories are, the most likely explanation dates back to 1711 when a peace treaty was signed between the feuding Maharajah of Coch Behar and the Mughal Emperor in Delhi. After the treaty their respective armies retained and controlled areas of land, where the local people had to pay tax to the respective ruler, thus creating pockets of land controlled by different people.

Prior to 1947, when this region was entirely Indian territory, living in these locally-controlled enclaves made little difference. However, during the drawing of the boundary between India and Bangladesh, the Maharajah of Coch Behar asked to join India — on the condition that he retain all his land, including that inside the newly formed East Pakistan, which his ancestors had rightly won control of over 200 years ago.

So, through no fault of their own, the lives of 50,000 people turned upside down — for decades they have been stranded on islands of no-man’s land.

A man fishes at dusk using his large bamboo fish trap. This river exists just outside the enclave but as it’s in Bangladesh territory, enclave dwellers are forbidden to fish here otherwise angering the local fishermen. 

Enclave dwellers fish in a flooded paddy.

During the early 1970s a framework to find a solution to this problem was put in place — called the 1974 Land Boundary Agreement. For forty years, as governments came and went, neither the Indian nor the Bangladeshi politicians were able to agree with their counterparts at the time. And whilst the politicians squabbled, the residents suffered.

Only informal work, like at this sawmill, is available for enclave dwellers in Bangladesh.
 

On the ground there are no border fences or security checkpoints, and without realising it, you can walk in and out of India countless times, crossing an international boundary completely obliviously. However, there is a serious lack of infrastructure and this has been one of the most serious problems facing the residents. Paved roads quite literally stop at the boundaries to the chitmahals, as do electricity poles. The enclave inhabitants in Debiganj District of Bangladesh, as non-Bangladeshi citizens, were even barred from sending their children to school, also receiving no state assistance or even the most basic of hospital treatment.

Sheltered within their small bamboo house, located inside the enclave of Dhoholakhagrabari, Eity Rani, 14, and Shobo Rai, 8, carefully do their homework by the light of an oil lamp. Life is much harder for children who are born in enclaves.

 A Bangladeshi man sits in a shop in the market of a small town that sits between enclaves.

Every Saturday a jute market is held in Debiganj. For the many inhabitants of the enclaves that surround the town, jute is where most of their income comes from.

Wearing just a lungi — a traditional sarong worn around the waist — Sri Ajit Memo is sitting in the middle of a small muddy courtyard, surrounded by houses made of bamboo and jute sticks. At 55 years old, his family have lived in a Dhoholakhagrabari chitmahal for generations. Chewing on the twig of a certain tree that locals here use as an alternative to toothpaste, he explains, “All kinds of problems exist here. The government doesn’t care about us, or our children, and so it’s very difficult for them to even go to school. Honestly, we are Indian, but how can we feel this way when we get no help from them?”

For enclave dwellers on both sides of the Indian-Bangladeshi border, the entitlement to receive even the most basic of rights has eluded them.

Reece Jones, an Associate Professor in Political Geography at the University of Hawai’i Manoa, who has visited many chitmahals on both sides of the border, explains further, “After decades in this situation many people have found ways around it through bribes to officials or through friends who helped them to obtain the documents they needed, such as school enrolment forms for their children. However, the situation was not stable or secure. They were extremely vulnerable to theft and violence because the police had no jurisdiction in the enclaves.”
 

Rupsana Begum, 7, (pink dress) and Monalisa Akter, 7, (orange dress) are from an enclave but were able to come and study at Sher-e-Bangla Government School because their parents managed to acquire fake documents and were able to pay the school.

In Dhoholakhagrabari enclave students and their teacher sit in a madrassa class. Because enclave children have a difficult time accessing the education system in Bangladesh the locals of this enclave formed an Islamic Foundation funded on donations.

Today, after decades left living in limbo in these randomly placed no-man’s lands, around 47,000 people on the Bangladeshi side and some 14,000 on the Indian side have finally been given the right make a choice: stay where they have lived for generations with official citizenship of the country that will absorb them, or return to their country of origin.

None of the residents living in Bangladeshi enclaves within India asked to return to Bangladesh and as a result they will now all become Indian citizens. However, on the other side of the border in Bangladesh, whilst the vast majority of the Indian enclave dwellers decided to stay and become Bangladeshi citizens, 979 people requested to return to India. For these families, the enclave saga has yet to end.

