ADIVASI IDENTITY AND BELONGING IN NORTH BENGAL TODAY

In the mist-veiled valleys of North Bengal, there exist communities whose stories have been written in whispers. The Adivasi people, descendants of those who once walked freely through the Sal forests of Central India, now inhabit a geography of silence, their presence marking both the violence of colonial displacement and the quiet persistence of survival. 

As I document the experiences of Adivasi communities in North Bengal, particularly in the Darjeeling region, I write from a place of deep empathy and firm solidarity with indigenous peoples whose voices have long been marginalized in mainstream discourse. This article emerges from a genuine conviction that these stories of resilience, struggle, and survival demand to be heard, understood, and honoured.

As Nepali-speaking Gorkhas, we understand intimately what it means to exist on society's margins, to fight for recognition and dignity in spaces that often deny both. Yet this shared experience of marginalization compels us to examine truths about how power operates within oppressed communities themselves.

The urgency of this documentation stems partly from my own community's position within the complex hierarchies of oppression that characterize our region. As Nepali-speaking Gorkhas, we understand intimately what it means to exist on society's margins, to fight for recognition and dignity in spaces that often deny both. Yet this shared experience of marginalization compels us to examine truths about how power operates within oppressed communities themselves.

The most troubling manifestation of this internal hierarchy lies in how Adivasi people are systematically reduced to providers of domestic labour and manual work; a reduction that our own community, despite our struggles, has at times perpetuated. The practice of bringing young Adivasi children, predominantly girls as young as ten, into hill households as domestic help represents one of the most profound moral contradictions we must confront. These children arrive under the narrative of rescue; we tell ourselves and others that they come from families on the brink of starvation, that we are offering them opportunity and care.

Yet in reality a different story is revealed. These children work from dawn to dusk, their wages minimal, their childhood sacrificed to household demands. We cloak this exploitation in the language of kinship, ‘She is like family,’ we say while simultaneously denying them the fundamental rights we would never question for our own children. The promise of education becomes a fiction; after a few months, we rationalize their absence from school with claims that they ‘weren't interested in studying’ or ‘preferred working to learning.’ These narratives serve largely to assuage our collective guilt while maintaining systems that benefit us at the expense of the most vulnerable.

We cloak this exploitation in the language of kinship, ‘She is like family,’ we say while simultaneously denying them the fundamental rights we would never question for our own children.

My own family has never brought young Adivasi children into our home as domestic help, yet this does not absolve me of complicity. In my hometown of Kurseong, I have seen these children navigating the narrow streets and steep paths, their small figures carrying burdens far heavier than their years should bear. What haunts most deeply is the terror that shadows their words when they mention their ‘owners’, the fear of scolding, of being cast out with nowhere to go. These children understand, with a clarity that should shame us all, that their precarious shelter depends entirely on their silence and compliance. 

The cruel mathematics of their situation is stark: endure exploitation or face destitution. This impossible choice, imposed on children who should be learning to read rather than learning to survive, represents one of the most damning indictments of how we have failed as a community. Their stories remind us that our collective silence makes us all complicit in a system that treats the most vulnerable as expendable.

This contradiction demands honest reckoning. How can we speak authentically about social justice while participating in structures that exploit those even more marginalized than ourselves? The struggle for justice cannot be selective, nor can it ignore the ways in which oppressed communities sometimes become agents of oppression for those with even less power. Writing about Adivasi experiences, therefore, becomes an act of camaraderie that must begin with self-reflection and accountability. It requires acknowledging that the fight against injustice must include transformation that extends beyond our immediate community’s interests.

This article emerges from a deep belief that justice is indivisible; that the liberation of any community cannot be built upon the continued oppression of another. In focusing on Adivasi voices and experiences, I aim to contribute to a broader understanding of how interconnected our struggles truly are, and how genuine solidarity requires not just empathy, but action toward abolishing all forms of systemic injustice.

