The Aftermath of the Indian Ocean Tsunami: Nicobarese Fight to Preserve Identity Amidst Cultural Disruption
One sweltering summer morning in 2014, an old dinghy ferried me and my Nicobarese friends to the forested edge of Kamorta Island in the central Nicobar archipelago. From there, we trekked a long serpentine trail that wound through the dense wilderness, each step pulling us deeper into the heart of the island, where the modern world felt distant and forgotten.
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The otherwise sleepy village of Daring bustled with activity that day. Men plucked and stacked tender coconuts, their chatter blending with the rhythmic clatter of women descaling buckets of freshly caught fish. Nearby, two elderly villagers sat sipping toddy, their skilled hands transforming a heap of tender banana leaves into intricate fum (garlands) .
Francis, the village “captain,” welcomed us with a warm smile and guided us into a dimly lit hut. Inside, amidst a fascinating assortment of kareau (ancestral statues) and henta-koi (carved ritual figures), sat Tinfus, the esteemed minluana (spirit healer) of the Nicobar. Villagers circled him, their faces a blend of curiosity and warmth.
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After exchanging handshakes and pleasantries, we were garlanded with fum. One of the villagers offered us paan, while another gently rubbed a paste made of coconut oil, grated coconut and fowl’s blood onto our skin. Smiling, we embraced these rituals integral to the Nicobarese ceremonies of healing, celebration, and heartfelt welcome.
The link snaps
To a first-time visitor, the Nicobar feels like another world, frozen in time. In the Nicobarese cosmology, all living and non-living entities are intricately woven into a singular, spiritual, moral, and regenerative system. At the heart of this belief system stands the mystical minluana, a revered figure who acts as the bridge between the realms of the living and the dead.
Also Read | Great Nicobar: Whose land is it?
Advertising
Tinfus, his voice soft and tremulous with emotion, began recounting how the kareau and henta-koi had long stood as guardians, shielding the Nicobarese from malevolent spirits. Each word emerged slowly, deliberate and measured, with pauses that carried deep, unspoken meaning. Tinfus revealed a sorrowful truth: after the 2004 tsunami, his people had begun to lose faith in their ancestral wisdom. And with that loss, the very soul of Nicobar was fading into history. Suddenly, his voice faltered. Tears welled up and streamed down his weathered face. We sat in deep, silent reverence as the old minluana wept, mourning the slow death of a centuries-old indigenous culture.
Faultlines emerge
The Nicobar archipelago, located in the eastern Indian Ocean, is home to the indigenous Nicobarese, who migrated to these islands around 5,000 years ago and share a strong genetic and cultural affinity with the Austroasiatic populations of South-east Asia. While united by a shared history, the Nicobarese are far from a homogeneous people. They are broadly divided into four distinct cultural groups, each inhabiting different islands across the archipelago, with unique traditions and ways of life that reflect their deep connection to both the land and the sea.
For much of their history, the Nicobarese lived in isolation, sustaining themselves through hunting, gathering, fishing, and the rearing of pigs and poultry, besides cultivating coconuts and areca nuts. However, they were not entirely immune to outside influences. The Nicobarese bartered local goods with passing ships, bringing foreign commodities to their shores. Over the centuries, the Nicobar islands were colonised by the Danish, Austrians, British, and Japanese before becoming part of independent India in 1947.
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The Nicobarese believe in peaceful coexistence and egalitarianism.
| Photo Credit:
By Special Arrangement
In 1956, the Union government enacted the Andaman and Nicobar Islands (Protection of Aboriginal Tribes) Regulation (ANPATR, 1956), designating the entire Nicobar region (with a few exceptions) as a tribal reserve. This legislation strictly restricts outsiders’ access to the islands, helping preserve the indigenous cosmovision and cultural heritage.
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On December 26, 2004, the Nicobarese faced an unprecedented catastrophe as the Indian Ocean tsunami, triggered by the massive 9.1-9.3 Mw Sumatra-Andaman earthquake, ravaged their islands. The rupture along the fault line unleashed waves towering over 15 metres, and the Nicobar Islands, perilously close to the epicentre, bore the full force of the disaster. Within minutes, entire coastal villages were swept away, and thousands of lives—along with livestock, coconut trees, and irreplaceable cultural artefacts—were lost to the ocean. Official records reported 3,449 people missing or dead, but independent researchers estimated the true toll to be as high as 10,000—nearly one-third of the Nicobarese population.