Of those 979 individuals, a total of 406 come from Debiganj district. In 2011, a team of Indian officials visited every home in every enclave in Bangladesh and produced the first ever detailed census of all those living within the Indian enclaves. This report formed the basis of all subsequent decisions on the status of each person living in the enclaves.
 

An old lady inside her home, which has no running water or electricity, in Dayuti enclave.
 

Dhonobala Rani, 70, gets emotional knowing that she has to leave her son (in the blue shirt) behind in Bangladesh, as she takes Indian citizenship.

Several months after my visit to document the enclaves during the final days of their existence, those who had chosen to leave for India finally crossed the border, leaving their homes in Bangladesh forever. In India they were given land and began the process of integrating into Indian society. Those who chose to stay behind in Bangladesh also started to receive such basic rights as eligibility to vote and access to health care.

Let us hope that after decades of struggle on these isolated political islands, the lives of these ex-enclaves dwellers can begin to reach some level of normalcy. In the end, after so many years of uncertainty, the world’s strangest border region has now become a thing of the past.

A lady from Ponchoki Bhajini village, in the enclave of Dhoholakhagrabari. She has chosen to leave for India, to start a new life as an Indian citizen. 
 

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

LUKE DUGGLEBY

Luke Duggleby is a British freelance documentary and travel photographer living in Bangkok.

ETHIOPIA: Suspended in Time

The moon shines brightly, as white robe and candle mark the lines of pilgrims winding their way up the hillside, to reach the ancient rock-hewn churches of Lalibela — a sacred place for those of the Christian faith since the 12th century.

According to the legends, men and angels worked together to construct the remarkable rock-hewn churches of Lalibela — the men working through the day and the angels taking over during the night.

Many historians believe that these great monolithic churches were commissioned during the reign of Saint Gebre Mesqel Lalibela, who ruled Ethiopia in the late 12th century and early 13th century, when the town was known as Roha. When Lalibela, whose name means “the bees recognise his sovereignty” in Old Agaw, was born, it is said that a swarm of bees surrounded him, which his mother took as a sign of his future reign as Emperor of Ethiopia. So the mythos tells us, Lalibela later visited Jerusalem, and after its capture by the Muslim caliphate in 1187 he swore to build another such sacred place of pilgrimage in his own country.

Each of Lalibela’s eleven churches was carved from a single piece of solid rock to symbolize spirituality and humility. The churches seem timeless, painstakingly excavated from the ground itself. It is believed that they were constructed first by digging out a kind of moat and were then hewn from the square rock that remained. The degree of craftsmanship and countless hours of heavy manual labour that it must have taken to carve out these wonders with hand tools alone is astounding. The churches are connected through a labyrinth of tunnels and sit beside a small river, called Jordan, and many other features also have Biblical names.

Just as astounding as the architecture, is that the churches have been in continuous use throughout the centuries since they were built.

Today, Lalibela is a town of no more than ten thousand people, but over a tenth of those are priests. Ritual and religion are the twin fulcrums upon which life in this place spins. Many times a year, there are processions, fasting, dancing, and the sound of many voices lifted up in song.

I feel privileged to have been in the holy city of Lalibela on many occasions and it continues to be one of the most fascinating photography trips I take anywhere in the world. It is a jump back in time, a photographic journey beyond compare. With the churches dimly lit by flickering candles, surrounded by faith and roughhewn rock — it is an entire world suspended in the 12th century.

Easter week in Lalibela is the most extraordinary in the year, when many thousands of devotees dressed in white will gather from all over the country, and father afield, to profess their love and Christian faith.

We land, and I arrive at the tiny, ancient airport terminal. To the left is an unmoving, rusted out conveyor belt with no hope of resurrection. Dragging my bags along behind me I reach the famous ‘Shuttle’. We are told to put the bags around back in the trunk. It is jammed, of course.

A few people toss their bags on the roof and the rest keep them on their laps once seated. I find a seat wedged between my bags and the stairwell, ending up intimately, uncomfortably close to my seat-mate. After a flat and long slow climb we reach the town on three and a half wheels.