History of the Adivasi Displacement and Migration 

The marginalization of Adivasi communities in North Bengal cannot be understood without examining the colonial machinery that first displaced them from their ancestral lands (Behal, 143). During the mid-19th century, as British tea planters established extensive plantations across Darjeeling, Jalpaiguri, and Cooch Behar, they required vast amounts of cheap, controllable labour (Goswami, 78). The solution lay in systematically recruiting Adivasi populations from the tribal belts of central and eastern India, primarily the Santhal, Oraon, Munda, and Kharia communities from present-day Jharkhand, Odisha, and Chhattisgarh (Saikia, 287).

The Santhal community, for instance, brought with them rich oral traditions, the Sarna religious system centered on nature worship, and intricate social structures governed by traditional councils.

Colonial recruitment agents, known as 'arkatis,' penetrated Adivasi villages during periods of acute distress; droughts, famines, and social upheaval caused partly by colonial land policies that had already disrupted traditional subsistence systems (Behal and Mohapatra, 25). These agents painted vivid pictures of prosperity awaiting workers in the tea gardens of North Bengal and Assam, promising regular wages, housing, and escape from mounting debts and landlord exploitation (Chatterjee, 89). For communities whose cosmology was deeply rooted in specific landscapes, where sacred groves, ancestral burial grounds, and seasonal agricultural cycles formed the foundation of cultural identity, the decision to migrate represented a profound rupture (Fernandes, 248).

The Santhal community, for instance, brought with them rich oral traditions, the Sarna religious system centered on nature worship, and intricate social structures governed by traditional councils (Kandulna,127). Similarly, Oraon migrants carried forward their distinct Kurukh language, seasonal festivals like Karma and Sarhul that celebrated their relationship with forests, and sophisticated knowledge systems about medicinal plants and sustainable agriculture (Kar, "Panoramic View", 34). However, the indenture system that awaited them bore little resemblance to the promises made (Tinker, 156). Bound by contracts they often couldn't read, these communities found themselves trapped in a cycle of debt and dependence that would persist for generations, their cultural practices gradually eroded by the demands of plantation labour and spatial confinement (Bhowmik, 241).

The following interviews bring forward the voices of members from the Adivasi community who spoke to me with honesty and courage. Through their stories, we see what it means to live under layers of prejudice and systemic neglect, and yet, to persist. These are not just accounts of hardship, but of strength, identity, and the determination to carve out a future despite challenges.

VOICES OF IDENTITY: ETHNOGRAPHIC NARRATIVES

Amar Tudu: Academic Excellence and Cultural Pride

In Darjeeling Polytechnic's hallways, Amar Tudu moves with the understated confidence of someone who has traveled far from origins yet remains deeply rooted. As a chemistry lecturer from the Santhal community, his presence represents not just personal achievement, but quiet revolution in indigenous representation in higher education.

When Amar speaks about identity, there's no hesitation: ‘I belong to the Santhal community, and I'm proud of who I am and where I come from.’ In spaces where indigenous voices have been marginalized, this declaration carries extraordinary weight, a conscious rejection of assimilationist pressures pushing Adivasi individuals to hide cultural identities professionally.

Our conversations often return to relationships between Santhal worldview and environmental challenges. ‘Our closeness to nature isn't a weakness,’ Amar insists. ‘It's our strength. We understand sustainability not as a theory, but as a way of life.’ This reflects deep frustration with how indigenous knowledge systems have been dismissed as folklore while ‘modern’ systems have precipitated unprecedented ecological crises.

Education remains the most formidable challenge facing Santhal communities. ‘Most youths barely finish secondary school,’ he explains. ‘They drop out not by choice, but because families need them to work. When daily wages decide survival, education takes a back seat.’ This economic reality drives many young Santhals into migrant labour, their intellectual potential dissolved into India's vast informal economy.

Perhaps more painful than economic barriers is psychological pressure to hide identity. Earlier generations ‘avoided speaking Santhali in urban spaces because they feared being seen as backward.’ This internalized shame represents colonialism's most insidious legacy; creating hierarchies positioning indigenous cultures as inferior. Amar's response has been one of resistance. ‘I speak Santhali with pride. I will talk about our festivals and traditions. If that makes people uncomfortable, that's their prejudice.’ This linguistic assertion constitutes cultural activism, challenging unspoken expectations that professional advancement requires cultural abandonment.

