Somewhere in the near future ~

The Indian Ocean has taken back the rich Indian Delta, and for those living there, it is now a four day march to dry land . . .

I flew down to New Delhi to cover the story. A million or more fishermen and farmers were walking around in a foot of water, where their homes used to be. I almost didn’t cover this, but Boss said ‘jump’ so I went.

Some story. Or so I thought. I am about the last person who should cover something like this. I don’t speak Farsi, or whatever it is that they speak, but I heard enough of it while I was there. It was a continual cacophony of complaint, prayer and singing.

Who were these people, stranded, standing in a foot of water? They had no country or political standing of their own, except that they belonged to Mother India, and had lived all their lives on the River Ganges Delta. They were all nearly nameless riverbed farmers and fishermen, the poorest of the poor, and doubly-damned by being Outcasts.

The crisis started when Separatists raiders came down and burned and looted all their huts and boats, taking whatever there was of value, as little as it was. They said it was to show ‘our great weakness as a nation before the world.’ Who can understand such terrorists, and their mis-begotten agenda?

It would have been bad enough, having had removed any prospect of work or employment for all these people, but the sea continues to rise. Many of these people had long ago taken to living in raised huts or on their boats; dry land being so scarce here. But now they had nothing, aside from some nameless humanitarian relief agency, dropping a few food packages, which the water soon claimed.

And now these people have no place to go.

What is being done for them? Nothing. No place wants them. Everywhere else is already too crowded. There was no room anywhere for any of these people.

I spent a long time there – 36 hours, wading around with whole groups of them. You had to walk, so your feet would not sink into the muck. And you had to try to find some previous road to walk on. If you got out into the fields, you would sink up to your knees right away, and others would have to haul you out – or not.

But these were not simply men and women out here. There were families. Mothers and fathers carrying their children, or holding on to older children in lines, as they all trudged North along the roads, seeking dry land. Such an heroic effort, by so many people, striving to just stay awake during a four day march. You get tired, and you lay down, you die.

Everywhere, there were already dead bodies floating, with abandoned baggage. Who wants to carry possessions when their lives are at stake?

These great crowds were uncoordinated, like a tide, weakly thrusting itself toward the newly formed coast of Bangladesh. But I think everyone already knew there would be troops when they got there, waiting to turn them all back.

36 hours I spent among them, and then I had to leave. The few foreigners were leaving, taking the governmental flatboats, sent to retrieve us, and sadly, I went without a word. I did not wish to be stranded with these nameless, homeless people. I did not wish to see if I could walk four days without rest.

When I got back, I wrote about it. I wrote it all, leaving nothing out. But the boss of my boss, the owner of our newspaper, did not allow it to be published. “Too inflammatory and unsettling” He said.

Afterward, I looked for news of any mention of them and their plight, but there was nothing anywhere. No news about any of it. It was like these people didn’t exist.

A few weeks later, I heard someone went down there from the national governmnt, to see how they were doing, and if they had finally gotten some aid from anyone.

But there was no one there. There was not a living soul, anywhere in the newly forming and nameless shallow sea, where the Indian delta used to be.

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