Stripped of agency
The government responded swiftly, launching massive rescue, relief, and rehabilitation operations in the Nicobar. Six of the 12 inhabited islands—Trinket, Chowra, Bompoka, Little Nicobar, Kondul, and Pulomilo—were evacuated. Nearly 29,000 survivors, both Nicobarese (roughly 20,000) and non-Nicobarese, were relocated to 118 relief camps across Car Nicobar, Nancowry, Kamorta, Katchal, Teressa, and Great Nicobar. By mid-2005, temporary tin shelters were erected for the displaced Nicobarese, where they received basic amenities, rations, relief supplies, and financial assistance.
After the tsunami, the Nicobarese were eager to return to their islands to rebuild their huts and restore their coconut plantations and kitchen gardens. Their requests for aid were modest—tools and boats, both lost to the tsunami. However, government officials persuaded them to stay in temporary shelters, offering promises of comprehensive relief and rehabilitation. This created confusion and ambivalence among the Nicobarese, gradually eroding their resilience.
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While the government sought the community’s opinion on select matters, its approach remained predominantly top-down, diminishing the authority of tribal councils, the bedrock of Nicobarese self-governance. Elders, the custodians of traditional knowledge and key figures within these councils, were sidelined in favour of younger, less experienced individuals who could communicate in Hindi or English. These younger individuals were often appointed as village captains by the local administration, but many of them struggled to represent their communities effectively, and were frequently reduced to yes-men in front of government officials.
The concentration of power in the hands of the officials stripped the Nicobarese of any real agency in shaping policy decisions. Within just a few years, this top-down aid set in motion changes that dismantled a once self-reliant, resilient, and egalitarian society, leaving it fragmented, dependent, and more vulnerable than ever.
A second disaster
The government offered substantial monetary compensation to the Nicobarese for their losses. In a traditional society where money was rarely used and communal life revolved around shared resources, placing a monetary value on human lives, land, livestock, and plantations disrupted longstanding cultural norms and created new challenges.
Advertising
The compensation was deposited into newly opened bank accounts, with the nuclear family as the basis for distribution, and men designated as household heads and primary recipients. This approach undermined the joint family system, marginalising women who had traditionally enjoyed significant social and economic rights. The result: confusion over property ownership and entitlement to compensation, sparking conflicts.
The indigenes passing through the forest on a dinghy. After the tsunami, large portions of land have been permanently inundated in the Nicobar.
| Photo Credit:
Ajay Saini
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The sudden influx of money into a largely cashless society transformed the Nicobarese into impulsive consumers, fuelling a spree of purchases: televisions, mobile phones, refrigerators, motorbikes, and other modern goods. Reflecting on this wave of mindless consumerism, the spokesperson for the Nancowry Tribal Council remarked:“The compensation money became a source of greed and strife. To my people, it [money] felt like a devil, tearing apart the harmony of our society. Everyone scrambled to spend it as quickly as they could, as if trying to rid themselves of its curse.”
Before the tsunami, status in the Nicobarese society was assessed by the number of pigs, coconut plantations, cultural artefacts, or generous contributions to communal feasts. After the disaster, however, it shifted to the possession of consumer goods. Those with the most electronics and modern commodities were now seen as the wealthiest, triggering a rush of hasty, unnecessary, and excessive purchases that quickly depleted much of the compensation money. The younger generation, in particular, became captivated by this profligate behaviour, growing increasingly apathetic toward their community’s subsistence economy and traditional livelihoods.
Ironically, it was outsiders—the settlers and the encroachers—who profited most from the monetary compensation given to the Nicobarese. Many had long established themselves in the Nicobar and were quick to exploit the community’s newfound wealth. Some took advantage by selling goods and alcohol to the Nicobarese at exorbitant prices, while others resorted to outright fraud. Noah, a resident of Teressa Island, recalled how a “non-tribal” man promised villagers motorbikes, jeeps, boats, and other goods from Port Blair. “Almost all the inhabitants of Teressa trusted him and handed over huge sums of money,” he said. “But the rogue robbed the villages and vanished.”
In stages, 7,001 permanent houses, known as tsunami shelters, were built across the Nicobar Islands for the “homeless” survivors. Contractors brought in large number of labourers on short-term tribal passes for infrastructure projects. However, many of these workers stayed on after their passes expired, gradually encroaching upon the Nicobarese land. In 2007, alarmed by what it termed the “colonisation of the Nicobars by outsiders,” the Nancowry Tribal Council urged the local administration to halt all development activities in the region for a year and redirect resources to combat encroachment and protect the Nicobarese land and culture. Yet, two decades after the tsunami, land encroachment remains an unresolved issue in these islands.
