The betrayal felt in the still-recovering areas hit by the Delhi riots makes coronavirus more of a threat

Jaffrabad, Maujpur, Chand Bagh, Gokulpuri, and more – those of us living our cushioned lives in India‘s capital hadn’t thought much about these areas until three-odd days of mob violence took 53 lives and injured over 200, a majority of the dead and injured being Muslims.

Unofficial estimates have these figures much higher. Even though there are indications of the areas coming back to life, an uneasy calm lies just under the surface. Fear, grief, trauma, anger, disbelief, hopelessness come together to tell stories of loss – of lives, livelihoods, material goods, and most of all trust. History tells us that these kinds of losses linger for generations.

In some of the worst-affected areas, survivors are trickling back. But the stench of burning still lingers in the lanes, and even those who have lived here for two decades don’t yet feel safe enough to stay the night. During and in the aftermath of the violence – I believe pogrom is the right word, given that the police looked on as Muslims were attacked, and some even allegedly joined in the violence – an ad hoc and decentralised citizen-led relief network emerged, taking the lead in rescuing people in distress (a court order was needed to let ambulances through during the worst of the violence), providing immediate relief, and now helping survivors get back on their feet.

No political party has yet come out with a statement unconditionally condemning the violence. In fact, there is evidence that goes beyond that. Eyewitness accounts tell how the police stood aside as arson, stone-pelting, murder, and more took place; Delhi Police (who come under the central government, not the state) later claimed they had “no orders to act”. Even grievously injured survivors were harassed in government hospitals. In short, trust in the authorities is at an all-time low.

In early February, when Delhi went to polls, and the incumbent Aam Aadmi Party (AAP) – literally, Common Man Party – came back in power with an overwhelming majority, this appeared to be a win of secularism over the divisive ideologies of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), which has been at power in the centre since 2014. However, the AAP’s silence on the centre’s new citizenship law and on the Shaheen Bagh sit-in protest that’s been going on in Delhi since 15 December 2019 (which has now spread to dozens of similar peaceful protests around the country) should have been a clue.

The silence stretched to when the violence broke out in Delhi on 23 February. This manifested most starkly in the wishy washy relief response. “There is a trust factor involved here given the absence of the state,” says a volunteer/organiser of relief operations – let’s call her Asha. “Civil society can’t replace that.” When the violence started, she adds, the Delhi government wasn’t ready with an SOS response. There were people in distress, injured, scared, who needed to be rescued, given first aid, and more. There were plenty of citizen who stepped up to fill the breach, “but at first we didn’t know how to connect”. Asha is one of the dozens of people who have been on the ground since 23 February, organising and distributing relief material, including food, clothes, sanitary items, bedding, and more.

Even now, distrust, particularly of the police, is widespread; young Muslim men are being picked up. Relief workers have been threatened, and in some cases their material looted; they have also been questioned and detained by the police. One survivor, who lost her home and all her possessions to arson, said that it was only thanks to paramilitary personnel who formed human chains around them to help them escape that they survived. “The police just stood there.”

“The state needs to step up,” says Asha. “There are people who may be able to come back to their homes but have lost their livelihoods. Others have lost everything. During a crisis, people do step in, but in the long term damage assessment, rehabilitation are needed [for people to move on with their lives].”

In Khajuri Khas, one of the worst affected areas, a Delhi government relief assistance booth made its first appearance on 14 March, manned by a team of paralegals. They were helping the locals file compensation claims and police reports, but citizen volunteers are far ahead of the curve. Citizen-led legal camps have been operational for weeks. Teams on the ground are documenting the livelihood loss in the worst affected areas, and then crowdfunding the money to help people restart their businesses. At the time of writing, one group had raised 1.7m rupees (£1,700), helping almost a dozen households start the repair work needed to restart their livelihoods.

With the shadow of a Covid-19 outbreak hanging on all our heads, these densely populated areas and the crowded relief camps are now facing an added challenge over and above uncertain futures. Social distancing is an impossibility here at the best of times; it is completely impossible in the current situation. Doctors volunteering at one such camp in north-east Delhi, one that houses about 1,500 survivors, some already injured and ailing, say that the risk of infection is high. “But what can we do?”

Seems dismissive and alarming from the outside, but for those of us who have been inside, as survivors, as media, as relief workers, it is understandable. The destruction is so acute, the fear and betrayal are so immense, that something like the Covid-19 feels too abstract to imagine as a threat.