“Ferengui... Ferengui...” (Foreigner... Foreigner...), I hear them murmuring amongst themselves. The time is 5:30 in the morning, and it is still dark. The inside of the church is small, austere, and it is difficult to move around discreetly by oneself let alone with a camera, and no cloak to help me meld with the darkness so thick that the eyes can hardly adjust. There is a candle here and there, occasional light through a tiny upper window, and the sudden glare of an opening door. Precious little else to see by.

The moon shines brightly over the hillsides and the lines of ascending faithful are seen thanks to the candles they carry up towards the church. In the morning half-light, the first chants begin. Voices lift.

Suspended in a parenthesis of time, I am witness to the rising dawn over the year 1100, as the first light breaks free of the horizon.

Swathed in long white robes, men and women come up the hill in silence. The lines of the path are drawn in the darkness by cloth and candle.

I have found a spot to wait in, where the faithful will have to pass by me. The more timid among them hid their faces in their cloaks, but the less so look at me squarely in the eyes. No aggression. Simply curious, trying to discern what on earth I am doing up here before dawn, if I am not here to pray, and what I am so patiently photographing.

The hours seem like moments, and I am alone, though among many. The fervor of the devotees as I move through the shadowed churches touches me deeply. These scenes, even for a skeptic who tries to stay propped behind his camera and maintaining distance, are magical. Moving.

HARRY FISCH

@NomadXpedition 

Harry Fisch is a travel photographer and leader of photo tours to exotic destinations with my company Nomad Photo Expeditions. He is also a winner and loser of the 2012 World National Geographic Photo Contest.

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA

KOREA: The Inner Lives of Korean Monks

Almost entirely cut off from the world, enclosed by mountains that resemble the petals of a lotus flower, lies one of the jewels of Korean Buddhism. As winter melted into spring, Alexandre Sattler lived alongside the monks, privileged to witness their daily lives and rituals.

"TEMPLE OF THE SPREADING PINE"

Looked upon as one of the Three Jewel Temples of Korea and renowned for its teaching of dharma — the eternal law of the cosmos, inherent in the very nature of things — today Songgwangsa is one of the foremost temples in the world for practising Korean Buddhism. In search of spiritual awakening, monks, pilgrims, believers and tourists all find their way here, to learn, meditate and exchange ideas.

Around 1190, Jinul, who was a master of seon, the Korean variant of Zen, stopped in front of an abandoned temple at the centre of a mountainous valley, where an abundant stream was flowing. He planted his stick in the ground and announced to his followers that in this place — from then on known as Gilsangsa — they were going to build a new temple.

According to legend, the stick took root, and is still waiting for Venerable Jinul to be reincarnate before flowering. This is how, at the very heart of what has become Jogyesan Provincial Park, a few tens of kilometres away from the sea, the prestigious temple of Songgwangsa — or “the Spreading Pine,” in keeping with one of its etymologies — now stands. Held to be one of Korea’s greatest national treasures, it currently falls under the jurisdiction of the Jogye Order, one of the branches of Korean Buddhism.

Almost entirely cut off from the outside world, Songgwangsa is enclosed by mountains, and wooden edifices occupy both sides of the stream which flows through the site. None of the spaces between the buildings is linear, as is often the case with traditional Japanese temples. Here, it seems as if man has reconciled himself to nature without attempting to impose upon it. Snakelike pathways move from one temple to another according to the whims of the contours.

To erect the temple, the monks-turned-builders depended on feng shui doctrine, favouring the feminine energies, or yin, of the place. It is said that the surrounding mountains resemble the leaves of an enormous lotus flower, whose stamens are represented the temple buildings. So as not to impede the flow of energies, the monks chose not to draw upon dome-like stûpa — synonymous with yang, or masculine energy — unlike the custom in other Korean temples.

I came to Songgwangsa in February, at the tail end of winter. It seemed as if Nature was still asleep. The sky was grey, the temperature barely more than five degrees. When the bus stopped at the terminal, the other travellers and I found ourselves standing at the foot of Mount Jogye. The climb up to the temple is magnificent. As you follow the banks of a waterway, slumbering pines appear out of the fog and the wind whistles softly in the bamboo plants. It takes around twenty minutes of quiet, contemplative walking to reach your destination.

Initially, I had thought that I would only spend four or five days at Songgwangsa, but the monks made me see that time should not be rushed, and that new things tend to come to us when we are prepared to receive them. On entering the reception room, I discovered first of all that I had been admitted on the basis of a misunderstanding. Journalists and photographers are usually sent to a different temple.