The housing project was not completed until 2011. Meanwhile, the Nicobarese, confined to temporary tin shelters with little opportunity for livelihood, battled idleness and a growing sense of purposelessness. In addition to hefty monetary compensation, they received free rations for five years. The trauma caused by the tsunami, combined with the abrupt disruption of their traditional way of life, inactivity, and changes in food habits, left many grappling with depression.
Seeking comfort, several turned to Indian-Made Foreign Liquor (IMFL), which, despite its prohibition under the ANPATR, became widely accessible through non-indigenous settlers, encroachers, and a complicit local administration. The surge in alcohol consumption further debilitated the Nicobarese community by draining finances, eroding health, and fuelling conflicts. When IMFL became unaffordable, many addicts turned to junglee, a hazardous hooch introduced to them by non-tribal labourers. This toxic brew quickly gained popularity across the islands, deepening the community’s health crisis.
The tsunami shelters, built at an enormous cost, turned out to be an ill-conceived, culturally-insensitive housing solution. Before the tsunami, the Nicobarese villages were typically located along the coastlines, with beehive-shaped huts on stilts, ingeniously crafted from local materials to suit the tropical climate. These elevated structures protected inhabitants from reptiles, insects, and monsoon water, while walls and floors made of split bamboo ensured natural ventilation. With thatched roofs and a seaward orientation, these idyllic huts were much more than simple shelters: they were a reflection of the Nicobarese way of life, harmoniously connected to the land, the forest, the sea, and their spiritual beliefs.
Destruction in Hadoos port in Andaman Island after it was hit by the 2004 tsunami.
| Photo Credit:
PTI
The tsunami shelters, however, were constructed at higher altitudes, far from the coasts. Built with imported materials—prefabricated structures, concrete blocks, iron pillars, steel columns, and corrugated galvanised iron sheets—these shelters consisted of two rooms with an attached kitchen. Arranged in a dense, colony-style layout, the shelters severed the community’s deep connection to the sea and made it challenging to sustain essential practices, like pig domestication, which were vital to their diet and festival celebrations. Moreover, the Nicobarese found themselves unable to repair or maintain these shelters without external assistance.
In a poorly conceived move, the government dismantled the Nicobarese joint families, dispersing them into multiple households, each assigned a shelter of its own. This fragmentation of the joint family system—the taproot of the Nicobarese social and economic life—triggered the collapse of indigenous social institutions. The community’s close-knit support networks, which had long provided strength and security, were shattered, leaving the indigenes isolated and vulnerable when solidarity was most needed. A resident of Makachua village echoed this sentiment thus: “These days, it feels like no one cares about anyone else. After the tsunami, everything changed—people’s hearts turned to stone, and their minds grew indifferent.”
As self-sufficiency gave way to dependency, the once-vibrant Nicobarese culture—central to their identity—began to wither under the forces of modernisation, market pressures, unchecked consumerism, and external control. Communal practices that had long bound the community together—rituals, feasts, festivals, labour-intensive livelihoods, and their distinctive cosmovision—quickly faded into obscurity. With their traditions and cultural anchors eroding, the Nicobarese grew increasingly estranged from their community and from the land, forests, and sea that had sustained them for millennia.
With their compensation money long gone and limited prospects for work in Nicobar, many indigenous people migrated to Port Blair. There, they now work as construction workers, wage labourers, helpers, and security guards—and often suffer exploitation, racial discrimination, and violence at the hands of the dominant non-indigenous communities.
Crammed into tsunami shelters
Tinfus, the revered minluana who passed away in September 2018 at the age of 80, had prophesied that the tsunami aid would ruin generations of the Nicobarese. While the culturally-insensitive, top-down approach to aid impacted all the islanders, some have borne its consequences far more severely.
Communities from Trinket, Bompoka, Kondul, and Pilomilo suffered devastating losses when their islands were declared uninhabitable, forcing them to relocate to other islands where permanent tsunami shelters were built. However, it was the Payuh, the Nicobarese of southern Nicobar who endured the worst. Most of their villages were permanently uprooted, and their ancestral lands, despite their objections, were later appropriated for large-scale development and conservation projects.
