Doomed caste , class and displacement
The Indian government’s frequent invocation of terms like “ecology,” “biodiversity,” and “green initiatives” when discussing regions such as Assam masks a deeper, systemic oppression. Glossy narratives of sustainability are used to veil a brutal reality—one where Scheduled Castes (SCs) and Scheduled Tribes (STs), the most marginalized communities, are displaced, criminalized, and erased under the pretense of conservation and development.
Symbols like Kaziranga National Park and the one-horned rhinoceros are paraded as national pride, often depicted in state campaigns and textbooks. But behind this imagery lies a structure of caste capital that privileges dominant social groups—mostly caste Hindu elites—while further disenfranchising those at the margins. Assam’s ecological spaces have become arenas where caste hierarchies are reproduced and sustained through policies that claim to protect nature but end up consolidating economic, cultural, and political power in the hands of the few.
Understanding Caste Capital and Ecological Hierarchie:
Caste capital is not simply about money or property—it refers to the cumulative social, cultural, and symbolic power accumulated by dominant castes over generations. It manifests in access to education, land, cultural legitimacy, state recognition, and institutional authority. This capital reproduces itself through networks of patronage, policy influence, and control over narratives of tradition and development.
In Assam, caste capital is concentrated in the hands of the dominant caste Assamese Hindu elites—especially among upper-caste Vaishnavite and Brahmin communities. These groups have historically controlled religious institutions, literature, media, and education. They also enjoy proximity to state machinery, allowing them to dictate what is deemed as “heritage” and what is labeled “illegal” or “encroachment.”
Caste capital operates subtly but pervasively in ecological governance. Who gets to speak on behalf of nature? Who becomes a forest guard, a conservation officer, an academic writing on biodiversity? These spaces are overwhelmingly occupied by people from dominant caste backgrounds. On the other hand, SC and ST communities—who have lived in intimate relationship with forests, rivers, and wetlands for generations—are painted as outsiders, threats, or illiterate encroachers.
Kaziranga and the Weaponization of Conservation
Kaziranga National Park, touted as Assam’s ecological crown jewel, is also a site of one of the most violent and exclusionary conservation models in the country. Established by the British as a hunting reserve, it was never meant to protect local communities—it was built to isolate wildlife and preserve elite recreational interests. This legacy continues under the current regime, which has intensified eviction drives and militarized the park’s boundaries.
Evictions in and around Kaziranga have disproportionately impacted Mishing, Bodo, and other tribal communities, as well as Dalit fishing groups who have relied on the wetlands and grazing lands for generations. These people are often branded as “encroachers,” despite living in these areas long before the park’s expansion.
Eviction notices rarely take into account oral histories, community land rights, or the complex relationship between these communities and the natural world. In 2017 and again in 2023, violent eviction drives led to destruction of homes, displacement of hundreds, and death of at least two people. In every instance, the people targeted were poor, largely from SC or ST backgrounds—people with no caste capital, no institutional backing, and no access to legal aid.
What is often presented as an act of “preserving ecology” is in reality a method of spatial caste segregation—clearing out the poor to make way for eco-tourism, highways, and private resorts patronized by elites.
SC and ST Vulnerability in Assam’s Ecological Politics
In Assam, Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes together make up a significant portion of the population, yet they remain the most vulnerable when it comes to displacement, landlessness, and state violence. ST communities such as the Misings, Karbis, Rabhas, and Bodos have historically been forest dwellers, boatmen, cultivators, and fishers, forming symbiotic relationships with the ecosystem. SC communities—particularly those from fishing castes or those doing manual labour—have been excluded not only economically but also symbolically from the state’s imagination of heritage and conservation.
Despite constitutional guarantees, these communities continue to lack political power and voice. Their land titles are often unrecognized, and their settlements unrecorded in official maps. They are seen as “illegal” even on their own ancestral land.
The irony is that it is these very communities who have practiced sustainable living—rotational shifting cultivation (jhum), low-impact fishing, bamboo cultivation, traditional weaving, and herbal medicine. Yet, the state privileges the conservationist voices of dominant caste NGOs, scientists, and political leaders who often have no rooted connection to the land but enjoy caste capital that translates into legitimacy.