Furthermore, as a first few to attend college from his family and now as a lecturer, he affirmed ‘I'm privileged to be here but privilege comes with responsibility. Every lecture carries my community's hopes. I cannot afford to fail.’ However, such achievements unfortunately have to contend with stereotypes that constrain how Santhals are perceived. He states ‘People still see us as noble savages or troublemaking insurgents. Both deny our humanity.’ These binary representations effectively erase complex realities of contemporary Adivasi life. Nonetheless his vision extends beyond the laboratory to encompass mentorship and cultural bridge-building. His visibility creates pathways for other Santhal students to envision similar roles, building what he hopes becomes an expanding network of indigenous professionals. ‘This isn't the end of our story,’ he states with quiet firmness. ‘This is just the beginning.’

Amman Son Tirkey: Tradition and Transformation

When Amman Son Tirkey spoke about his journey from Hasimara in Alipurduar district to pursuing Electrical Engineering, his story unfolded as one of resilience and evolving consciousness about identity. Despite humble circumstances, his parents worked various odd jobs to support his education, never allowing him to feel their financial burden.

This support becomes remarkable against a broader village context. ‘Most end up dropping out and moving into manual labor,’ Amman observed. ‘It's a cycle that's hard to break, poverty leads to dropping out, which leads to more poverty.’ His awareness that his educational journey represents exception rather than norm fuels both determination and responsibility. Through his grandfather's influence, Amman developed a deep appreciation for Adivasi traditions and animistic practices. ‘He taught me that our culture isn't something to be ashamed of, but something to be celebrated and preserved.’ This intergenerational transmission became the cornerstone of his identity formation.

However, navigating cultural identity in educational spaces presented challenges. ‘The stereotyping that marginalized communities face makes these interactions really challenging,’ he explained. ‘You encounter assumptions based on where you come from.’ This constant navigation across social contexts had become exhausting, yet through these experiences, Amman views education as fundamentally transformative. ‘Education is truly the emancipator here,’ he asserted. ‘It gives us tools and confidence to challenge stereotypes while still honouring our roots.’ Despite challenges, he maintains optimism, viewing education as a key mechanism for greater social transformation.

Significantly, Amman's educational experiences led him to develop critical perspectives on certain traditional aspects. While expressing deep appreciation for cultural practices, he shared concerns about gender dynamics in religious ceremonies, noting women's exclusion from central participation while being relegated to preparatory work. ‘This troubles me because women from our community have always been strong and capable. They deserve equal rights and inclusion in all aspects of our cultural and spiritual life.’Additionally, reflecting on the inclusivity of cultural preservation and progressive change, he expressed 'Preserving our identity doesn't mean we can't question practices that exclude certain members of our own community.’ This revealed how education enriched his vocabulary for critical thinking, while his grandfather's teachings instilled foundational pride essential for constructive reflection.

Nawin Xalxo: Entrepreneurship and Identity Navigation

Nawin Xalxo an entrepreneur from Bagdogra in Darjeeling district shares his story that reveals how cultural pride can coexist with strategic adaptation, creating new possibilities for indigenous advancement. His journey began with intergenerational trauma defining his worldview. ‘My father was jailed over a land dispute by people from our own Adivasi community,’ he recounted. This early exposure to intra-community conflict revealed complex dynamics where progress and tradition sometimes clash. The injustice became the driving force and burden. Academic pressure became suffocating until he discovered karate, sparking confidence and business vision. When internet access arrived, ‘Instead of entertainment, I used it to educate myself through TED Talks and self-help programs.’ This digital exposure revealed possibilities beyond his community's typical professional options.