Around 1,200 Nicobarese currently reside on Great Nicobar (Patai Takaru) and Little Nicobar (Patai t-bhi) islands, with the former also home to the Shompen, a particularly vulnerable tribal group whose population stood at 245 in 2022. Before the tsunami, the Nicobarese inhabited over 30 villages scattered across southern Nicobar. However, following the disaster, the government relocated the Nicobarese of Great Nicobar to relief camps and temporary shelters at New Chinghen and Rajiv Nagar (Campbell Bay, Great Nicobar). In 2011, against their will, they were resettled in permanent tsunami shelters at these sites, rendering them internally displaced peoples (IDPs). Over the past two decades, plagued by limited livelihood opportunities and alien diseases, these indigenes have made repeated but futile appeals to the government to return to their ancestral lands.
“Before the tsunami, status in the Nicobarese society was assessed by the number of pigs, coconut plantations, cultural artefacts, or generous contributions to communal feasts. After the disaster, however, it shifted to the possession of consumer goods.”
In 2020, the government announced a Rs.72,000-crore mega-project on Great Nicobar, an island spanning approximately 910 sq. km, with around 850 sq. km designated as a tribal reserve. The project, which includes a port, airport, power plant, and township, plans to cover 244 sq. km (166.10 sq. km in Phase 1)—and is promoted as essential for “holistic development.” However, the mega-project has faced strong opposition from the island’s indigenous communities, who view it as a land grab disguised as development, threatening their well-being and very existence.
In January 2021, the government denotified the Galathea Bay and Megapode Wildlife Sanctuaries to pave the way for the project. By October 2022, the Andaman and Nicobar administration issued notifications designating the entire Meroë Island (2.73 sq. km, including its surrounding marine area) and Menchal Island (1.29 sq. km), along with a 13.75 sq. km area (including 6.67 sq. km of water area within the baseline system) on Little Nicobar (140 sq. km), as coral, megapode, and leatherback turtle sanctuaries, respectively. This was done without consulting the Little and Great Nicobar Tribal Council or addressing the concerns raised in the council’s letter dated August 2022.
Unravelling a world
Meroë (Piruii) and Menchal (Pingaeyak)—officially classified as “uninhabited” in government records—are crucial to the Nicobarese’s sustenance and spiritual well-being. Both islands are sacred to the Nicobarese: Menchal is believed to be under the spiritual realm of Pingaeyak (a spirit said to inhabit the island), while Meroë is regarded as the home of a legendary islander community. Through their spiritual beliefs, stewardship practices, and established norms and taboos around visitation and resource usage, the community has safeguarded these islands for millennia.
A Nicobarese woman from Little Nicobar said, her voice heavy with sorrow: “Our custom dictates that when children turn ten, they are taken to Menchal Island and introduced to the spirit (Pingaeyak) through prayers and rituals. My child has just turned ten, and I am yet to introduce her to the spirit.” But now, with the island designated as a megapode sanctuary and access restricted “in the national interest,” she wonders: What will become of this sacred tradition? How can their ancient customs survive when the very land that sustains them is no longer accessible?
Also Read | Great Nicobar development projects disregard risk in earthquake-prone area
The Nicobarese share a deep spiritual and personal connection with their land, one that transcends all else. For them, the loss of land is more devastating than the death of a loved one. In their worldview, death is not an end but a transition to the realm of spirits, where life continues in another form, offering protection to their tangible world. However, the loss of land strikes at the very core of their identity, culture, and existence. It is not merely the loss of territory; it is the unravelling of their entire world—the true death.
In the aftermath of the tsunami, the Nicobarese were resolute in their determination to rebuild their islands, drawing on local resources, traditional knowledge, and their own skills, all while preserving their cultural identity. However, external aid providers quickly took control, sidelining this grassroots approach to recovery. Over the course of my 15 years of research engagement in the islands, the Nicobarese have consistently expressed deep regret over their dependence on tsunami aid, which, in the end, dismantled the very socio-cultural fabric of their society.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, the Nicobarese found themselves once again at a crossroads. Despite being at their weakest, they chose to rely entirely on themselves, mounting a community-driven response in the Central Nicobar, grounded in the strength of their culture and traditions. Remarkably, they suffered no casualties, while the rest of India and the world endured unimaginable horrors during the devastating second wave.
As we mark the 20th anniversary of the Indian Ocean tsunami the story of Nicobar offers important lessons—how top-down, culturally-insensitive tsunami aid not only failed to help but became a disaster in itself, ravaging the very communities it sought to protect.
