Some days ago, Mitesh (name changed) called us seeking help. He wanted to build low-budget houses in a newly developing Muslim ghetto in Ahmedabad, mentioning that many people were making good money by buying cheaper plots over there and constructing small houses with two rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom. When we asked what kind of help he needed from us, he said he wanted us to be his partner because he needed someone influential to negotiate with the local land mafias there. We warned him that this activity was illegal and could get him into trouble. He responded, “We have to take risks if we want to make money.” We then firmly told him not to expect any kind of help from us for any illegal plans. We explained how the existing mafias, in a felonious collaboration with the local administration and politicians, were putting poor Muslims at risk of losing their homes to demolitions. Hearing our strict response, he apologized for putting forward such a sudden proposal and ended the call by saying that he would like to meet us in person to discuss further. We are not sure if he will not go ahead with his plan. He may find another “influential” person to partner with. But this brief conversation prompted us to reflect deeply on the situation.
Mitesh is a community worker, whom we first met around 12 years ago at a community meeting focused on public education issues. He had strong opinions about how privatization was harming public education, causing many students to drop out at the higher secondary and higher education levels. Being born to poor Dalit parents, Mitesh himself had to leave school after 10th grade to learn electrical work to make a living. Despite his limited earnings, he attended public protests, rallies, and meetings regularly hoping to uplift the community. He also supported NGOs in their grassroots research and intervention efforts. His wife and in-laws often taunted him for his voluntary social work, which he sometimes used to share with us with a smile.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, Mitesh couldn’t find any work and faced severe financial hardships, leading to serious family disputes. He felt ignored and betrayed by friends, family, and NGOs who couldn’t offer him support during and after the pandemic. His financial struggles made him feel like a failure, which drastically changed his mindset. His situation pushed him to focus on making more money for survival, his family’s future needs, and his own dignity. Whenever we meet now, he asks for new business ideas or shares his weird business plans. Mitesh is not alone. We encounter many young people from marginalized communities who frequently discuss risky or illegal business ventures. Many unemployed and struggling Muslim and Dalit youth, like Mitesh, are attracted to the informal but lucrative construction business involving multi-layered and complex socio-political problems.
Understanding the “illegal” housing business
We are still searching for a suitable way to engage with those who celebrate the bulldozing of houses belonging to poor Muslims and Dalits. The state appears to appease them through the weaponization of legality. What is shocking, however, is to see even “neutral” individuals justifying “bulldozer justice” by pointing to the illegality of these housing settlements. Therefore, we believe it is crucial to engage in more open conversations with them to understand the context of this “illegal” housing before judging such state actions.
Fatima (name changed) lived in a rented house with her husband and 5-year-old son. One day, her husband suffered a severe heart attack and passed away, leaving no savings for her except for a gold chain (Mangalsutra). Now, she had to look after her young child alone. Fatima used to be a skilled bidi worker but had to discontinue as they moved to a newly developing area with cheaper rent of 3000 rupees per month. She now desperately needed to find a new job or work to survive. Initially, her stepson (living far away) helped with the rent, but he couldn’t continue. She started doing various labor jobs available in the area but struggled to save much. When her son would get sick, she had to borrow money from relatives. One day, a local person informed her about a new affordable housing scheme in their locality where anyone could own a small house (two rooms, a kitchen, a bathroom) with easy installment payments. The offer required a booking amount of 50,000 rupees, with the remaining 5 lakhs payable in 100 installments of 5000 rupees each. The prospect of owning a house through installments seemed like a significant relief to her after completing the payments. She asked her stepson if he could contribute 2000 rupees monthly to help her pay the installments without delay.
Before making the final decision, they made an inquiry about the developers. They discovered that the project was being developed by a team of local youth, some of whom had a strong reputation for community service. This background check positively influenced their investment decision. Lacking the education to fully understand the legal aspects of housing regulations, they sought advice from trusted individuals about the developers and decided to proceed with the purchase. She sold her Mangalsutra, her only valuable possession, to pay the booking amount and soon moved into her new home. We witnessed her struggle to pay those installments during the pandemic when she had to borrow money from almost everyone she knew. After nearly ten years of hardship, we now see a sense of satisfaction on her face from owning her own house. Her son is now a teenager and is seeking employment to support his mother financially.
