Samugam settlements are at risk without funds to stay afloat

Between cyclones and housing developments, it’s struggle to get by, writes Séamus Ó Tuama

Tue, 09 Jan, 2024 - 02:00

WHEN we arrived at the Jally childrens’ home at the end of a maze of tiny higgledy-piggledy streets, in the less salubrious neighbourhoods of Pondicherry — out raced happy smiling children.

Yes that’s the cliché description, except this time the cliché is apt.

The children milled round the man known as 'Bruno J'. To these children, he is their papa.

Here in this haven live 50 girls and young women — a mix of orphans from impoverished families, street children, and Roma children. They clearly love Bruno and he just as visibly loves them.

At the end of another nearby street is a similar home for the Jally boys and young men. Under Indian regulations, the girls and boys need to be accommodated in homes not less than 500m apart.

There is an astonishing story behind all of this, but an equally compelling concept that aims to live up to the promise of this being home.

It all started by accident, or as Indian’s tend to believe through karma.

Bruno J was a successful young business man in Chennai, the big city north of Pondicherry. He came down with a debilitating pulmonary disease and, on doctor’s orders, he had to leave the polluted big city for some place with cleaner air.

What better place to start a new life than Pondicherry, a coastal city about the size of Cork? It used to be a French enclave on India’s south-east coast until independence. Once dubbed “the French Riviera of the far east”, it is still a massively popular resort.

White Town, the old quarter, clings to the magnificent Bay of Bengal and is lined by beautiful colonial buildings, monuments, churches, and parks. When Bruno J came to town, he began to rebuild his media career from a small rented office in the bustling congested city. He had just one intention, try to rebuild his life.

Like songbirds chirping for crumbs, little boys would ask him for food. At first he just handed out bits of food and hoped they would go away. But soon he began to see things differently. He would invite them into his office, put movies on a spare computer and give them proper food. More children came and, instead of shutting his door, he decided to rent a small house where he could offer a place for them to sleep, get regular meals, clothing, and education.

An idea resolved in his head to establish a proper home. A place where they would feel loved and safe, and where they could stay in education, learn skills, and get a stake in society.

Little by little, the Jally Home concept took shape. He made links with people in Belgium, Spain, Australia, and Britain. Big fundraising drives overseas helped his little foundation buy land and build tiny houses.

What’s different about Bruno J’s vision? Well for one thing, he says: “My children need to sleep in proper beds, not on the floor like you see in other homes.” Straight away his vision is on another page. It’s not about shelter, it’s about nurture. That vibe is every place here, the children are happy, they know they are loved, and they feel the love.

Even in India, a country of 1.4bn people, Bruno J’s work stands out. In 2019, prime minister Narendra Modhi presented him with a President of India award for his pioneering and selfless work.

Out at the very edge of the city is another arm of Bruno J’s mission, his Samugam settlements.

One is a large Roma community, the other is home to a Narikuravar tribal group. In the hierarchy of Indian society people from these communities are at the very bottom. There is no place for them in the city, either physically or socially. There are no facilities, no transport, no jobs in this place. Somehow Bruno J persuaded the government to build a narrow tarmac strip on what was a dirt track.

In wet weather, the old track was impossible to navigate — now some services can get there in rain or shine. Most residents have to walk that 5km track to reach the nearest place where they can get public transport.

Bruno J also persuaded the government to give him a narrow strip of land, onto which he was able to construct tiny houses for the Roma people. Still, they mostly live in makeshift shelters as squatters on private land. The tribal people live on another strip of self-constructed homes.

For now, they all have a sort of place to stay. However, a time-bomb is ticking. Gradually, the city is edging towards the settlements. At some point this wasteland will become prime development real estate. What then for the people who have settled here for two decades?

“Unless I can find some way to buy this land for the foundation, they will be cleared away from here,” Bruno J says.

The land is for sale, I know the man selling it, but we don’t have the money.”

If they did have the money, they could build proper homes and facilities that won’t get flattened by the next cyclone. Will it be a cyclone or shiny new housing that disperses this ramshackle community? Neither if Bruno J can get the funds.

His foundation is a bit like the children who came to his door so many years ago. He needs someone, somewhere to help him find funds.

In the meantime, he is putting his hands in his own pockets just to keep it afloat.

He is devising long-terms sustainability plans. Women in a small workshop up-cycle old saris, the famous wrap-around dresses worn by Indian women.

“Indian women love their fashion, so they are high quality and beautiful,” he says. In the workshop they get new lives as dresses, bags, and all kinds of fashion items.

Like Mahatma Ghandi’s Salt March, Bruno J is taking one determined forward step every day — hopeful that others see how necessary his mission is and join him in that journey over the horizon.

For more information, see: samugam.org.

Séamus Ó Tuama is chair of the ASEM LLL Hub (Asia-Europe) for collaboration on lifelong learning research in 51 countries. It is supported by the Government of Ireland and hosted by University College Cork.