Ajay Saini teaches at the Indian Institute of Technology Delhi. He works with remote indigenous communities.
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One sweltering summer morning in 2014, an old dinghy ferried me and my Nicobarese friends to the forested edge of Kamorta Island in the central Nicobar archipelago. From there, we trekked a long serpentine trail that wound through the dense wilderness, each step pulling us deeper into the heart of the island, where the modern world felt distant and forgotten.
The otherwise sleepy village of Daring bustled with activity that day. Men plucked and stacked tender coconuts, their chatter blending with the rhythmic clatter of women descaling buckets of freshly caught fish. Nearby, two elderly villagers sat sipping toddy, their skilled hands transforming a heap of tender banana leaves into intricate fum (garlands) .
Francis, the village “captain,” welcomed us with a warm smile and guided us into a dimly lit hut. Inside, amidst a fascinating assortment of kareau (ancestral statues) and henta-koi (carved ritual figures), sat Tinfus, the esteemed minluana (spirit healer) of the Nicobar. Villagers circled him, their faces a blend of curiosity and warmth.
After exchanging handshakes and pleasantries, we were garlanded with fum. One of the villagers offered us paan, while another gently rubbed a paste made of coconut oil, grated coconut and fowl’s blood onto our skin. Smiling, we embraced these rituals integral to the Nicobarese ceremonies of healing, celebration, and heartfelt welcome.
The link snaps
To a first-time visitor, the Nicobar feels like another world, frozen in time. In the Nicobarese cosmology, all living and non-living entities are intricately woven into a singular, spiritual, moral, and regenerative system. At the heart of this belief system stands the mystical minluana, a revered figure who acts as the bridge between the realms of the living and the dead.
Also Read | Great Nicobar: Whose land is it?
Tinfus, his voice soft and tremulous with emotion, began recounting how the kareau and henta-koi had long stood as guardians, shielding the Nicobarese from malevolent spirits. Each word emerged slowly, deliberate and measured, with pauses that carried deep, unspoken meaning. Tinfus revealed a sorrowful truth: after the 2004 tsunami, his people had begun to lose faith in their ancestral wisdom. And with that loss, the very soul of Nicobar was fading into history. Suddenly, his voice faltered. Tears welled up and streamed down his weathered face. We sat in deep, silent reverence as the old minluana wept, mourning the slow death of a centuries-old indigenous culture.
Faultlines emerge
The Nicobar archipelago, located in the eastern Indian Ocean, is home to the indigenous Nicobarese, who migrated to these islands around 5,000 years ago and share a strong genetic and cultural affinity with the Austroasiatic populations of South-east Asia. While united by a shared history, the Nicobarese are far from a homogeneous people. They are broadly divided into four distinct cultural groups, each inhabiting different islands across the archipelago, with unique traditions and ways of life that reflect their deep connection to both the land and the sea.
For much of their history, the Nicobarese lived in isolation, sustaining themselves through hunting, gathering, fishing, and the rearing of pigs and poultry, besides cultivating coconuts and areca nuts. However, they were not entirely immune to outside influences. The Nicobarese bartered local goods with passing ships, bringing foreign commodities to their shores. Over the centuries, the Nicobar islands were colonised by the Danish, Austrians, British, and Japanese before becoming part of independent India in 1947.
The Nicobarese believe in peaceful coexistence and egalitarianism.
| Photo Credit:
By Special Arrangement
In 1956, the Union government enacted the Andaman and Nicobar Islands (Protection of Aboriginal Tribes) Regulation (ANPATR, 1956), designating the entire Nicobar region (with a few exceptions) as a tribal reserve. This legislation strictly restricts outsiders’ access to the islands, helping preserve the indigenous cosmovision and cultural heritage.
On December 26, 2004, the Nicobarese faced an unprecedented catastrophe as the Indian Ocean tsunami, triggered by the massive 9.1-9.3 Mw Sumatra-Andaman earthquake, ravaged their islands. The rupture along the fault line unleashed waves towering over 15 metres, and the Nicobar Islands, perilously close to the epicentre, bore the full force of the disaster. Within minutes, entire coastal villages were swept away, and thousands of lives—along with livestock, coconut trees, and irreplaceable cultural artefacts—were lost to the ocean. Official records reported 3,449 people missing or dead, but independent researchers estimated the true toll to be as high as 10,000—nearly one-third of the Nicobarese population.