Nawin's relationship with cultural identity reveals sophisticated navigation between authenticity and adaptation. ‘For a long period, I was disconnected from my roots, but later got grounded again. It felt necessary for individual growth to learn how the world outside operates.’ This wasn't cultural abandonment but strategic expansion, acquiring mainstream cultural capital while maintaining core identity. His current community relationship reflects both opportunities and burdens of visible success. ‘Many youths consider me an inspiration, but there are also people who think I'm a fraud.’ This tension illustrates how exceptional achievement can both bridge and create barriers within one's community.

Nawin's perspective on Adivasi identity challenges both internal and external stereotypes. ‘We have the best genetics when it comes to survival. During COVID, we were least affected. We only lack resources. If we combine traditional culture with modern science, we could emerge as one of the strongest humans.’ This biological confidence coexists with honest community observation: ‘Many people are very talented and can dominate any sector, but there are weaknesses, fear of exposing themselves to the world, laziness, and poor decisions.'

When discussing discrimination, Nawin's experience reveals how competence can overcome bias: ‘I never faced overt discrimination because my knowledge gave me an edge.’ His vision emphasizes both structural opportunity and individual responsibility: ‘We have government facilities, reservations, scholarships. The only changes needed are in mindset.’

Dreaming Beyond Boundaries: Voices of Adivasi Girls from Kurseong

The premises of Sri Ramakrishna Higher Secondary School for Girls in Kurseong echoed with the familiar hum of adolescent chatter, punctuated by laughter and the sound of hurried footsteps. On an otherwise ordinary day, I walked into this school with a degree of assumption, assumption that the four young girls I was about to meet, all belonging to the Adivasi community, might be too young to articulate ideas of identity, culture, and aspiration. I could not  have been more wrong.

The first to greet me was Premshila Ekka, a class nine student from the Dooars region of Alipurduar district. Her eyes carried a spark that spoke of ambition well before she uttered a word. Recently, she had cleared the National Means-cum-Merit Scholarship Examination (2025), a feat that stood as a testament to her academic brilliance. When I asked about her aspirations, her voice brimmed with conviction: ‘I want to be a District Magistrate someday. An IAS officer, not just for myself, but for my community. I want to give back. My elder sister is a nurse, and she inspires me. But I want to work for a bigger change.’

Next to her sat Kriti Mahali, a class seven student with an unyielding dream: to become a pilot. Her reasoning was candid and courageous. ‘Most pilots are men. But now I have learned that there are women pilots too in India. If they can do it, so can I. I am ready to work hard.’Her words, simple yet powerful, carried the essence of a young girl challenging gender stereotypes from a small town in North Bengal.

Then there was Anandita Toto, perhaps the most cheerful of them all, a sixth grader with a smile that seemed to light up the room. Her ambition was equally bold: ‘ want to be an IPS officer. I want to maintain law and order, and I want to make my parents and my community proud.’

Finally, the youngest, Sona Madri, a ten year old, from Suryanagar in Bhadarpur, Nepal revealed her dream that is rooted in service. She says ‘I want to be a nurse in the army. I think that way, I can make the best use of my education.’

Pride in Identity and Cultural Consciousness

They talked about speaking Sadri, their native language, at home and expressed their desire and awareness to keep it alive, understanding how important language is for sustaining their community.

What surprised me the most was not merely their clarity of ambition, but their profound sense of identity and cultural pride. When I gently asked them what being Adivasi meant to them, the conversation took an unexpected  turn.

They talked about speaking Sadri, their native language, at home and expressed their desire and awareness to keep it alive, understanding how important language is for sustaining their community. They spoke of Karam Puja, where trees and plants are worshipped, and of Toto rituals that honour rivers and water bodies. Their narratives revealed a worldview rooted in ecological consciousness: ‘Our community has always been nature worshippers, Premshila explained. ‘We protect forests and water. Our elders live in harmony with nature. Even today, they try not to destroy, but to coexist. In an era where modern lifestyles accelerate environmental degradation, there were young voices echoing ancestral wisdom, voices reminding us that sustainability is not a Western invention but a lived Adivasi philosophy.