Despite this, I was granted an unadorned room with a mattress, blanket and pillow, which I would learn to fold carefully and tidy away in a little cupboard each morning. I came to realise that to write and take photographs, it would be necessary to be truly met with approval by the whole community. More than anything, I would need to commit myself to the daily rhythm of the monks, their rites and ceremonies.

After a time, I was accepted by the sangha. The monks became fond of coming to say hello and talk to me, and some of them regularly invited me to take tea in their cells. I formed a friendship with Dokejo Sunim, the senior monk in charge of instruction in dharma and also a photographer.

During my first week I learned to live as the monks do, following their teachings and taking part in their prayers, meals or daily tasks. But I was not yet allowed to capture the slightest image. It was actually only because every member of the assembled community gave their consent that I became the first photographer permitted to take shots of their ceremonial spaces, or of the incredibly intimate tonsure.

In fact, Dokejo Sunim told me that previously, no other professional had been trusted to take these kinds of photos, and that in all likelihood it would never happen again. For this reason, the photos I publish here are an exception of sorts. At the end of my stay, Dokejo Sunim even requested that each and every one of my shots be sent to him.

Upon my arrival at Songgwangsa, the monks had explained that the winter retreat was nearing its end, but invited me to stay until the first full moon of the new season. If I prolonged my stay, they suggested, I would be able to meet Venerable Hyon Gak Sunim, a monk well versed in English who would be able to have a more in-depth conversation with me. In the following weeks, although I became used to crossing paths with Venerable Hyon Gak Sunim, it was impossible for him to speak to me, as he had made a vow of silence for three months. So I decided to extend my stay and wait until the very end of his winter retreat.

“Buddhism is a science whose proposed theories are only proven after they have been experienced.”

I like this idea. They say that the Buddha used to end his addresses with the following, “Don’t believe what I tell you, experience it for yourselves.”

As spring took her first breath, so Venerable Hyon Gak Sunim emerged at last from his weeks of silence. He seemed happy about our encounter, which he led with incredible energy and presence. His voice often broke the room’s silence, and his words deeply affected me.

One day, I made the point that life in the temple felt distant from the material world lived in by much of humankind. I asked him my questions about meditation and the search for release which seems to be too inward-looking, while all around me I sense the urgency for change, to ensure a sustainable future for everyone. Why choose to pray here, I wondered, far from all of us, while we are in desperate need of spiritual light to make sense of our everyday actions and our place in the world?

“Prayers are like carbon reservoirs”

Venerable Hyon Gak Sunim explained to me that prayers are like trees, silently maintaining the vital balance of man and life on Earth. Each tree, no matter how large or small, acts as a “reservoir,” soaking up atmospheric carbon, unobtrusively helping to reduce the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, and lessening global warming as a result. Skimming over a forest, you see only the trees and their impact remains invisible. It is the same with prayer.

Coming to Korea, I could not help but compare this country to Japan, where I had lived previously. Knowing that Hyon Gak Sunim had also lived in Japan, I asked if he could explain the difference between Japanese and Korean Buddhism. He told me, “In Japan, people eat with chopsticks. In India, with their hands. In Europe, with a knife and fork. In Korea, people eat with a spoon and chopsticks… but at the end of the meal, they all have a full stomach! Whatever the technique, the result is the same, Buddhism simply offers different routes into enlightenment.”

This story has only become a reality through the involvement of all the monks at Songgwangsa and the help of Yong Joo An and Jieun Lee. All my thanks go to them. Original text translated from French by Zoë Sanders, Maptia.

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA 

 

ALEXANDRE SATTLER

www.gaia-images.com 

Alexandre Sattler is a photographer, traveler, and producer of audio documentaries on our planet's diverse cultures. With an aim to showcase our shared humanity and the environment, more of his work is available on through gaia-images. 

AFGHANISTAN: No Burqas Behind Bars

In this upcoming, feature-length documentary by Nima Sarvestani, the viewer is taken inside one of the world's most restricted environments: an Afghan women's prison. Through the prisoners' stories we explore how "moral crimes" are used to control women in post-Taliban Afghanistan. And no — full burqas are not allowed inside the prison gates!