Stripped of agency
The government responded swiftly, launching massive rescue, relief, and rehabilitation operations in the Nicobar. Six of the 12 inhabited islands—Trinket, Chowra, Bompoka, Little Nicobar, Kondul, and Pulomilo—were evacuated. Nearly 29,000 survivors, both Nicobarese (roughly 20,000) and non-Nicobarese, were relocated to 118 relief camps across Car Nicobar, Nancowry, Kamorta, Katchal, Teressa, and Great Nicobar. By mid-2005, temporary tin shelters were erected for the displaced Nicobarese, where they received basic amenities, rations, relief supplies, and financial assistance.
After the tsunami, the Nicobarese were eager to return to their islands to rebuild their huts and restore their coconut plantations and kitchen gardens. Their requests for aid were modest—tools and boats, both lost to the tsunami. However, government officials persuaded them to stay in temporary shelters, offering promises of comprehensive relief and rehabilitation. This created confusion and ambivalence among the Nicobarese, gradually eroding their resilience.
While the government sought the community’s opinion on select matters, its approach remained predominantly top-down, diminishing the authority of tribal councils, the bedrock of Nicobarese self-governance. Elders, the custodians of traditional knowledge and key figures within these councils, were sidelined in favour of younger, less experienced individuals who could communicate in Hindi or English. These younger individuals were often appointed as village captains by the local administration, but many of them struggled to represent their communities effectively, and were frequently reduced to yes-men in front of government officials.
The concentration of power in the hands of the officials stripped the Nicobarese of any real agency in shaping policy decisions. Within just a few years, this top-down aid set in motion changes that dismantled a once self-reliant, resilient, and egalitarian society, leaving it fragmented, dependent, and more vulnerable than ever.
A second disaster
The government offered substantial monetary compensation to the Nicobarese for their losses. In a traditional society where money was rarely used and communal life revolved around shared resources, placing a monetary value on human lives, land, livestock, and plantations disrupted longstanding cultural norms and created new challenges.
The compensation was deposited into newly opened bank accounts, with the nuclear family as the basis for distribution, and men designated as household heads and primary recipients. This approach undermined the joint family system, marginalising women who had traditionally enjoyed significant social and economic rights. The result: confusion over property ownership and entitlement to compensation, sparking conflicts.
The indigenes passing through the forest on a dinghy. After the tsunami, large portions of land have been permanently inundated in the Nicobar.
| Photo Credit:
Ajay Saini
The sudden influx of money into a largely cashless society transformed the Nicobarese into impulsive consumers, fuelling a spree of purchases: televisions, mobile phones, refrigerators, motorbikes, and other modern goods. Reflecting on this wave of mindless consumerism, the spokesperson for the Nancowry Tribal Council remarked:“The compensation money became a source of greed and strife. To my people, it [money] felt like a devil, tearing apart the harmony of our society. Everyone scrambled to spend it as quickly as they could, as if trying to rid themselves of its curse.”
Before the tsunami, status in the Nicobarese society was assessed by the number of pigs, coconut plantations, cultural artefacts, or generous contributions to communal feasts. After the disaster, however, it shifted to the possession of consumer goods. Those with the most electronics and modern commodities were now seen as the wealthiest, triggering a rush of hasty, unnecessary, and excessive purchases that quickly depleted much of the compensation money. The younger generation, in particular, became captivated by this profligate behaviour, growing increasingly apathetic toward their community’s subsistence economy and traditional livelihoods.
Ironically, it was outsiders—the settlers and the encroachers—who profited most from the monetary compensation given to the Nicobarese. Many had long established themselves in the Nicobar and were quick to exploit the community’s newfound wealth. Some took advantage by selling goods and alcohol to the Nicobarese at exorbitant prices, while others resorted to outright fraud. Noah, a resident of Teressa Island, recalled how a “non-tribal” man promised villagers motorbikes, jeeps, boats, and other goods from Port Blair. “Almost all the inhabitants of Teressa trusted him and handed over huge sums of money,” he said. “But the rogue robbed the villages and vanished.”
In stages, 7,001 permanent houses, known as tsunami shelters, were built across the Nicobar Islands for the “homeless” survivors. Contractors brought in large number of labourers on short-term tribal passes for infrastructure projects. However, many of these workers stayed on after their passes expired, gradually encroaching upon the Nicobarese land. In 2007, alarmed by what it termed the “colonisation of the Nicobars by outsiders,” the Nancowry Tribal Council urged the local administration to halt all development activities in the region for a year and redirect resources to combat encroachment and protect the Nicobarese land and culture. Yet, two decades after the tsunami, land encroachment remains an unresolved issue in these islands.