Challenges and Hopes for the Future

When the discussion turned toward challenges, the girls spoke in unison: financial constraints, lack of awareness, and the continued neglect of girl child education. They acknowledged progress but with quiet urgency: ‘There are successful people in our community, but very few. There should be more,’ Kriti remarked. The only prominent figure they could name was President Draupadi Murmu, a symbol of possibility yet a reminder of the distance left to travel. And yet, despite these barriers, their hope was unwavering. They dreamed of a future where every child, especially every girl, receives education, where cultural pride and modern opportunities walk hand in hand, and where their community thrives without losing its essence.

As I left the school that day, I carried more than field notes, I carried a sense of awe. These young minds, brimming with resilience and vision, dismantled every preconceived notion I had brought with me. They were not just passive bearers of tradition; they were active negotiators of modernity, navigating poverty, patriarchy, and systemic exclusion with a poise that belied their years. In their laughter and determination, I saw the future of the Adivasi community, a future anchored in identity yet unafraid to soar beyond boundaries. It reaffirmed for me what education truly means: not merely literacy, but the courage to dream, the will to act, and the wisdom to belong.

Toward Justice and Belonging

These voices illuminate a truth mainstream Indian society refuses to acknowledge: Adivasi communities possess not only capacity for excellence but sophisticated knowledge systems our environmentally ravaged world desperately needs (Xaxa, 127). Yet their contributions remain systematically undervalued, their potential squandered by structures reducing complex peoples to simplistic categories.

The narratives challenge two harmful stereotypes constraining Adivasi perception. The first reduces them to romanticized forest dwellers whose ecological wisdom is celebrated while contemporary struggles are ignored. The second demonizes them as obstacles to development, primitive peoples requiring civilization through cultural erasure (Baviskar, 89). Both invalidate Adivasi peoples fundamental humanity and agency.

These voices illuminate a truth mainstream Indian society refuses to acknowledge: Adivasi communities possess not only capacity for excellence but sophisticated knowledge systems our environmentally ravaged world desperately needs.

Amman's nuanced critique of gender exclusion demonstrates intellectual sophistication dominant narratives consistently deny to Adivasi youth. His ability to simultaneously honour cultural teachings while advocating inclusive practices reveals how indigenous communities can lead progressive change without abandoning core identities (Karlsson, 156).

The educational trajectories documented here, Amar's journey from government schools to academic achievement, Amman's engineering aspirations, provide concrete evidence that when structural barriers are removed, Adivasi students excel comparably to any community (Jeffrey et al, 245).

Nawin's journey embodies a transformative paradigm where Adivasi identity becomes a source of strength rather than obstacle, proving that authentic cultural belonging and exceptional achievement can coexist to forge new possibilities for indigenous empowerment (XaXa, 127).

Perhaps most significantly, this study reveals how oppression operates through hierarchies pitting marginalized groups against each other rather than challenging exclusionary structures. The complicity of communities like Gorkhas in perpetuating systems exploiting those more powerless exposes how genuine democracy requires not just inclusion of excluded voices, but transformation of exclusion-creating systems (Shah,178). India's democracy remains fundamentally incomplete while indigenous peoples are denied equal respect and opportunity. The constitutional vision of justice, liberty, equality, and fraternity cannot be realized through continued marginalization of communities whose contributions to Indian civilization span millennia (Sundar, 234).

These voices demand not sympathy but solidarity, not welfare but justice, not inclusion on others' terms but recognition as equal participants shaping the nation's future. Adivasi peoples are not problems requiring solutions but essential partners in building sustainable society. Their ecological knowledge offers alternatives to destructive development models, while their full participation represents both moral imperative and practical necessity for addressing environmental crisis and social inequality (Padel and Das, 167). Only when we find the moral courage to look honestly at how our own survival has depended on someone else's subjugation, can we ensure that Adivasi voices are no longer condemned to echo unheard in the margins of a democracy that claims to belong to all.

References

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Special Thanks to Mrs. Chandrakala Yolmo Thapa, Headmistress & Mrs. Smriti Labar, Assistant Teacher, Sri Ramakrishna Higher Secondary School for Girls, Kurseong for their kind co-operation.