Even within education and media discourse, SC and ST communities are reduced to “beneficiaries” of welfare rather than active agents of ecological stewardship. This is a form of epistemic violence, where their knowledge is excluded from the very conversations about nature that most concern them.
Caste capital also dictates who is allowed to stay and who is pushed out. In eviction drives around protected areas like Kaziranga or Deepor Beel, government notifications often include exceptions for temples, Vaishnavite satras, or tea estates—many of which are historically run by upper-caste groups. These exceptions are never extended to tribal longhouses or Dalit fishing settlements.
Moreover, political patronage and networks allow dominant groups to regularize their land, open homestays, and collaborate with state tourism departments—while SC/ST communities, lacking this capital, are criminalized for living on the same land. The idea of “illegal encroachment” thus becomes a caste-coded weapon.
It is also important to note that forest rights claims under the Forest Rights Act (2006) are routinely delayed or denied in Assam. Despite provisions that allow STs and Other Traditional Forest Dwellers to claim rights over forest land, very few claims have been granted. In Kaziranga, not a single claim has been recognized, indicating a systematic denial of legal protection to tribal people.
Cultural Control and Religious Hierarchies
In places like Majuli, caste capital manifests as religious-cultural hegemony. The island’s Vaishnavite Satras, controlled by upper-caste Brahmin and Kayastha institutions, dictate not only religious life but also the cultural representation of the island. Despite being the largest tribal group on Majuli, the Mishing community is largely excluded from these institutions. Their festivals, like Ali-Ai-Ligang, are given tokenistic representation at best, while caste-Hindu rituals are upheld as “heritage.”
Religious purity codes maintained by these satras actively exclude SC and ST people from ritual participation. In some satras, tribal people are not even allowed to touch the altar or sit alongside Brahmins. This hierarchy is justified as “tradition,” but it is, in reality, a continuation of Brahminical caste segregation embedded in modern cultural policy.
Even in schools and cultural centres, dominant caste narratives about ecology, culture, and spirituality are taught, while tribal epistemologies are excluded. This enforces a cognitive hierarchy where only certain kinds of knowledge are seen as legitimate.
The Myth of Green Development
Projects like the bamboo biorefinery in Sonapur, highway expansion in Karbi Anglong, and industrial corridors near Golaghat and Numaligarh are celebrated as “green development.” But who benefits? These projects often require deforestation, displace local communities, and destroy biodiversity—ironically in the name of sustainable progress.
The bamboo project, for instance, involves the selective cultivation of certain fast-growing bamboo species for industrial use. This disrupts the ecological balance and endangers local bamboo varieties used by tribal communities for housing, food, and craft. When traditional cultivators protest, they are ignored or co-opted, as they lack the institutional and caste capital to be heard.
Meanwhile, upper-caste entrepreneurs backed by government subsidies and start-up schemes are invited to build “green” businesses on tribal land. These dynamics reinforce a caste-based green economy, where profit is privatized and loss is socialized onto the most vulnerable.
Conclusion: Towards an Anti-Caste Ecology
The discourse of ecological conservation in Assam today is deeply entangled with caste hierarchies and capitalist interests. SC and ST communities, despite being the original custodians of nature, are the most vulnerable to eviction, displacement, and erasure. Caste capital plays a defining role in deciding who gets to speak for the environment, who profits from its preservation, and who is pushed out in its name.
True ecological justice in Assam must begin with dismantling caste privilege in conservation policy. It must center the voices, rights, and knowledge systems of SC and ST communities—not just as “stakeholders” but as sovereign custodians of the land. Their forests are not empty spaces to be managed but living worlds embedded with memory, resistance, and care.
Any green initiative that does not reckon with caste is doomed to reproduce the very inequalities it claims to resolve. The path forward must be anti-caste, anti-capitalist, and deeply rooted in indigenous knowledge and sovereignty
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