The housing project was not completed until 2011. Meanwhile, the Nicobarese, confined to temporary tin shelters with little opportunity for livelihood, battled idleness and a growing sense of purposelessness. In addition to hefty monetary compensation, they received free rations for five years. The trauma caused by the tsunami, combined with the abrupt disruption of their traditional way of life, inactivity, and changes in food habits, left many grappling with depression.
Seeking comfort, several turned to Indian-Made Foreign Liquor (IMFL), which, despite its prohibition under the ANPATR, became widely accessible through non-indigenous settlers, encroachers, and a complicit local administration. The surge in alcohol consumption further debilitated the Nicobarese community by draining finances, eroding health, and fuelling conflicts. When IMFL became unaffordable, many addicts turned to junglee, a hazardous hooch introduced to them by non-tribal labourers. This toxic brew quickly gained popularity across the islands, deepening the community’s health crisis.
The tsunami shelters, built at an enormous cost, turned out to be an ill-conceived, culturally-insensitive housing solution. Before the tsunami, the Nicobarese villages were typically located along the coastlines, with beehive-shaped huts on stilts, ingeniously crafted from local materials to suit the tropical climate. These elevated structures protected inhabitants from reptiles, insects, and monsoon water, while walls and floors made of split bamboo ensured natural ventilation. With thatched roofs and a seaward orientation, these idyllic huts were much more than simple shelters: they were a reflection of the Nicobarese way of life, harmoniously connected to the land, the forest, the sea, and their spiritual beliefs.
Destruction in Hadoos port in Andaman Island after it was hit by the 2004 tsunami.
| Photo Credit:
PTI
The tsunami shelters, however, were constructed at higher altitudes, far from the coasts. Built with imported materials—prefabricated structures, concrete blocks, iron pillars, steel columns, and corrugated galvanised iron sheets—these shelters consisted of two rooms with an attached kitchen. Arranged in a dense, colony-style layout, the shelters severed the community’s deep connection to the sea and made it challenging to sustain essential practices, like pig domestication, which were vital to their diet and festival celebrations. Moreover, the Nicobarese found themselves unable to repair or maintain these shelters without external assistance.
In a poorly conceived move, the government dismantled the Nicobarese joint families, dispersing them into multiple households, each assigned a shelter of its own. This fragmentation of the joint family system—the taproot of the Nicobarese social and economic life—triggered the collapse of indigenous social institutions. The community’s close-knit support networks, which had long provided strength and security, were shattered, leaving the indigenes isolated and vulnerable when solidarity was most needed. A resident of Makachua village echoed this sentiment thus: “These days, it feels like no one cares about anyone else. After the tsunami, everything changed—people’s hearts turned to stone, and their minds grew indifferent.”
As self-sufficiency gave way to dependency, the once-vibrant Nicobarese culture—central to their identity—began to wither under the forces of modernisation, market pressures, unchecked consumerism, and external control. Communal practices that had long bound the community together—rituals, feasts, festivals, labour-intensive livelihoods, and their distinctive cosmovision—quickly faded into obscurity. With their traditions and cultural anchors eroding, the Nicobarese grew increasingly estranged from their community and from the land, forests, and sea that had sustained them for millennia.
With their compensation money long gone and limited prospects for work in Nicobar, many indigenous people migrated to Port Blair. There, they now work as construction workers, wage labourers, helpers, and security guards—and often suffer exploitation, racial discrimination, and violence at the hands of the dominant non-indigenous communities.
Crammed into tsunami shelters
Tinfus, the revered minluana who passed away in September 2018 at the age of 80, had prophesied that the tsunami aid would ruin generations of the Nicobarese. While the culturally-insensitive, top-down approach to aid impacted all the islanders, some have borne its consequences far more severely.
Communities from Trinket, Bompoka, Kondul, and Pilomilo suffered devastating losses when their islands were declared uninhabitable, forcing them to relocate to other islands where permanent tsunami shelters were built. However, it was the Payuh, the Nicobarese of southern Nicobar who endured the worst. Most of their villages were permanently uprooted, and their ancestral lands, despite their objections, were later appropriated for large-scale development and conservation projects.