We know hundreds of such vulnerable households who prefer to purchase these cheaper houses over government housing. One of the major fears of poor Muslims is the safety and acceptance of people living around them. This fear is real, as evidenced by a recent incident in Gujarat, where a Muslim woman faced backlash after being allotted a house in government housing. Such blatant discrimination also affects many poor Dalits in cities on a daily basis. Additionally, finding suitable employment near government housing adds to the survival challenges. The relatively higher costs of government housing compared to local “illegal” schemes also deter many poor individuals who need to borrow money even for the booking amounts. These complex and systemic issues drive poor Muslims and Dalits to invest in local neighborhoods or ghettos, often unaware of the risk of their houses being bulldozed as a form of collective punishment.
Most of the “legal” lands in cities are owned by upper and dominant caste groups. Even when Muslims and Dalits have the money, they are often denied housing and forced to live in segregated areas. Upper and middle-class Muslims and Dalits can often secure “clean” land or houses in these segregated locations, but poorer households struggle to find their legal shelter. To cater to this need, local land mafias, in collaboration with local authorities and some politicians, take over government land, divide it into plots, and sell it to local community youth groups at much lower rates. These youth groups are in desperate need of work and money like Mitesh. This arrangement benefits the land mafias in several ways: they don’t have to find buyers themselves, which can be difficult due to their bad reputation; the youth groups become indebted to them and thus come under their control; by creating a sense of helping the community, the mafias gain influence over the groups and residents, allowing them to negotiate with local politicians (mostly from the ruling party).
Other “stakeholders” also encash the vulnerabilities of these poor people. The administration receives its cut and additional support from the mafias and youth groups for any informal or challenging tasks. To buy such land and start a housing “scheme,” young people often borrow money from local contacts. These contacts also help promote the scheme so that the young people can repay the money, sometimes with interest. Local lawyers prepare papers (power of attorney for the land) that give poor buyers the illusion of ownership. As a result, various interest groups give a sense of legitimacy to the completely illegal scheme, leaving no doubt in the buyers’ minds. However, when their houses are bulldozed, none of these interest groups are held accountable. Instead, the current governments proudly justify the demolitions, blaming the victims, maybe to “appease” their vote bank. Consequently, the poor citizens lose trust in the government and the systems, feeling helpless and betrayed.
Who is to blame?
People like Fatima and Mitesh are victims of our legal systems of injustice. The real question isn’t “Who is to blame?” but rather “What is to blame?” Shouldn’t the corrupt and unresponsive system of administration and governance be held accountable? Shouldn’t the pervasive culture of otherization that restricts the mobility of poor Muslims and Dalits be blamed? Shouldn’t the system that fails to provide jobs or work to young people be held responsible? Shouldn’t the structural issue of informal employment be addressed? Shouldn’t the patriarchal system that bars women from working and instead demands men to provide sufficient income in any situation be scrutinized? Shouldn’t the civil society culture that fails to recognize and support the voluntary efforts of public-spirited individuals in times of need be questioned?
It may be easy to declare the bulldozing of a house purchased by poor and vulnerable people a legal measure. However, after witnessing the hardships these citizens face to buy these houses, it can be difficult for any reasonable person to consider this “legal” measure as “just.” Bulldozing homes as a retaliatory collective punishment is entirely unjust. The approach to dealing with illegal construction is unlikely to yield positive results. Instead, addressing systemic and structural issues by directly engaging with marginalized and poor citizens offers a greater possibility of resolving long-standing problems without state violence. We now leave the question of “legality of injustice” to those who justify the bulldozing of the homes of poor citizens by labeling them illegal.
Dr. Ajazuddin Shaikh is a Research Associate at the Indian Institute of Management Ahmedabad (IIMA) and a civil society activist. He works with marginalized communities on the issues associated with substance use. He wishes to thank Chandni Guha Roy for her help with proofreading and editing.