Around 1,200 Nicobarese currently reside on Great Nicobar (Patai Takaru) and Little Nicobar (Patai t-bhi) islands, with the former also home to the Shompen, a particularly vulnerable tribal group whose population stood at 245 in 2022. Before the tsunami, the Nicobarese inhabited over 30 villages scattered across southern Nicobar. However, following the disaster, the government relocated the Nicobarese of Great Nicobar to relief camps and temporary shelters at New Chinghen and Rajiv Nagar (Campbell Bay, Great Nicobar). In 2011, against their will, they were resettled in permanent tsunami shelters at these sites, rendering them internally displaced peoples (IDPs). Over the past two decades, plagued by limited livelihood opportunities and alien diseases, these indigenes have made repeated but futile appeals to the government to return to their ancestral lands.
“Before the tsunami, status in the Nicobarese society was assessed by the number of pigs, coconut plantations, cultural artefacts, or generous contributions to communal feasts. After the disaster, however, it shifted to the possession of consumer goods.”
In 2020, the government announced a Rs.72,000-crore mega-project on Great Nicobar, an island spanning approximately 910 sq. km, with around 850 sq. km designated as a tribal reserve. The project, which includes a port, airport, power plant, and township, plans to cover 244 sq. km (166.10 sq. km in Phase 1)—and is promoted as essential for “holistic development.” However, the mega-project has faced strong opposition from the island’s indigenous communities, who view it as a land grab disguised as development, threatening their well-being and very existence.
In January 2021, the government denotified the Galathea Bay and Megapode Wildlife Sanctuaries to pave the way for the project. By October 2022, the Andaman and Nicobar administration issued notifications designating the entire Meroë Island (2.73 sq. km, including its surrounding marine area) and Menchal Island (1.29 sq. km), along with a 13.75 sq. km area (including 6.67 sq. km of water area within the baseline system) on Little Nicobar (140 sq. km), as coral, megapode, and leatherback turtle sanctuaries, respectively. This was done without consulting the Little and Great Nicobar Tribal Council or addressing the concerns raised in the council’s letter dated August 2022.
Unravelling a world
Meroë (Piruii) and Menchal (Pingaeyak)—officially classified as “uninhabited” in government records—are crucial to the Nicobarese’s sustenance and spiritual well-being. Both islands are sacred to the Nicobarese: Menchal is believed to be under the spiritual realm of Pingaeyak (a spirit said to inhabit the island), while Meroë is regarded as the home of a legendary islander community. Through their spiritual beliefs, stewardship practices, and established norms and taboos around visitation and resource usage, the community has safeguarded these islands for millennia.
A Nicobarese woman from Little Nicobar said, her voice heavy with sorrow: “Our custom dictates that when children turn ten, they are taken to Menchal Island and introduced to the spirit (Pingaeyak) through prayers and rituals. My child has just turned ten, and I am yet to introduce her to the spirit.” But now, with the island designated as a megapode sanctuary and access restricted “in the national interest,” she wonders: What will become of this sacred tradition? How can their ancient customs survive when the very land that sustains them is no longer accessible?
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The Nicobarese share a deep spiritual and personal connection with their land, one that transcends all else. For them, the loss of land is more devastating than the death of a loved one. In their worldview, death is not an end but a transition to the realm of spirits, where life continues in another form, offering protection to their tangible world. However, the loss of land strikes at the very core of their identity, culture, and existence. It is not merely the loss of territory; it is the unravelling of their entire world—the true death.
In the aftermath of the tsunami, the Nicobarese were resolute in their determination to rebuild their islands, drawing on local resources, traditional knowledge, and their own skills, all while preserving their cultural identity. However, external aid providers quickly took control, sidelining this grassroots approach to recovery. Over the course of my 15 years of research engagement in the islands, the Nicobarese have consistently expressed deep regret over their dependence on tsunami aid, which, in the end, dismantled the very socio-cultural fabric of their society.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, the Nicobarese found themselves once again at a crossroads. Despite being at their weakest, they chose to rely entirely on themselves, mounting a community-driven response in the Central Nicobar, grounded in the strength of their culture and traditions. Remarkably, they suffered no casualties, while the rest of India and the world endured unimaginable horrors during the devastating second wave.
As we mark the 20th anniversary of the Indian Ocean tsunami the story of Nicobar offers important lessons—how top-down, culturally-insensitive tsunami aid not only failed to help but became a disaster in itself, ravaging the very communities it sought to protect.
Ajay Saini teaches at the Indian Institute of Technology Delhi. He works with remote indigenous communities.
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